Fake Pitchfork Nostalgia

Reminiscing about a time I never really knew

A couple of weeks ago, there were major layoffs at Pitchfork Media. Then GQ swallowed up the carcass. I’d never read a Pitchfork piece, but even so, of course I knew what it was. By which I mean, I knew what the stereotype of Pitchfork was, even if I couldn’t articulate it precisely. Pitchfork did define a certain era, which also coincided with my most formative years. I never felt a part of that culture, so when I heard about Pitchfork’s demise, I wasn’t sad, exactly. But it did make me think about how it was yet one more sign of the end of something.

For imagined nostalgia of that time, I had half a mind to re-read and discuss David Goodwillie’s novel, Kings County, which is set in the Williamsburg arts scene from the early 2000s to Occupy Wall Street. It’s also one of the worst novels I’ve ever read, which was both a pro and a con in writing about it. A couple of years ago, I’d been tricked into reading it because Adelle Waldman said nice things about it (and I’ve written before about how much I admire her novel, The Love Affairs of Nathaniel P.). Reason number infinity to never trust blurbs. But I’ve also pledged to hate-read and hate-watch less, so I’ll just scuba-dive into my memories to extract some treasures of negativity. The novel views its specific past with excessively precious sentimentality, as if it’s an unquestionable tragedy that the old hipster Williamsburg faded away, forcing the bland and attractive protagonists to confront the existential crisis that they are no longer cool.

So instead, upon a podcast’s recommendation, I read another novel about that period, Very Recent History by Choire Sicha. Unfortunately, I didn’t like that novel much either, though more so than Kings County. Hardly a glowing recommendation. It’s about a group of young-ish gay men as they live through the 2008 financial crisis. There are a few main characters whose POVs you cycle through. I couldn’t quite tell them apart. As you might tell from the novel’s title, various events and notable figures of that year are described as a history textbook would. It’s initially amusing, but its effect is nullified since this academic detachment is undermined by the focus into the private lives of the everyday main characters.

I suspect it’s not just Pitchfork’s demise that’s spurring my interest in looking back. My birthday is also coming up. Last year was an anomaly in that my birthday rattled me about where I was in life. Not since my 21^st had I felt like that. Not even the milestone of 30 was anything more than a fun excuse to rally friends for a night out. But 35 felt different, accentuated by the fact that I’d just seen my parents for the first time since 2019, shattering what was left of my COVID time stasis. Suddenly, the things that had previously felt like accomplishments no longer felt good enough, particularly in terms of writing. Starting then, I’d have to have more to show for my endeavours. I started this Substack a few months after.

Just a little while ago, I realized that in less than a year, I’ve written as many pieces for Salieri Redemption as I did for my previous publication in three years. Best of all, I feel boundlessly energetic (yes, it’s been a couple of weeks since my last piece, but I’ve been busy finalizing a Cleveland Review of Books essay for its upcoming print issue). I’d taken a break from internet writing in 2020 because I felt I’d said all I wanted to say (at least non-fiction-wise), and I didn’t want to just keep on repeating or remixing myself. All these thoughts I’d been having, wondering if I should’ve started Substack earlier… I never asked myself what exactly I would’ve have written about had I did.

I’ve never been one to rue getting older. Declining athleticism? I never played sports often enough to notice any loss of speed and strength. Besides, most of my interests like writing are things that you get better at with time and experience. Looking more decrepit? That Asian maleness that makes you look younger than you are, which once was the bane of your existence, starts paying off its karmic debt as you age. So birthday #36 will come and go as usual, spent quietly with loved ones. Hopefully, the worries I went through last year means I won’t be due for another bout until retirement age.

But that hasn’t stopped me from thinking about how our society views getting older, especially in this contemporary culture. One of my most popular pieces is about how my generation, the Millennials, are going to age terribly, because getting older is valued less. One of the biggest benefits of getting older used to be gaining access to public spheres, which made you more socially relevant. Think about why you used to look so forward to going to a friend’s sleepover, or learning to drive, or going away for college. It was all to elevate yourself from being this cloistered and invisible entity, hidden away in your parents’ home. Getting older meant earning the means to go to places where you’d be seen and heard, where your thoughts and ideas would finally matter.

But now, with the internet, those means are given to you almost as soon as you’re born, whenever it is your parents give you a phone or computer. You no longer need to have transportation, or go to a party, or go to university, to make your social debut. The bedroom has now become the most public of all spheres. There have been many things said about the rise of trad wives online and how that reaffirms old gender roles. But if those traditional roles demanded a public life for men and a private one for women, just how private is a trad wife type with an online platform? Those who anonymously go to the office and don’t have a social media presence actually live the more private lives.

People may shake their heads at how crazy kids today are acting for freaking out about aging even when they’re schoolkids. But aren’t they acting completely rationally? In our world, what are even the advantages of getting older, at least past a certain point? Many of the things we had to wait for until we reached X years old are now available to us way sooner. Even things like skills that once took a lot of time to develop are instantaneously available. Take filmmaking. Not that long ago, most people couldn’t make even a short film unless they learned how to operate complicated cameras and editing programs. And in order to have access to these things, they had to enroll in film school or save up to buy them on their own. And even if they did all that and made their film, they’d to have had built up networks to enable distribution. But now, your average phone’s video capabilities are good enough, editing is mostly about dragging a slider here and there on TikTok, and widespread sharing is just a free upload away.

The only things that still remain the exclusive domain of the older are marriage and having children, and we all know in which direction those things are trending.

Other people also are confused as to why age gap discourse is becoming such a thing, with the scrutiny not just focused on adult men dating underage girls, but also adult men dating younger adult women well into their twenties. Some say it’s mostly insecure and jealous Millennial women who are now almost all on the worse end of the dating power flip that happens to men and women as they get older. But there’s also plenty of evidence that younger women—even girls—are being hyper-vigilant about adult age gaps. The reason is obvious: in a culture where youth is of utmost value, the fact that men get to effectively be and act younger for longer than women is an absolutely intolerable inequality.

To be honest, there is indeed a downside to aging that I’ve experienced, and it’s that the contours of your life become clearer. And as beautiful as those contours may be, there’s an incomparable allure of the unknown. And so, little by little, there’s less excitement. That’s not even a bad thing. How sad would it be if just as many experiences and achievements thrilled me now as they did when I was in my 20s or teens? It would mean that I’d never had them in the first place, that I was some 30-something friendless virgin loser with no life and no accomplishments. It’s good to be a little jaded. It means you’ve lived.

It'd be hubristic, even tempting fate, to say that I’m now the guy I’ve always wanted to be. Still a long way to go. But I’m now certainly closer to being him than even just a couple of years ago. Yet at times, I do miss that chase of struggling to be who you hope you can be, even if that younger self was cringeworthy and dumb. Back to age gaps, some women can be hypocrites in only being against romantic preferences that disfavour them. But I can see how disheartening and infuriating it must be, to be told that your cringier and dumber self that you worked hard to evolve past is actually the one society wants.

Soon, it will have been a year since my chat with a special someone up in that tower, looking down on the nighttime cityscape. Shortly after, it will be a year since the start of this Substack. Barring some weird unforeseen circumstance, I will also have my second publishing credit. It’s been almost two years since my first pitch acceptance. I was so giddy when it happened. For better or for worse, I’ll never feel that again. Now a veteran of internet non-fiction writing, I’d like to get fiction published, whether long or short. Maybe 2024 will be the year. It’s a promising number. Nice, even, and round. But then again, I’d always thought 2020 would be the best year ever based on my own flawed numerology: repeating numbers, multiples of 10, and signifying 20/20 vision. I was once envious of the group that would get to call themselves the Class of 2020. What great destinies must surely be waiting for them.