Cream sounds the same as Stevie Ray Vaughn? Objectively speaking, that’s horseshit.
Look. I think most of us here get it. In your head, you are the charitable Nihilist. You believe you were put on Earth to selflessly shove the Idols from their pedestals for our benefit. You believe that once we evolve past our stunted, “what ever Rolling Stone likes must be great” mindset we will find ourselves forever indebted to you.
That’s in your head, and just goofy enough to impress naive 17 year-old girls at dorm parties. Really though? You are a poseur who can’t even pose well; your posing is brittle and obvious.
You are a copycat hipster with even less “hip” then the rest of your ilk, who don’t even have a sniff of the delicious joke that is: you pussies are the squarest little nobodies around, Daddy-O. You knock down any musician who has won consensus praise merely because the consensus praises them and therefore must just be doing the bidding of “The Man”.
You feel bummed that there is no G-8 Conference anytime soon in your immediate vicinity which means you haven’t any opportunity to get out your black bandana to wrap around your pimply face as you throw rocks at the police… until they push back, and you get scared. Or, you just get bored, or the cute anarchist chicks go home leaving you no reason to pose anymore.
You are especially pissed at the Baby Boomers (and by extension, their music) 'cause they had that awesome opportunity to protest Vietnam, leaving you ragingly jealous of those fucker’s A-1 opportunity to bag protest-babe beaver.
All you’re left with is your “me too!” big, black, thick-framed glasses and the requisite scruffy beard, rejecting everything that “The Man” embraces, and plagiarizing bad poetry on your MacBook Pro at the vegan Cafe just off-campus.
We feel your pain, man. It’s a rough world for prophets like you who truly dig what’s going on in the universe, man, while the rest of us “just don’t get it.”
Oh… by the way… no, I CAN’T spare any change, because we both know you got a nice, warm bed and organic groceries in the fridge at daddy’s McMansion in the suburbs that you go home to whenever you are scared and hungry, and tired of being laughed at.