I suppose I’m a culture snob, if such a thing is possible.
I care little for cars or beer, as I don’t drive or drink beer. Coffee is a thing I love, but to be honest I don’t give it a lot of thought. As long as it’s hot and tastes good I don’t much care.
I’m going to define myself as a culture snob, make my thoughts that little bit more organized. I try to reject a lot of the mass-produced: I steer clear of the music everyone has heard, unless it was heard forty years ago. Or fifty, I proved again today why I didn’t major in maths. I favour the bands that have a tiny following and a Kickstarter project going so as to fund a tour. Chances are if I’m listening to a band you haven’t heard of them, which is the way I like it.
I prefer the books of yesteryear: the shelves to my right are an A to Z of Aristophanes to Woolf. Please pardon the name dropping, what I’m getting at is that I much prefer the classic novels over glossy rags and cheap summer books. Hell, they’re not even classic novels, half of them are plays and I’m not sure where Chaucer falls, but I’m quite sure he isn’t a novelist.
All pretension aside, I like things that are not done to please the masses, books and music and TV. I generally shun reality TV (I was feeling grumpy about this the other day, you can read it here) except for the times that I do want a bit of brainlessness. Hey, I’m only human. I like things that will expand my brain and make me think more than I like my escapism.
Lately I’ve found myself disgruntled with the rise of reality TV and the way commerce creeps into entertainment, sucking out the soul for the quick dollar and so I’ve turned to books (more so than usual really) to amuse myself. Actually this is a thought Co-Author and I have discussed at least once: art over profit.
I think I’ll end here before my cultural-snobbery becomes a rant about things.