Dr. Philebrity,
I’m struggling with a dilemma and I hope you can shed some light on it for me.
Why, on a snowy Monday night, would you go to an all-ages show of dance-punk bands and not dance?† I am referring to last Monday night’s A-Sides/Hail Social/Islands show at the Church.† My friend and I counted a total of seven people dancing, and we were two of them.†The other five were clearly in high school.† We felt badly for the bands who played, because the crowd was so unenthusiastic.† The applause was polite at best.† You could have heard a pin drop between songs.

The ever-patient Doctor gives old advice fresh new breath ó and totally loses his shit in the process ó after the jump.

I’m reminded of one of Dr. Philebrity’s recent queries about why people hate on Franz Ferdinand and the Strokes, but rush to the dance floor when they hear the first few bars of “Michael” or “Last Nite.”† If the hipsters in this town think Franz and the Strokes are so over and are so bent on finding the elusive “next big thing,” why don’t they appreciate the dance-rock bands in their own backyards?† Or maybe dancing without the benefit of eight $2 Sparks coursing through their veins is a sign of weakness or, heaven forbid, non-ironic enthusiasm?
And to broaden the scope of my question, why is it so uncool to be a fan of a band, an artist, anything?† To use Franz Ferdinand again as an example, back in October, I went to the Fiery Furnaces show and I found myself standing next to Bob Hardy.† Instead of pointedly staring and whispering “Ohmigod, there’s Bob Hardy!!!” like he’s some animal in a zoo like every other hipster there did, I told him I liked his band and I wished him a lot of success, and then I left him alone to enjoy the show.† He seemed to be really touched by that.
And yet, I got a lot of dirty looks from the hipsters in the crowd.† Why?!† Did I break some secret hipster code?† I ask Philebrity’s readers in bands:† If someone came up to you at Dirty Frank’s and told you they liked your band, wouldn’t that just make your fucking day?
It makes me sad to think that it’s somehow uncool to show your appreciation for creative people who’re sharing their talents.† I hate that every clown in this town wearing cowboy boots and an asymmetrical haircut fancies him- or herself an arbiter of style.† It’s so disappointing to see that indifference = appreciation.

Signed,

My God, I’m turning into my dad.

Dear My God,
You know me: I’m a fucking Doctor. I’m here to serve. In fact, I live to serve. I took a whole oath in Latin and shit about it at graduation, and my mom cried and everything. But you know, I’m also a person. I have hot buttons and limited patience and like most people, I do have deep disregard for my fellow man and I rejoice in this. After all, people are fucking stupid morons and especially so, these days, here in the West, where our so-called “freedoms” have turned us into a bunch of Myspace-humping, iPod-buying dickbags.
And when the hipster fucking hurricane comes, and all of you bitches are standing on the roof of the Making Time Superdome, guess who they’re gonna fucking call? That’s right. Me. Dr. Fucking Philebrity. Great. Because already, treating you lot of used condoms has ruined ó†RUINED ó my credibility in the medical community at large. All of a sudden, I’m like “the hipster doctor.” I do a shift in the emergency room, and nobody lets me work on black people or immigrants. They send me straight to the white girl in Ugg boots whose uncle is the head of Proctology. At the Christmas party this year, they actually had the gall to ask me to be the DJ while another doctor who I went to school with ó†and who I spanked routinely in lab sessions ó†got to get a big fat check from Big Pharma, and a dinner for six at Morimoto to boot.
You know what I wasn’t thinking about when I was cueing up Outkast for a bunch of fat nurses? I certainly wasn’t thinking about the deep-ingrained Catholic sexual inhibitions of indie rockers. I also wasn’t thinking about my nickname around the hospital ó “House,” thank you very fucking much ó and I DEFINITELY wasn’t thinking that I’d be here on downtime in the hospital lounge answering the same fucking question twice. Don’t you people listen when Doctors talk? No. What I was thinking about was, well, Why me? Why am I the guy everybody calls when they want to know what’s up with cowboy boots or Johnny Brenda’s or any other fucking scenester drama you’d care to fill in the blank with? Doesn’t everybody know that I am a DECORATED GENIUS? That I started out slumming, and now ó fuck! ó I’m one of you?
Sigh. I’m sorry. I just needed to vent. Now to the question: Why can’t people just be loose and appreciate music on non-superficial levels and let their bodies and spirits flow in kind, and have a genuine reaction to something that is, at heart, an outpouring of emotion and goodness?
The short answer, of course, is: “Because fuck you is why.” But the long answer is actually even shorter: Self-consciouness and over-stimulation. People ó white dorkus malorkus indie rockers especially ó†still believe on some level that they are in the schoolyard and it’s 1983 and if they dance or do anything “gay” (read: genuine, happy, not calculated) that The Gooch is gonna pop out from the behind the dumpster and humilate them and spit gum on their hair and smear semen on their lockers. People actually believe this shit. They always, always, always forget that it’s 2005 and NO ONE FUCKING CARES WHAT YOU DO. Sure, maybe if you’re an emo christian and you’re trying to get your friends to reclaim their virginities and put in hours at Circle of Hope, then maybe you care what your neighbor is doing. But this is the big city. Those people are not in the majority here. If you want that, go to Bloomington or some other heartland shithole. Here in the big city, the norm is crazy old black women who sing along with their Walkmen in the middle of a crowded subway at full volume. Here in the big city, the norm is grown men wearing diapers at the Fetish Ball. Here in the big city, the norm is to smilingly do your 30 hours of community service the judge gave you after some cop caught you and your girlfriend fucking in Rittenhouse Square late on a Wednesday night.
And that, my nephews, is beautiful. To each his own. If you wanna dance, motherfucker, then you should dance. Especially when you are surrounded by music and light and color and love, even if that love is stilted, if that love is a love that knows not how to love. It’s love. It will learn.
Also, there is a problem of overstimulation. It’s hard to lose your mind when you’re waiting for a text message about whether or not you’re on the guest list for something else later. It’s hard to fly into the mystery when you’re still all twisted up about how you got clowned on the Hollertronix message board (RIP) at work earlier.
Technology and the new social constructs that come with it have been simultaneously freeing and also severely re-tether us to a new framework of total bullshit. But you’re a smart person, and being a smart person today means knowing when to turn your cell phone off ó†or God forbid, leave that shit at home ó†and just get lost once in a while. People forget. If they even ever knew how in the first place.
I’m sorry I lost my shit on you, dear reader. But it needed to be said. Plus, the dirty little secret of my kind of medicine is this: Most people only ask questions they know the answers to already. I think you’re gonna be fine. Just fine, indeed.

Your esteemed medical counsel,

Dr. Philebrity

Related: Dr. Philebrity On Gunplay
Related: Dr. Philebrity On Hatin’ & Screwin’
Related: Dr. Philebrity On Jerzin’
Related: Dr. Philebrity On Dancin’
Related: Dr. Philebrity On Dissin’
Related: Dr. Philebrity On Belchin’
Related: Dr. Philebrity On Waxin’, Milkin’
Related: Dr. Philebrity On Cowboy Boots
Related: Dr. Philebrity On Uncool Lesbian Hells

This entry was posted on Wednesday, December 7th, 2005 at 2:15 pm.