What chain of circumstances lead one to open a joint bank account with a spouse, and then set up direct deposit, and then ask whether it’s possible to hide their paycheck amounts? Isn’t asking that question the equivalent of saying “I’m a terrible person?”
What obligations do we have to art that makes us uncomfortable, or is difficult? Are we morally obligated to seek out, say, headache-inducing exhibitions at the ICA, or watch Oscar-nominated dramas, or listen to music that gets good ratings on Pitchfork? If so, how much? I mean, is there a ratio of serious to unserious entertainment that you have to maintain? Do you have to watch one “Precious” for every “Must Love Dogs?” One blog post about third-world poverty for every ten pictures of kittens? If you fall below that ill-defined ratio of highbrow to everything else, what are the consequences? Do you get exiled from the good dinner parties in Cambridge?
Also, what’s with the sudden proliferation of ballet flats that show women’s toe-cracks? A couple years ago it was about showing the toenails, and now it’s the other end of the toe. Is it the foot-fetish version of low-rise jeans?
Secretly Ironic 