some remarks on modern baseball's funniness from which probably not enough has been removed

like most other people my age, i've spent the past week scrambling to prepare for college: packing up my clothes, ordering last-minute dorm needs, and most notably, bidding goodbye to my beloved group, accepting their new position in my life as "friends from high school".

call me sensitive all you want, but this is GENUINELY TRAGIC.

a sad last-day candid 

to accompany my college angst, i've been listening to a lot of midwest emo, specifically the modern baseball album, you're gonna miss it all. what a fitting title for my current state! as a genre, midwest emo has proven more effective in validating my feelings than the typical sad music i turn to: (elliott smith, radiohead, and the likes) what i love so much about modern baseball is exactly what the title of this entry implies. they meet all the emo genre criteria; bitterness, passion, and plenty of angst, but in addition to all of that, they're funny. 

take these lyrics from the old gospel choir, one of my favorite modern baseball songs:

"sharp as a tack, but in the sense that you're not smart, just a prick" 

or look out:

"look out, i'm on a search for self destruction, crawling over the great planes of my cell phone contacts, just to find a pretty girl to take home late at night, to hold my sweaty palms and stuff"

the humor in modern baseball's discography is unique in its ability to frame pessimism so gleefully. it points out all our inherent flaws, but refuses to let us wallow in pity. the lyrics are relatable, shamefully so, which is why hearing someone else address the same thing feels so validating.

there's an art to deriving humor from something so morose. i'm reminded of an essay i read a few months back, titled some remarks on kafka's funniness from which probably not enough has been removed. (long title, i know, but i couldn't resist replicating it) the essay focuses on franz kafka's stories and the humor hidden within them. it ends when author david foster wallace compares kafka's writing to a locked door. wallace details the endless struggle that comes with trying to open the door, or understand kafka. when the door is finally pried open and we are greeted with an interior darker than expected, we realize that we no longer want to cross the threshold at all. 

this illustration, a setup and punchline in and of itself, is exactly how modern baseball's lyrics work. in listening, we open ourselves up, look inwards in search of something we can relate to. when we finally reach the end, we discover something unsavory: a truth about ourselves we're reluctant to acknowledge. it's a friendly setup, followed by a cruel punchline. the humor lies in the fact that this is just the way things are. what makes it so absurd is that it's true...

...and that's exactly what i need right now. leaving for school feels just as bittersweet as any modern baseball song i know. i don't want to spend my final days feeling sorry for myself. i'd rather acknowledge the misery, laugh at it, and move on. just like kafka said, "i have the true feeling of myself only when i am unbearably unhappy."

ps. i know some emo purists don't consider modern baseball to be real midwest emo. luckily, this is my blog, where we go by my rules! go cry about it, emo freaks :P