Fervent.

Being a more fervent vexillologist than humanist, I implore all future factions, sects, and cabals to appropriate original flags and phraseologies (those are "tags" for those who don't habla) in their parades, pickets, and protests.  

First it was my Gadsden, now my most esteemed standard (and the motto of my classroom) has gained pop culture clout. 

I'm perturbed with being misassociated with anything. 

Sugar-Coated.

On Saturday, August 1, 1981, at 12:01 AM Eastern Time, symbolism carried the day over substance, aesthetics trumped the authentic, and MTV murdered music. 

Listen to the first Def Leppard album compared with their third and tell me the same evil forces that infected Journey hadn't conspired to spin the world in the opposite direction.  The masses ate it and smiled.

I hold MTV responsible for crimes against humanity in the death-by-castration of many great bands.  Drastic changes in the musical direction (not to mention hairstyles) of U2, Van Halen, Journey, and Def Leppard can be traced to the late summer of 1981.  Look at any classic rock band's discography; the delineation between '81 and '82 is clear: perms over power chords, techno over tooth-music, keyboards over kicking-ass.  Hell, our local rock station even put Prince on heavy rotation that year.  The station never recovered.  

By '85, Jello Biafra had seen enough ...

How far will you go, how low will you stoop

To tranquilize our minds with your sugar-coated swill

You've turned rock and roll rebellion into Pat Boone sedation

Making sure nothing's left to the imagination

Country music suffered similarly and don't even get me started on the L.A.M.E. (Look At Me, Everyone!) Rain Man histrionics present in nearly every classical music video.   

Even Yes was pushed over the edge, pop culture giving them their best selling album.

Rick Wakeman is correct, clearly it was a money-grab; the coup never would have been successful had the fat cats not gotten fatter.  Go to any live concert these day, you'll see that the indoctrination is complete.

The heart of music has always beat most strongly in record stores not on screens.  Beautiful Noise, Singing Dog, Magnolia Thunderpussy, Used Kids, Threshold were the cathedrals of my youth where I listened carefully and developed the thumb-and-forefinger technique of flipping through bins with a keen eye peeled on the only visual that has ever mattered, the album cover (have you ever held a copy of Jimmy Buffett's gatefolded Son of a Son of a Sailor album in your hands? Furthermore, poet-laureate Buffett with a mustache gave us "Death of an Unpopular Poet," "The Wino and I Know," and "Incommunicado."  Pretty-boy Buffett, sans-mustachio bred Latitude Margaritaville.)  The devolution of Rolling Stone magazine and the mere existence of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame further my case.

Remember what Jefferson taught us, kids: the only aristocracy is that of the mind.  Imagination lives, books are always better than the movies made from them, and the musically genuine will blaze eternally (see Jerry Jeff Walker, Paul Weller, and Malcolm Young).

Lightning Hopkins never lip-synced.

Expected.

The World War II generation did what was expected of them. But they never talked about it. It was part of the Code. There’s no more telling metaphor than a guy in a football game who does what’s expected of him–makes an open-field tackle–then gets up and dances around. 

When Jerry Kramer threw the block that won the Ice Bowl in ’67, he just got up and walked off the field.

Tom Brokaw, from The Greatest Generation

Not.