Come with me, Enthusiasts, and pull down the folding staircase from the ceiling. Ascend the narrow, semi-sanded steps up to where the insulation lives, and the summer camp trunks hibernate, and the leftover carpet from when you redid the den slumps.
What’s that in the corner? I see words no longer said aloud, concepts left by the side of the cultural road, people’s’ careers in shreds, formerly beloved art in shreds. All stuck up here for the foreseeable future until it’s due for a reexamining, or an all-female reboot.
My God! We’re in the Problem Attic!
There’s treating Africa as a backdrop for white people to fuck in front of. And there’s teaching your children right or wrong via punching.
Look over there: it’s Jonathan Franzen!
Domestic abuse, driving while fucked up and the glorification thereof, and a dictionary’s worth of words describing ethnic groups and sexual preferences. Rapey pop songs. Rapey rap songs. Rape, in general. You would not believe how much rape-related shit is in the Problem Attic; you would much less believe how recently it’s been put there, or how furiously some folks argued against it.
It’s fun to wander around up here, and if you get hungry, there’s a Sambo’s Chicken or a Chick-Fil-A. Tons of movies, mostly old ones, and books, too. The Marx Brothers, and Marx.
More and more everyday up here, and it’s tough to keep up with the inventory, but you should: ignorance of the attic’s contents is no excuse. Maybe one day you’ll get sent up here.
Maybe one day we’ll all live in the Problem Attic.