new gonzo is fake and gay

Everyone in Berlin looks the same.

Some readers may believe I refer to the clean cut, officemaxxing German stereotype, or perhaps, to the beer drinking, blonde haired, tall and muscular men that are still the norm in the surrounding region. But this is no longer the case, the uniformity no longer based on strict adherence to a social standard. But on the desperate and shallow attempt to be different. Colored hairs, piercings,and retro boots are now the uniform, thick eyeliner, exposed midrifts  and see trough tops now cross the gender barrier. And yet,today, nobody in the city is unique. Not just visually, casual conversation across town seems like a sissyphusian exercise on even the most shallow form of entretainment. Everyone looks and acts like their best impersonation of a tourist trying to be let into bergheim. The irony of course, is that much like the selective club itself, what was once a signifier of lack of belonguing, and the willingness to be an affront to polite society. Became ultimate evidence of the far more desirable but far less exciting desire, and ability, to belong.
	This is of course aided by the uniquely conformist german collective spirit,and by their caricature like attempt to distance themselves from past monotone societies. but it is certainly not a unique phenomenae. The jeans, t-shirt and sneaker look that is now so standard it has the exact appeal of white bread, had every piece composing it be an outgroup signifier at some point or another. While in music, the artform most interacted with in current times, Jazz music, once derided as demonic and degenerational by the scandalmongering and censorious WASP majority of yesteryear, is now a weird e spine upon wich every soulless, safe and repetitive 2 and a half minute background noise track built to serve comerical interest is frankensteined into existence. Moving from hated by the cultural gatekeepers to beeing the basic breadwiner of the amoral and impersonal capitalist machine that is as reticent and protective, but far more soulless than its religious predecessors . The very spaces we inhabit,oft seem like a parody of the strutctures penned by once unique architects, new van-der-rohe-like-office space towers  cut the global skyline like daggers, perfectly technically apt, but devoid of all that made the towers of yesteryear symbols of power, opulence, and, importanly, taste.

This is the way of the world, cultural ubiquity precedes and forshadows lack of countercultural status, but often not fast enough for normies to avoid using it a signifier of unearned couthness. And thus damage the legacy of otherwise serviceable art, often beyond repair, by asocieting it witth vapid convenience. This, unfortunately, is the current state of Gonzo jounalism. Hunter S thompsons wiritngs were so different, so abnormal and so related that they had the quasi-halucinogenic effect of taking the reader into a different plane of reality. Observing real, but extraordinary life trough the detached and deranged lens of a man who was a living caricature of libertine living, such that , to the reader, reality itself was something that could be called into question. For a fairly long time, this was understood to be irreplicable, no sane goody two shoes journo would attempt to dawn the jester boots and write a piece in the unique thompson style, because, much like real jester boots, it was understood to be humiliating and corny when devoid of its orginal context. Sure, it was influential , every profile written about a group the reader is supposed to despise now reads more like a chronicle than an exposition, and a few writing vices obtained from yotuhfull readings of what are now seminal works of journalism make their way past the scrutinizing editorial structure of big business journalism, but, as a whole, for a long time, people understood that  unpersonal corporate outlets were not the place for an outright emulation of thompsons writings, just as they were not the pace for an emulation of Thompson’s antics.