Times were, person with the messiest hair or the biggest glasses was the coolest. That was so 2007. If we look at fashion these days, we can note the reversion to the Mad Men era of style and panache. Hats are back. Two-button nondescript suits are classic. Jeans should be worn with room enough for your balls not to be squashed if you cross your legs.
Postmodernism was all about irony, viewing things from high above to make reality look absurd. Take Seinfeld for example. We can laugh at the idea of a woman’s man hands or man on man massage action because we’re watching it in the safe removal of our homes.
In contrast, take the close-up documentary style of The Office. We like being right there with the characters, understanding how they feel. And it’s funny because they’re characters, weirdos, just like us, we like to think. We get them just as easily as they would get us, if they could. The same idea translates into post postmodernist literature. We want to be right there with the protagonist, understanding his every thought and desire. And to make this original, distinct, it would be great if he could attempt to provide perspective from a removal of, oh say, ten years. This wouldn’t exculpate his younger self, however; it would give the reader further insight into his embedded delinquencies. That’s what my shitty post postmodern novel will attempt to do.