I want everyone to know, it’s not you, as much as that picture of young Stalin

(Google it) after our high school history book showed us only the cemented

face of old Stalin. Sean Connery tanned & shirtless as 007 in the 70’s, not

The Rock, so many shades of grey. The squeal of 1000 ladies, as Tom Jones opens

his mopheaded mouth.
I’ve been in a frenzy, image searching philosophers, since

I realized I’d never seen Jean-Paul Sartre—who, I must say looks

exactly what one would dream up of the gourd of existentialism.

How comforting this was, like when I discovered the singer of Ought

(I didn’t Google his name) looks exactly like that. Not special, just right as

expected.
When I saw Win Butler (the singer from Arcade Fire) durging on

online videos, it was our funeral because there’s something earthquaking

when a voice doesn’t fit inside the body it’s been allotted. Could you

imagine Marx without a tangled beard, and not to shake something but

Tame Impala is one guy. Imagine him seated alone in a studio

surrounded by instruments, contraptions, wires, whys