IT’S GOOD TO JUDGE FAVORABLY, if one bothers to judge at all, and yet I sometimes feel that if I see one more pair of hipster horn-rims, I’m going to scream so loud they’ll hear me on Mars.
Perhaps I’m judging too harshly — it may well be simply a postmodern alien ovipositor. Either way, I hope it’s not terminal. Or any more contagious than it apparently is.
Since The Metaphorager exists where time is fluid and frames are a matter of perspective in addition to holding one’s eyeball extenders, I should note that one of my ancient colleagues (will) comment(s)(ed) about the functionality issue — that they are “comfortable on my face and built like a tank so I can’t very easily destroy them.” Functionality makes great points with me, and to be fair my friend is not the sort of self-serious nerd I’m writing about, or in the case of this post, occasionally am.
No, what I’m talking about is the same compulsive nonconformity which had all us liberal-arts majors wearing John Lennon frames in the 1970s (hell, I still do) — it’s the style of the thing that I wonder about (why this? why now?), not the thing itself. Horn-rim glasses have become a sort of deconstructionist face-bullhorn, not unlike a Dobbshead or a Monty Python lyric or any other of the ten thousand signs of instant nerd recognition. In that, they’re useful — but in their prolificity they have also become something of a visual cliche.
To be honest, there are more important things in the world to bother about than other people’s choice of eyewear. (I could get back to talking about religious visions or writing, for example.) But if nothing else, I hope I’ve happily answered for some lonely soul the burning question, “Is it just me?”
(On the other hand, they look great on women. But then so does everything.)