BLEW PERIOD. Some sissy in a beret must have made him look bad, because Ace O'Spades is on about the artist menace:

The Police song -- Synchronicity I, I think -- goes...

Packed like lemmings into shiny metal boxes, Contestants in a suicidal race.

That is, all you wage-slaves headed to work each day are lemmings in a suicide machine.

You hear this an awful lot from artists. An awful lot. You see this basic idea -- the emptiness and awfulness of normal, quotidian life -- in dozens of movies, like the empty American Beauty, and damn, if they don't win Oscars a lot.

Death of a Salesman was about this. So, instant classic.

Spades prefers Tommy Boy, because "the heroes actually made good quality car parts so that people could fix their cars."

To each his own, you might say. Spades talks about these things as if only their allegedly bourgeois-hating creators could enjoy them -- because they "could not function happily within the confines of what most people would call 'a normal life,'" he says, "and are driven towards more Bohemian, atypical lifestyles." (Never heard of Wallace Stevens, I guess.)

But Synchronicity II*, American Beauty, Death of a Salesman et alia were hits. They weren't only patronized by scribblers and dabblers. Even people who make good quality car parts dug them.

It never crosses Spades' mind to ask why ordinary people sometimes go for songs, plays, and movies that suggest their lives might not be all they'd hoped. He doesn't know what art's for. In his view it's always about self-affirmation, always being told that you're right and that other possibilities would inevitably be worse. In other words, it's like his own political propaganda, only with tom rolls and explosions.

Among the essay's more poignant moments:

I don't begrudge them that. As someone who's wound up, whether by choice or by chance, in a sort of Bohemian limbo myself, I get why they chafe at the idea of 9 to 5 and nicely-trimmed suburban lawns, myself.

Pause to imagine Spades in Bohemian limbo: sharing a garret with other disaffected rightbloggers, deranging their senses with Mountain Dew and discussing 24 deep into the night. Then Spades made the big time, and it looked like he and his buddies were going to really change things; it would be Montparnasse all over again! Alas, inevitably came the disenchantment.

The rest is mostly bitching about those damned artists and their superior attitudes, but I have to point this out:

In fact, the number of artists a society can support is surely hard-capped at no more than, say, 1% at the very most, and only during a period of strong, strong economic activity, when artists who can't make a living on their art can get paid good wages as a waiter or something.

This is so obvious, isn't it?

So what the hell is the Artist scorn for all non-Artists?

As usual Spades is projecting massively. But as a conservative, he should have considered this answer: if that one percent of artists has succeeded financially despite overwhelming odds, why wouldn't they have contempt for people who hadn't made it, or were unmotivated to try? Here, this may help: try imagining them as investment bankers or captains of industry who consider themselves producers and everyone else looters and parasites.

*UPDATE. Commenters point out that Ace got this title wrong, so I fixed it. Some of them also draw a connection between Spades' peculiar idea of art and the Soviets', which, I have sometimes noted here, is increasingly adopted by American conservatives. Not every philistine is a would-be commissar, but with these guys you have every reason to be nervous, as they talk so much about lifestyle issues these days, and their Will to Power is so fierce.

kth notices that Jay-Z provides the kind of business-friendly messaging Spades could get with -- actually a lot of rappers do -- but that would require Spades to adopt an idiom with which I suspect he would not be comfortable.

UPDATE 2. Ed Driscoll puts his oar in:

Actually, it’s not artists; it’s leftists... a few months ago when I spent a week in Texas, I listened to several hours worth of songs celebrating working hard, living on a farm, patriotism, and essentially being a grown-up.

I spent six months in Texas. Maybe Driscoll's handlers played him nothing but Toby Keith and told him he was from Texas. Surely they didn't play him any Ray Wylie Hubbard. Or Brian Keane: "When you sing about your Wrangler jeans/Pickup trucks and Dairy Queens/You make the place I love seem like a bad cartoon..."