I think my calling in life is to be a designer of ironic t-shirts. Up next: a “Let’s Get Bizet!” t-shirt.
22 Short Excerpts From My Internal Monologue During a Documentary Film on Johann Sebastian Bach.
I am so cultured and intellectual. Who spends their Saturday at a museum watching a documentary film about Bach? Me. I’m like a less pedophile-y Woody Allen.
I should start an all-male J.S. Bach-Tina Turner tribute orchestra and call it “Bach-Men Turner Overdrive.” I don’t see how this could possibly be a bad idea.
You know, Bach is a really funny name. Bach. Baaaaach. Bacccch. Hey, what do Baroque chickens say? Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach. Wow, that was a terrible joke.
I think a good measure of one’s pretentiousness is the relish with which one spits out the name “Bach”. The way some of these classical music critics say it you practically need to construct a hurricane guard to protect yourself from the flying spittle.
Bach had 20 children. Wow. How did he find time for composing in between all that sex he was having with his wife? I feel dirty for thinking that. It just feels wrong to think about Bach having sex. Bach is like your lovable 18th century granddad.
Oh shit yes. A Glenn Gould performance. I love me some Glenn Gould. Remember that dream I had about making love to Leonard Bernstein on a big pile of Glenn Gould records? That was a good dream. Good job, brain.
I wonder if anyone has ever thought of making a porno version of 32 Short FIlms About Glenn Gould. Maybe it can be called 32 Short Fuck-FIlms About GlenDDDa Gould.
I should probably become a porn impresario. Clearly I have a God-given talent for remaking classic films as porn.
The Seventh Squeal can be my next feature after GlenDDDa Gould. Maybe Ron Jeremy can play death…
Fanny On Alexander. Moans and Whispers. Ok, brain, that’s enough. I need to stop dreaming up Ingmar Bergman porn titles and pay attention to this damn movie. I’m an intellectual. Intellectuals pay attention to films and don’t think stupid thoughts about remaking the Criterion Collection as pornos.
Through an Ass Darkly. Stop it, brain! If you stop thinking about Ingmar Bergman porn, I’ll feed you some complex carbohydrates later. I know brains like that stuff. Deal? Ok. Back to the movie.
For a film about a composer of very structured music, this film has absolutely no structure. Zing! I should be a critic.
God, I’m such a jackass. What the hell do I know about documentary filmmaking? I’m so pretentious. Next thing you know I’ll be spitting out the word “Bach” like a New Yorker critic with a phlegm ball in his throat.
Who am I kidding; I could totally make a better documentary than this. I should be a documentary filmmaker. Being a documentary filmmaker is very cool and indie, and I already have indie girl bangs. It’s a perfect fit!
Oooh they’re interviewing Philip Glass! Oh Philip Glass, you look like a sad, hairy Basset Hound. A Basset Hound. A Basset Hound. You look like a Basset Hound. Oh Philip Glass, you look like a sad, hairy Basset Hound. God, I love Philip Glass jokes.
Oh no! I accidentally thought of Philip Glass in a porno! It would just be the same sex scene over and over and over again.
This film is so painfully long and boring I’ll have to go into a “fugue” state to forget it! HA! Oh shit I just laughed aloud at my own joke.
What are you shushing me for, middle-aged lady? Don’t pretend like you’re interested in this film. Do you know how I know you’re not interested? Because you kept calling the film Amadeus “Mozart.” You said, “I love the movie “Mozart!” It’s my favorite!” I ask you, who on Earth doesn’t know the name of their favorite movie, and what classical music fan doesn’t know the film Amadeus? I therefore conclude that 1. You have never even seen the movie Amadeus, and 2. You wouldn’t know a Bach composition if all of its countermelodies came up and punched you in the face.
Oh my god, there are still 40 minutes left of the film. Maybe…maybe I should just leave now. I’m still an intellectual cineaste if I leave a film 40 minutes early; in fact, I’m probably MORE of one because I object to the filmmaker’s disregard of documentary narrative structure. The reasons for my departure are purely artistic and don’t at all stem from the boredom of a feeble, easily distracted mind. I’ll go to the gift shop, buy one of those stuffed Giacomo Puccini beanie babies, and get the fuck out of here.
Wow, that pianist being interviewed is ridiculously hot… Maybe I’ll stay just a bit longer. Hey, maybe he can play the virtuoso concert “penisist” in my porno magnum opus!
So, we’re back to porn again, brain? Figures. In the music of my brain, pornography is the tonic resolution.
That and Woody Allen references. I think my brain is structured like Annie Hall, always coming back to the same joke at the end. God, I’m such an intellectual asshole. Now where’s the exit?
A Letter to My Broken 2006 MacBook
Dear MacBook,
Since I’m typing this using a Windows Vista notebook (against my will, of course), I fear it’s already too late. Oh, my dear, sweet MacBook, you’re dying. It’s like Love Story, but instead of a girl dying of leukemia, you’re a computer with a malfunctioning circuit board. You’re Ali MacGraw, and I’m Ryan O’Neal, except, of course, you were never involved in a passionate affair with Steve McQueen, and I tend not to make sexual advances towards my children at the funeral of my significant other. But like Ali MacGraw and Ryan O’Neal in Love Story, we made one hell of a couple.
Pictured: Me, left. MacBook 2006, Right.
We looked downright iconic together: me, the shaggy-haired chick with bangs sitting in a coffee shop, and you, the sleek, white laptop with the glowing apple logo that assured no one could mistake you for anything other than a Macintosh computer. We looked so cool and bohemian, MacBook. We were different from everyone else, so different than the 50 other girls with bangs and MacBooks in the coffee shop. We were real iconoclasts. This is what makes what I’m about to say so very hard.
I’m going to get a new computer, MacBook. I know, I know. Spare me your sad, spinning beach ball icons. Truthfully, we should’ve known the end was coming for a long time. Your faulty AirPort, your slowness to respond when I tried to refresh my email inbox for the thousandth time— these should have been clues that our time together was coming to an end. Oh, MacBook, I was in denial! But I’ve now come to accept your imminent demise, and I’m afraid this is goodbye.
Why can’t I just have you repaired, you ask? If only it were that simple. It’s no use having you repaired when I could just put the astronomical cost of your repair towards the purchase of a brand new laptop. I know I’m pulling a Tom Brady by trading you in for a younger, sleeker, faster model, but I need something more efficient and reliable for my hectic Internet life. Those Betty White to Host the Oscars and Betty White for Secretary of Agriculture Facebook groups aren’t gonna join themselves.
There’s no need for that kind of ‘language’, MacBook.
But we had a lot of good times together, didn’t we? You got me through homework, essays, and procrastinating on homework and essays. Remember the time we downloaded that Japanese game show? Your sleek LED display showed the bizarre depths of human depravity in crystal-clear detail. And remember that time we wrote a letter asking to be excused from jury duty, and I used 20 pt Comic Sans font so they would think I was a simpleton? Your always-reliable spell check thought I was crazy for spelling jury duty “Juree Doody.” We shirked my basic civic duties as an American citizen together, MacBook.
I know, of course, that you’re just a machine, but I can’t help but feel our relationship was more than that. I mean, you spent more time in my lap than most boys these past four years of college. That time I accidentally closed you on the skin of my upper thigh? It was like you were giving me a hickey straight from Steve Jobs himself. I called it my “Apple love bite.” Yes, MacBook, it was totally good for me.
Now it’s time for you to go to the great KeyNote presentation in the sky, where you’ll join floppy discs and that iPod I accidentally dropped in the toilet. It’s a place where your software is always up to date, and you can organize all the iPhoto albums you want. You’ll be happier there, though I hate that it has to be like this. I’d say I’m sorry, MacBook, but I can’t, because, well, you know.
Love always,
A. Paul
The Gates to Hipster Heaven
A Mock Clinical Analysis of Ray Parker Jr Based on the Ghostbusters Music Video
For my psychology class, we had to do a mock clinical analysis of a famous person and fill out a fake clinical psychiatric intake form as that person. Most students chose people like George Washington and Marilyn Monroe. I, on the other hand, decided to do an analysis on Ray Parker Jr based on the Ghostbusters music video. I don’t think I astounded anyone with my psychological insights. Sigmund Freud, I ain’t.
PATIENT FORM
Name: Ray Parker, Jr.
Primary Occupation: Buster of ghosts, expert in all activities related to the field of ghostbustery.
Do you have any form of medical insurance? Can pay in signed headshots of Harold Ramis.
MENTAL HEALTH QUESTIONS
What problems are you having which prompted you to come to this clinic? Please explain any problems you may have with the following:
Extreme unreasonable fears: None. Not Ghosts. Definitely not afraid of ghosts.
Intrusive, upsetting memories of past event: The Marshmallow man. Oh god oh god the Marshmallow man. So much screaming. So much death.
Occupational problems: Hard to find work as Ghostbuster in current economic climate.
Housing problems: Currently in residence under scantily clad woman’s bed.
Problems with the law, legal system: Charged with breaking and entering, currently under restraining order. See above.
Can’t prevent repetitive thoughts: GHOSTBUSTERS! GHOSTBUSTERS!
Can’t prevent impulsive behavior: Impulsively send fake news articles to Huey Lewis with headline reading “Breaking News: Huey Lewis is a Piece of Shit,” and a note attached that says “How do you like that news, Huey?”
Financial/economic problems: Have gone deep into debt calling Ghostbusters hotline and Dan Aykroyd.
Problems/losses within my family and friends: Dan Aykroyd refuses to return my calls.
See or hear things that may not be real: Hallucinations of Chevy Chase, George Wendt, and Al Franken singing about ghosts, see objects only in two-dimensional neon-light outline.
Stopped enjoying usual activities: Lost passion I once had for hunting down the spirits of tortured souls
Try to do way too much: There is only so much bustin’ one man can do.
Thoughts of death: I bust ghosts for a living. Of course I think about death.
GENERAL HEALTH QUESTIONS
Do you have a balanced diet and adequate nutrition? Feast regularly on bountiful harvest of souls.
Do you exercise regularly? Engage in choreographed street dances with SNL and Second City alumni whenever I can.
Please detail any current or past drug use: Suffered addiction to ectoplasm of hell-bound souls, which produces a high more intense than ecstasy and heroin combined.
CLINICAL ANALYSIS
Parker exhibits intense delusions, paranoia, and hallucinations. The client believes strongly in the existence of ghosts and considers it is his duty to “bust” said ghosts. It must be noted that no evidence of supernatural activity associated with Mr. Parker has ever been found, only a briefcase full of tootsie-roll lollypops with Kleenex tissues tied around them to resemble the crude figure of a ghost. It is unclear at this point if Mr. Parker constructed these figures himself or he obtained them from a child’s Halloween party. It is clear, however, that all materials which could be fashioned into the shape of a ghost must be kept away from the client, lest any unfortunate “busting” relapses occur.
Parker also appears to suffer from an inflated sense of self-esteem and delusions of grandeur. For instance, Parker insists that the so-called Ghostbusters are the only people who should be contacted in the event that there is “something strange in the neighborhood,” an occurrence which would actually fall under the jurisdiction of local police and neighborhood watch organizations. Parker, however, seems to see the Ghostbusters as Messianic figures who can not only save the world from ghosts, but also from his own personal demons. For Parker, the Ghostbusters go beyond simple ghost extermination- they represent his hopes, his dreams, and his fears about life and death. Ultimately, they are nothing more than the byproduct of a fevered imagination that conjures up nightmarish images of a singing Chevy Chase.
Parker also exhibits pathological insecurity beneath his outward display of bravado. He continually boasts that he “ain’t afraid of no ghosts,” a sentiment he seems unable to convince himself of. For instance, this declaration that apparitions do not frighten him is negated by use of the double negative, strongly suggesting that he is in fact afraid of ghosts, so afraid, in fact, that he often takes refuge under a woman’s bed. On this note, I must issue a word of caution to my colleagues. If a man emerges from under one’s bed screaming about ghosts, ignore all demands to call Ghostbusters; simply notify the authorities immediately.
Diagnosis: Paranoid Schizophrenia
Treatment: Confinement in a psychiatric institution is strongly recommended. Avoid all mention of Huey Lewis for risk of bodily harm.
I may have spent a half an hour making this. I may have. It’s possible.
