The Virgin Prince's War Journal
The grim and gritty side of things. If everyone had a soundtrack to their lives, mine would be the best.
Sunday, December 12, 2004
Cynicism
To all you vicarious Victorians,
My friends say I’m too cynical. Particularly, the Green Mike, Red Raven, and the Lusty Lascivian did on the night of All Hallows Eve. We were sitting in a diner, somewhere in San Francisco, the Lascivian sporting a Spiderman luchador mask, and I, wearing a Batman mask and a necktie, when the television monitors filling the establishment came to life. The staff had deemed the occasion appropriate to show us all White Chicks, yet another bold assembly of crap by the Wayans brothers. I suppose I should have known I was in for bad news the second I entered the diner, and caught the tail end of 13 Going On 30.
I groaned loudly upon seeing the movie’s title upon the screen, and sat, annoyed, as I watched the Wayans brothers make a mockery of Latino culture. It just isn’t funny to see a Wayans slowly massacre "Guantanamera" with a scratchy voice. It’s roughly about as clever a comedic feat as Roseanne Barr’s performance of the National Anthem a few years back. I don’t know if I’d say these musical performances would necessarily qualify as the musical equivalent to a crucifix floating in a jar of urine, but I would say they are about just as funny.
So I sat in our booth and attempted to wait through the film, feeling more irritation with every moment. Now, I enjoy making fun of the Hilton sisters as much as the next person, but seeing the Wayans brothers get painted up in white-face and getting plastic boobs stuck to their chests, merely served to remind me of every poorly-done man-dressed-up-as-a-woman or black-guy-dressed-up-as-white-guy movie made in the years prior. It’s been done! Did no one in Hollywood (or Vancouver, as the case may be) learn any lessons from Juwana Man?
Furthermore, I must say, I wasn’t impressed by the fact that after all the make up and costuming had been applied, the Wayans brothers just looked like ugly drag queens with really creepy, soulless eyes.
As my aggravation became clear to the others around me, the Red Raven, who’d been dressed as some sort of mythical creature, told me I was too cynical. I stopped and reflected on the fact that I did, indeed, hate a whole lot of things. The Green Mike, dressed as a creepy old hippy (the kind that run bookstores), chided me for condemning the Wayans brothers when I had clearly enjoyed Freddy Got Fingered. Perhaps he had a point, but then I’ve never laughed so hard at anything the Wayans have done, as I have at Tom Green eating a sandwich. I suppose there’s no accounting for taste.
But on that night, I had to concede, that while White Chicks and the works of both the Wayans brothers and Jennifer Garner only served to annoy me, perhaps I was wrong in my casual condemning of these things. It is entirely possible that somewhere out there, somewhere, someone quite possibly thinks that 13 Going On 30 is the most brilliant thing they’ve ever seen. Perhaps someone thinks White Chicks is absolute genius. Whether or not these people also enjoy eating paint chips is of no consequence.
But I’ll tell you there’s one thing I firmly believe: if more people in this country had the mental capacity to listen to the musical works of Devo (or even Shatner) and get it, we’d probably have a significant increase in people smart enough to question their elected officials a bit more, and not only would Bush not be president, but most likely, neither would Kerry. Howard Dean, the only anti-Iraq-war candidate, would have gained control of the polls months ago.
Okay, but even conceding that I perhaps hate too many things too much, I still stand firmly by the statement that Malcolm In the Middle just isn’t funny.
What’s this you say? A sitcom about child-abuse?! Brilliant!
I could forgive the show’s rather sophomoric sense of humor, the stupid jokes, and poor attempts at slapstick. But a show about traumatized children and poor familial relationships, I just don’t get. It seems to me, the point of television is entertainment, a means of escape from the unpleasantness of reality. How is the sound of a loveless harpy, screaming curses for a half-hour, twice-nightly in syndication, supposed to help me relax? Why would I want to watch this?
I suppose it could just be a matter of different people having different opinions, but then, if there is actually someone out there that enjoys viewing a half-hour of seeing children mistreated, if someone actually laughs at the sight of children emasculated and weighed down with a varied collection of psychological problems that will take doubtless years of professional psychological help to heal, I think I’d sooner hit that person with a board than shake their hand. Then, I might be tempted to attempt a laugh, for their sake.
I may be a bit biased on the subject, but I must say, when the old Peruvian used to smack me around, it wasn’t that funny. Perhaps if we’d added a laugh track to all the scenes of the guy verbally berating me, and punishing my sister and I for no reason, we’d have comic gold! Worked for Sabrina the Teenage Witch!
Oh wait, no it didn’t. That show still sucks. All the pre-recorded laughter in the world couldn’t make it funny.
I can still recall all the weekends spent doing forced labor in the backyard to the sounds of that thrice-nippled bastard’s mocking voice. Sweating as I swung the pick-axe and dirt flew in my eyes, digging in the dirt to pull out cement blocks that must have been half my weight, way back then. The old Incan telling me how I was going to find a way to screw up, somehow, lamenting on it really, then punishing me further when I responded with a “thanks for the compliment”. Every weekend he turned his sight away from me and continued complaining about me for hours upon hours, and with every time he turned his head, continuing his lecture, I cradled that pick-axe and envisioned it as I drove it through the side of his head, and considered, seriously, if I could pull it off if I buried him in the hole I’d spent every weekend digging.
Nope. Still not funny.
Okay, so I’m a cynical bastard. Doesn’t change the fact that some things just aren’t funny.
I just caught the Scissor Sisters on Saturday Night Live. They did the single worst cover of a Pink Floyd song I have ever heard. I honestly didn’t even think it was possible to screw up “Comfortably Numb” so badly. Sounded like the Bee Gees covered it, only, as if the Bee Gees were tone-deaf. Guess that’s just one more thing to be cynical about.
Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince
My friends say I’m too cynical. Particularly, the Green Mike, Red Raven, and the Lusty Lascivian did on the night of All Hallows Eve. We were sitting in a diner, somewhere in San Francisco, the Lascivian sporting a Spiderman luchador mask, and I, wearing a Batman mask and a necktie, when the television monitors filling the establishment came to life. The staff had deemed the occasion appropriate to show us all White Chicks, yet another bold assembly of crap by the Wayans brothers. I suppose I should have known I was in for bad news the second I entered the diner, and caught the tail end of 13 Going On 30.
I groaned loudly upon seeing the movie’s title upon the screen, and sat, annoyed, as I watched the Wayans brothers make a mockery of Latino culture. It just isn’t funny to see a Wayans slowly massacre "Guantanamera" with a scratchy voice. It’s roughly about as clever a comedic feat as Roseanne Barr’s performance of the National Anthem a few years back. I don’t know if I’d say these musical performances would necessarily qualify as the musical equivalent to a crucifix floating in a jar of urine, but I would say they are about just as funny.
So I sat in our booth and attempted to wait through the film, feeling more irritation with every moment. Now, I enjoy making fun of the Hilton sisters as much as the next person, but seeing the Wayans brothers get painted up in white-face and getting plastic boobs stuck to their chests, merely served to remind me of every poorly-done man-dressed-up-as-a-woman or black-guy-dressed-up-as-white-guy movie made in the years prior. It’s been done! Did no one in Hollywood (or Vancouver, as the case may be) learn any lessons from Juwana Man?
Furthermore, I must say, I wasn’t impressed by the fact that after all the make up and costuming had been applied, the Wayans brothers just looked like ugly drag queens with really creepy, soulless eyes.
As my aggravation became clear to the others around me, the Red Raven, who’d been dressed as some sort of mythical creature, told me I was too cynical. I stopped and reflected on the fact that I did, indeed, hate a whole lot of things. The Green Mike, dressed as a creepy old hippy (the kind that run bookstores), chided me for condemning the Wayans brothers when I had clearly enjoyed Freddy Got Fingered. Perhaps he had a point, but then I’ve never laughed so hard at anything the Wayans have done, as I have at Tom Green eating a sandwich. I suppose there’s no accounting for taste.
But on that night, I had to concede, that while White Chicks and the works of both the Wayans brothers and Jennifer Garner only served to annoy me, perhaps I was wrong in my casual condemning of these things. It is entirely possible that somewhere out there, somewhere, someone quite possibly thinks that 13 Going On 30 is the most brilliant thing they’ve ever seen. Perhaps someone thinks White Chicks is absolute genius. Whether or not these people also enjoy eating paint chips is of no consequence.
But I’ll tell you there’s one thing I firmly believe: if more people in this country had the mental capacity to listen to the musical works of Devo (or even Shatner) and get it, we’d probably have a significant increase in people smart enough to question their elected officials a bit more, and not only would Bush not be president, but most likely, neither would Kerry. Howard Dean, the only anti-Iraq-war candidate, would have gained control of the polls months ago.
Okay, but even conceding that I perhaps hate too many things too much, I still stand firmly by the statement that Malcolm In the Middle just isn’t funny.
What’s this you say? A sitcom about child-abuse?! Brilliant!
I could forgive the show’s rather sophomoric sense of humor, the stupid jokes, and poor attempts at slapstick. But a show about traumatized children and poor familial relationships, I just don’t get. It seems to me, the point of television is entertainment, a means of escape from the unpleasantness of reality. How is the sound of a loveless harpy, screaming curses for a half-hour, twice-nightly in syndication, supposed to help me relax? Why would I want to watch this?
I suppose it could just be a matter of different people having different opinions, but then, if there is actually someone out there that enjoys viewing a half-hour of seeing children mistreated, if someone actually laughs at the sight of children emasculated and weighed down with a varied collection of psychological problems that will take doubtless years of professional psychological help to heal, I think I’d sooner hit that person with a board than shake their hand. Then, I might be tempted to attempt a laugh, for their sake.
I may be a bit biased on the subject, but I must say, when the old Peruvian used to smack me around, it wasn’t that funny. Perhaps if we’d added a laugh track to all the scenes of the guy verbally berating me, and punishing my sister and I for no reason, we’d have comic gold! Worked for Sabrina the Teenage Witch!
Oh wait, no it didn’t. That show still sucks. All the pre-recorded laughter in the world couldn’t make it funny.
I can still recall all the weekends spent doing forced labor in the backyard to the sounds of that thrice-nippled bastard’s mocking voice. Sweating as I swung the pick-axe and dirt flew in my eyes, digging in the dirt to pull out cement blocks that must have been half my weight, way back then. The old Incan telling me how I was going to find a way to screw up, somehow, lamenting on it really, then punishing me further when I responded with a “thanks for the compliment”. Every weekend he turned his sight away from me and continued complaining about me for hours upon hours, and with every time he turned his head, continuing his lecture, I cradled that pick-axe and envisioned it as I drove it through the side of his head, and considered, seriously, if I could pull it off if I buried him in the hole I’d spent every weekend digging.
Nope. Still not funny.
Okay, so I’m a cynical bastard. Doesn’t change the fact that some things just aren’t funny.
I just caught the Scissor Sisters on Saturday Night Live. They did the single worst cover of a Pink Floyd song I have ever heard. I honestly didn’t even think it was possible to screw up “Comfortably Numb” so badly. Sounded like the Bee Gees covered it, only, as if the Bee Gees were tone-deaf. Guess that’s just one more thing to be cynical about.
The Virgin Prince
