3/24/09
Let's talk about music!
Today, whilst squandering my duties at work and haphazardly selling ugly sunglasses to over-privileged pre-vacationers probably occupationally based in the financial sector, I stumbled across an article in Esquire entitled "50 Songs Every Man Should Be Listening To." They claim that their music editors are "your friend," and not your "pretentious friend who nods in approval instead of to the beat" or "judges everything against Pavement."
Now, I have often been, I'll admit, accused of being the former (I never really did get into Pavement). But this list sucks. This list sucks a lot.
Okay, I'm lying. It doesn't suck a lot. That, actually, is the problem. It isn't write-off, know-nothing shitty. It's not even close to that. It sucks just enough to be genuinely irritating; enough to be really obnoxious. It's all that because it's so admirably close to being on the right track but while missing the track completely. And its jab at "pretentious" listeners only sweetens the case. Because, for all it's "every day" appeal and claims to simple, modest, appreciation-with-no-strings-attached aspirations, the problem with this list is that, with a handful of exceptions, it's fucking boring moreso than it is bad. And such is the conundrum with modern music, in my humble (or pretentious) opinion.
Actually, fuck it. Remove those parentheticals from the above statement. If I'm pretentious in the way Esquire seems to define the word, then so be it. A musical critique should be be somewhat pretentious, written by someone who can tell the difference between formulaic crap dressed up as "the next big thing" and something that's actually original. Originality, even, isn't necessarily required for something to be good. It doesn't have to reinvent the wheel. I don't need that every time I flip a record on. Just something that is self-aware; something that is damn good at being what it is. Lil' Wayne (#20) is not self-aware. The new Guns 'N' Roses' (#24) only appeal is its comic lack of self-awareness. Franz Ferdinand (#33) and Coldplay (#34) are just piles of boring and blah.
And yet, a lot of the stuff on here is not bad at all. Mos Def (#1), My Morning Jacket (#7), Neko Case (#9, who gets a pass for having been in the New Pornographers), Fleet Foxes (#18); these are all bands that do not in fact suck, and are actually kind of good. But they just don't move me. They don't make me get out of my seat and want to sing/dance/yell/cry/throw chairs/be at peace/reflect on the passage of time/write/generally be thankful for my auditory senses, the way music -- music with real heart -- is supposed to.
I think I might have gone off on a tangent. The real problem with this kind of only-kind-of-bad list as that it propagates the wrong idea. Mainstream music, in the past few years, has been improving to a vast degree, embracing large parts of what had previously been the "underground" and assimilating its pieces a few at a time, from its pop-sensible edges (Death Cab For Cutie and Modest Mouse come to mind). Why is this a problem? Actually, I have no issue with what tweens who whine about "selling out" and "the man" so ubiquitously and scornfully call "the mainstream" -- so long as it isn't bastardizing the bands it's taking in. Honestly, I've enjoyed both the aforementioned bands perhaps even moreso since they went major. The issue to me is now that the mainstream listeners have discovered the "indie" genre (sort of a misnomer now, since most of the "indie" bands on Esquire's list are not "independent" at all), they are becoming content with a lot of the buzz bands that are really just slightly more accessible but watered down versions of their less well-known contemporaries. For example, ever since Fall Out Boy and Panic at the Disco have turned "emo" into a dirty word, fans have seldom bothered to look deeper at phenomenal releases by bands like Look Mexico, Alegernon Cadwallader, and Minus the Bear (who are, rightfully so, slowly getting their due), just to name the first few that popped into my head.
Sure, it's easy for me to sit back on the sidelines and sound smug, but it's not that I'm downing anyone for liking any of the bands on Esquire's list. There's nothing wrong -- nothing whatsoever -- with liking whatever it is that moves you; fuck all what moves me. But I do believe that anyone who truly claims to love music has a responsibility to themselves to dig below the surface, beyond what is easily accessible and dangled in front of their faces, to find the roots from where the bands they like now derived (for example, my friend's father, a rabid We Are Scientists fan that had no idea his favorite band's name was derived from the titular Cap'n Jazz song). I mean, these are the kinds of things I love -- when I fall in love with a band, I need to know all this stuff. I dig. I scour. Sometimes it just gives me a better perspective on the music I love. More often than not, it leads me to more bands I'll end up loving, and so on, and so forth.
To cite -- of all absurdities -- Blink-182, I once read an interview where they made what I thought was a very poignant observation: that they were like "My First Punk Band;" that they had fun with what they did but hoped ultimately that it would help get kids off the conveyor-belt pop and nu-metal that was so rampant at the time and lead them into the bowels of independent music, to develop a rich library of music to enjoy and appreciate. Around the same time, Bob Dylan publicly declared that if he were to have grown up in this era (this was the tail end of the '90's, I believe), he never would have been inspired to play music. But I did grow up in this era, and I did fall in love with music. But it wasn't because of pop or nu-metal, it was because of kind but "pretentious" souls who took the time to point me to bands whose hearts and souls connected to mine; and from there I was able to plum the depths and developed an appreciation of music I never would have had otherwise.
Certainly, I like a lot of bands that many other true music lovers abhor; just as others whose musical appreciations surely match or exceed my own steadfastly worship bands I just can't see the value in (I think I mentioned Pavement earlier). I just think that a mainstream not full of crap makes people lazy. It breeds musical half-enthusiasts. It's not bad enough to send people in droves to find a niche or a counter-culture that suits them.
So blast your headphones. Enjoy your Fleet Foxes and your Josh Ritters and your Blitzen Trappers and your Libertines and your Glasvegases. But don't let it absolve you of your responsibility to take up your shovel and dig for gold. No matter how knowledgeable you may be, there is always more to find, and always more to love. Just as it should be.
Now, I have often been, I'll admit, accused of being the former (I never really did get into Pavement). But this list sucks. This list sucks a lot.
Okay, I'm lying. It doesn't suck a lot. That, actually, is the problem. It isn't write-off, know-nothing shitty. It's not even close to that. It sucks just enough to be genuinely irritating; enough to be really obnoxious. It's all that because it's so admirably close to being on the right track but while missing the track completely. And its jab at "pretentious" listeners only sweetens the case. Because, for all it's "every day" appeal and claims to simple, modest, appreciation-with-no-strings-attached aspirations, the problem with this list is that, with a handful of exceptions, it's fucking boring moreso than it is bad. And such is the conundrum with modern music, in my humble (or pretentious) opinion.
Actually, fuck it. Remove those parentheticals from the above statement. If I'm pretentious in the way Esquire seems to define the word, then so be it. A musical critique should be be somewhat pretentious, written by someone who can tell the difference between formulaic crap dressed up as "the next big thing" and something that's actually original. Originality, even, isn't necessarily required for something to be good. It doesn't have to reinvent the wheel. I don't need that every time I flip a record on. Just something that is self-aware; something that is damn good at being what it is. Lil' Wayne (#20) is not self-aware. The new Guns 'N' Roses' (#24) only appeal is its comic lack of self-awareness. Franz Ferdinand (#33) and Coldplay (#34) are just piles of boring and blah.
And yet, a lot of the stuff on here is not bad at all. Mos Def (#1), My Morning Jacket (#7), Neko Case (#9, who gets a pass for having been in the New Pornographers), Fleet Foxes (#18); these are all bands that do not in fact suck, and are actually kind of good. But they just don't move me. They don't make me get out of my seat and want to sing/dance/yell/cry/throw chairs/be at peace/reflect on the passage of time/write/generally be thankful for my auditory senses, the way music -- music with real heart -- is supposed to.
I think I might have gone off on a tangent. The real problem with this kind of only-kind-of-bad list as that it propagates the wrong idea. Mainstream music, in the past few years, has been improving to a vast degree, embracing large parts of what had previously been the "underground" and assimilating its pieces a few at a time, from its pop-sensible edges (Death Cab For Cutie and Modest Mouse come to mind). Why is this a problem? Actually, I have no issue with what tweens who whine about "selling out" and "the man" so ubiquitously and scornfully call "the mainstream" -- so long as it isn't bastardizing the bands it's taking in. Honestly, I've enjoyed both the aforementioned bands perhaps even moreso since they went major. The issue to me is now that the mainstream listeners have discovered the "indie" genre (sort of a misnomer now, since most of the "indie" bands on Esquire's list are not "independent" at all), they are becoming content with a lot of the buzz bands that are really just slightly more accessible but watered down versions of their less well-known contemporaries. For example, ever since Fall Out Boy and Panic at the Disco have turned "emo" into a dirty word, fans have seldom bothered to look deeper at phenomenal releases by bands like Look Mexico, Alegernon Cadwallader, and Minus the Bear (who are, rightfully so, slowly getting their due), just to name the first few that popped into my head.
Sure, it's easy for me to sit back on the sidelines and sound smug, but it's not that I'm downing anyone for liking any of the bands on Esquire's list. There's nothing wrong -- nothing whatsoever -- with liking whatever it is that moves you; fuck all what moves me. But I do believe that anyone who truly claims to love music has a responsibility to themselves to dig below the surface, beyond what is easily accessible and dangled in front of their faces, to find the roots from where the bands they like now derived (for example, my friend's father, a rabid We Are Scientists fan that had no idea his favorite band's name was derived from the titular Cap'n Jazz song). I mean, these are the kinds of things I love -- when I fall in love with a band, I need to know all this stuff. I dig. I scour. Sometimes it just gives me a better perspective on the music I love. More often than not, it leads me to more bands I'll end up loving, and so on, and so forth.
To cite -- of all absurdities -- Blink-182, I once read an interview where they made what I thought was a very poignant observation: that they were like "My First Punk Band;" that they had fun with what they did but hoped ultimately that it would help get kids off the conveyor-belt pop and nu-metal that was so rampant at the time and lead them into the bowels of independent music, to develop a rich library of music to enjoy and appreciate. Around the same time, Bob Dylan publicly declared that if he were to have grown up in this era (this was the tail end of the '90's, I believe), he never would have been inspired to play music. But I did grow up in this era, and I did fall in love with music. But it wasn't because of pop or nu-metal, it was because of kind but "pretentious" souls who took the time to point me to bands whose hearts and souls connected to mine; and from there I was able to plum the depths and developed an appreciation of music I never would have had otherwise.
Certainly, I like a lot of bands that many other true music lovers abhor; just as others whose musical appreciations surely match or exceed my own steadfastly worship bands I just can't see the value in (I think I mentioned Pavement earlier). I just think that a mainstream not full of crap makes people lazy. It breeds musical half-enthusiasts. It's not bad enough to send people in droves to find a niche or a counter-culture that suits them.
So blast your headphones. Enjoy your Fleet Foxes and your Josh Ritters and your Blitzen Trappers and your Libertines and your Glasvegases. But don't let it absolve you of your responsibility to take up your shovel and dig for gold. No matter how knowledgeable you may be, there is always more to find, and always more to love. Just as it should be.
3/11/09
Sample Rejection By Every Female, Ever
Hey, Dan. How are you?
Good? Oh well, that's great! That's really great that you're doing great. I mean, because you so deserve to be doing great.
Why do you think it's weird that I'm being so complimentary?! I'm always this complimentary to people, because I'm such a nice person.
So nice, in fact, that I've told you a lot of nice things I didn't really mean and hoped you wouldn't take to heart, but knew you would. Like, that time I said you were such a great person, and how any girl would be, like, ooooh so lucky to have you? Well, I -- no, no, I meant that, I totally did -- I just meant, any girl other than me. Simple caveat, really. I mean, we're talking about, like, three billion women in the world here, LOL. I can't be allowed just one little exception?
Hmmm... you're not saying much. Is it because you've heard this speech a thousand times before? What? You say it's because every guy on the planet has heard more or less this same speech a thousand times before and I could at least be original? That's not true! I bet Brad Pitt or Spencer from The Hills hasn't heard this speech before.
Okay, you want to know the real reason? It's because I'm messed up. Messed up and confused. I've been rendered completely incapable of ever loving another human being because [insert ex-boyfriend here] just totally broke my heart and I just can't fathom true love ever existing even in an alternate universe. See?! That's how messed up I am. You're not messed up, though. You're great and fun-loving and artistic and, just, totally everything I'd ever want in a guy, if only I just weren't so messed up. So you see? This totally just has absolutely nothing to do with you at all.
What?! That's not original either? You're saying you've been hurt, too? And that you still go on? Well, I know you've been hurt, I mean, who hasn't, but you can't possibly know what it feels like to have been hurt the way I have. My pain is just, well, you wouldn't understand. Jesus, you're making this way harder than it was supposed to be. I mean, I thought you'd be more mature about this whole thing. I thought you'd -- what? You're saying I'll say that, but then really I'll go hook up with other guys other than you who I'm apparently less messed up and/or confused about? Why would I ever go and do a thing like that?! That's soooo not how I am. I respect you way too much to do that -- unless, of course, I were to be drinking and it were to just sort of happen. Then -- well, under those kinds of highly unlikely circumstances, it would probably happen. But let's be real here. That's just how it goes. You understand.
Actually, what I'll probably more likely do, is tell you this about how the only reason we can't be together is that I'm confused and/or messed up, lay low for a couple months; we won't talk much for a while, and then suddenly I'll reappear with a brand new boyfriend who will in all probability just be a low-rent, watered down (but probably slightly better looking) version of you, but hey! That's how I like my relationships. With me in the driver's seat, never having to have my points of view philosophically challenged by anyone.
I knew you wouldn't understand. I guess you won't want to be "just friends" now. I mean, I know the "friendship" I'm offering you only consists of you pretending to not like me while I selfishly act like the world revolves around only my feelings and/or talk about my relationship problems with New Guy, or Right Now Guy, or We Fucked But He Stopped Calling Me And I Don't Get Why Guy, but, I mean, being "just friends" is just the mature thing for you to do in this situation. Also, I have a monopoly on what "maturity" means. It means anything I want it to mean in the context of this situation so that I can blame you for this being harder than I'd planned on it being.
So, sorry that you lack the maturity to grow up and just be cool with this. I can't in any way understand why you feel like you've been told one thing and shown another. But hey, that's life, right? You roll with the punches. Just roll with them.
Just as long as they're being delivered to you, and not me. Because then, you know. That would just suck.
Good? Oh well, that's great! That's really great that you're doing great. I mean, because you so deserve to be doing great.
Why do you think it's weird that I'm being so complimentary?! I'm always this complimentary to people, because I'm such a nice person.
So nice, in fact, that I've told you a lot of nice things I didn't really mean and hoped you wouldn't take to heart, but knew you would. Like, that time I said you were such a great person, and how any girl would be, like, ooooh so lucky to have you? Well, I -- no, no, I meant that, I totally did -- I just meant, any girl other than me. Simple caveat, really. I mean, we're talking about, like, three billion women in the world here, LOL. I can't be allowed just one little exception?
Hmmm... you're not saying much. Is it because you've heard this speech a thousand times before? What? You say it's because every guy on the planet has heard more or less this same speech a thousand times before and I could at least be original? That's not true! I bet Brad Pitt or Spencer from The Hills hasn't heard this speech before.
Okay, you want to know the real reason? It's because I'm messed up. Messed up and confused. I've been rendered completely incapable of ever loving another human being because [insert ex-boyfriend here] just totally broke my heart and I just can't fathom true love ever existing even in an alternate universe. See?! That's how messed up I am. You're not messed up, though. You're great and fun-loving and artistic and, just, totally everything I'd ever want in a guy, if only I just weren't so messed up. So you see? This totally just has absolutely nothing to do with you at all.
What?! That's not original either? You're saying you've been hurt, too? And that you still go on? Well, I know you've been hurt, I mean, who hasn't, but you can't possibly know what it feels like to have been hurt the way I have. My pain is just, well, you wouldn't understand. Jesus, you're making this way harder than it was supposed to be. I mean, I thought you'd be more mature about this whole thing. I thought you'd -- what? You're saying I'll say that, but then really I'll go hook up with other guys other than you who I'm apparently less messed up and/or confused about? Why would I ever go and do a thing like that?! That's soooo not how I am. I respect you way too much to do that -- unless, of course, I were to be drinking and it were to just sort of happen. Then -- well, under those kinds of highly unlikely circumstances, it would probably happen. But let's be real here. That's just how it goes. You understand.
Actually, what I'll probably more likely do, is tell you this about how the only reason we can't be together is that I'm confused and/or messed up, lay low for a couple months; we won't talk much for a while, and then suddenly I'll reappear with a brand new boyfriend who will in all probability just be a low-rent, watered down (but probably slightly better looking) version of you, but hey! That's how I like my relationships. With me in the driver's seat, never having to have my points of view philosophically challenged by anyone.
I knew you wouldn't understand. I guess you won't want to be "just friends" now. I mean, I know the "friendship" I'm offering you only consists of you pretending to not like me while I selfishly act like the world revolves around only my feelings and/or talk about my relationship problems with New Guy, or Right Now Guy, or We Fucked But He Stopped Calling Me And I Don't Get Why Guy, but, I mean, being "just friends" is just the mature thing for you to do in this situation. Also, I have a monopoly on what "maturity" means. It means anything I want it to mean in the context of this situation so that I can blame you for this being harder than I'd planned on it being.
So, sorry that you lack the maturity to grow up and just be cool with this. I can't in any way understand why you feel like you've been told one thing and shown another. But hey, that's life, right? You roll with the punches. Just roll with them.
Just as long as they're being delivered to you, and not me. Because then, you know. That would just suck.
3/9/09
Write Your Own Episode of TV’s "House M.D."
(using this handy guide!)
SCENE 1:
We open at a (sporting event/rock concert/charity work in Africa). A young, healthy, supple (eerily self-aware cheerleader/care-free musician with a death wish/humanitarian who ignores her own health for the sake of all the poor sick children) is seen. Suddenly, (he/she) appears disoriented. (His/her) co-workers are suddenly superficially concerned, as they are bit parts played by people who do not know how to feign human emotion. In a calamitous fit of spinning circles, we are treated to a CGI representation of the inside of subject’s body, wherein something mysterious happens, and said subject collapses into a heap on the floor.
Cue HOUSE M.D. opening sequence, featuring faux-CAT scan-esque diagrams and inexplicable and out of place shots of the ocean taken from a helicopter. It is entirely possible this opening was bought from the pilot of another show that was never aired. Features trippy theme song by Massive Attack!
SCENE 2:
DR. HOUSE is in his office, downing literally handfuls of Vicodin in his easy chair with no water. This is to show how in pain Dr. House is, yet also to illustrate his level of “hardcore/bad-assness.” This appeals to the young, reckless male (YRM) demographic.
Suddenly, fair-skinned brunette ALISON CAMERON bursts into his office. She is smart but painfully afflicted with the incurable disease, naïveté, and it is apparently in its most advanced stage. She has the file for the (cheerleader/musician/humanitarian) in her hand. House will explain that he does not want to treat this case because he hates (cheerleaders/musicians/humanitarians). Something in the file, however, will inexplicably draw him in, and he will reluctantly agree to treat the patient.
SCENE 3:
DR. CUDDY and DR. WILSON are walking along in the hallway and accost House as he is walking. They will form some sort of bet or ongoing competition regarding (Dr. Cuddy’s breasts/Dr. Wilson’s current affair with some lower level employee/House’s addiction to drugs or hatred of people).
Meanwhile, House’s team, the only people in the hospital that apparently do any work at all, are talking with the patient and creating a chart from information given.
SCENE 4:
House and his team, which includes the aforementioned hot but smart chick (HSC), one hot but spoiled Australian with impossibly well-groomed hair (HSA), and one person of color (POC). They will engage in a short volley of witticism in which House belittles all their ideas about the patient’s condition and ultimately tells them what to treat the patient for.
One member of the team (rotated week by week, probably decided by coin toss), will object that this can’t be right based on the information the patient has given them. House will re-object and posit that all people, especially those dying of an extremely rare and hard-to-diagnose disease, will always lie about their medical history because, well, lying is fucking fun. A member of the team will then be dispatched to break into the patient’s house (usually POC, due to his having a criminal record) to uncover evidence that might lead them to the real cause of the disease.
House will be shown participating in “clinic hours,” wherein he scolds sick people for being unusually retarded. Most of them usually are. This C plot traditionally involves a woman who doesn’t know she’s pregnant because she’s been fucking people in her sleep, a fat woman who wants to stay fat at the cost of keeping a tumor because her husband likes his women thick, and/or a guy who has diarrhea from chewing too much sugarless gum.
SCENE 5: (patient goes batshit)
Whilst POC searches for clues, the other team members will have no choice but to start treating the patient for the initial diagnosis. At first, it will appear to be working, and the patient will tell someone on staff (usually HSC, but sometimes HAS, who is able to show sentimentality when the script calls for it) their sob story and this person will be deeply affected by it. This will usually tie in somehow near the end of the episode. It is important to note here that the character will ALWAYS be able to DIRECTLY relate to this person’s story. If the problem involves alcohol, then said character’s father was an alcoholic. If it involves a dying spouse, said character will have married a dying person in college. If it involves fucking, someone in the cast will probably get laid (or at least pine over doing so).
Suddenly, often mid-convo, the patient will go completely batshit and break into what is almost always a seizure. Everyone will freak the fuck out and the family of the patient outside the window will yell something to the effect of, “what’s happening to my baby!” or “what have you done to him/her!” Despite how messy this scene may appear, all members of the cast will still look extremely attractive throughout its duration.
SCENE 6:
Elsewhere in the hospital, Dr. House and Dr. Wilson spar over existential conundrums created by the patient’s (embrace of religion/overt belief in the goodness of people/refusal of treatment). We know that Dr. House believes in none of these things, because he is, you know, a negative guy. It will appear as if House is going to lose the bet he made in scene 3.
Meanwhile, POC will return with a shred of evidence that suggests that the seizure happened because they were treating the patient for the wrong disease. House will posit that it is not in fact DISEASE A, but is in fact an all-new, almost hysterically uncommon DISEASE B. Uproar! The staff refuses to believe him. The victim’s family will protest and say (and rightfully so) that these doctors really have no idea what they’re treating the patient for. Dr. House will scold them for their lack of unerring faith in letting doctors just do what they do.
SCENE 7:
The treatment will not be working. Patient will begin to grow weary and give up. A deeply moving and personal conversation between patient and the member of the staff from earlier (henceforth referred to as HSC, because it’s usually her) will ensue. One or both of them will cry. HSC will make an unrealistic promise to patient that she will never let them die of this apparently incurable disease, because her heart is just so big.
House and Wilson are standing out on the hospital’s balcony, lamenting the inevitable loss of this patient. Wilson will console House with some off-beat bit of wisdom, which will, for some reason unbeknownst to the audience, strangely inspire House. House will light up like a Christmas tree and bolt back inside.
SCENE 8:
House will kick down the door to the patient’s room and barge in like a superhero. The patient will usually not recognize House, because he hates people and never meets the patient face to face until the end of the episode when he has found the cure. This is so that House will always look like the man and make the rest of his hardworking staff look like fucking idiots. He will launch into a self-righteous diatribe about how the patient has (of course) lied and that only he, the direct descendant of Sherlock Holmes, could have figured it out. He will then reveal that the disease was neither Disease A or Disease B, but rather the wildly off the charts and probably mostly fictional DISEASE C, a disease only THREE people in the fucking WORLD have ever been diagnosed with.
Everyone will be skeptical, as there is no preapproved treatment for this disease, only something in “clinical trials” which are apparently being funded via private donations from the other two people who have been diagnosed, because drug companies don’t spend millions of dollars trying to cure a disease three people have.
Anyway, after much protest from the family and the patient, HRC will use the bond she has forged with the patient to convince him/her to believe in her because she believes in House and take the treatment. He/she will. This will lead to a montage over sad music where the patient sleeps and all the other doctors sit alone, looking their absolute worriedest, wondering whether this treatment might really work.
EPILOGUE:
In the end, it will, the patient will be eternally grateful, House will win the bet, the fat woman will get her tumor removed because it will turn out that she is having multiple affairs with other men who dig fat chicks, HSC will cry, HAS will continue to be spoiled and Australian, and POC will continue to be black. We will be treated to a final montage where House plays “Baba O’Reilly” on his piano and drinks scotch, as all devil-may-care TV physicians are wont to do.
CUE credits
SCENE 1:
We open at a (sporting event/rock concert/charity work in Africa). A young, healthy, supple (eerily self-aware cheerleader/care-free musician with a death wish/humanitarian who ignores her own health for the sake of all the poor sick children) is seen. Suddenly, (he/she) appears disoriented. (His/her) co-workers are suddenly superficially concerned, as they are bit parts played by people who do not know how to feign human emotion. In a calamitous fit of spinning circles, we are treated to a CGI representation of the inside of subject’s body, wherein something mysterious happens, and said subject collapses into a heap on the floor.
Cue HOUSE M.D. opening sequence, featuring faux-CAT scan-esque diagrams and inexplicable and out of place shots of the ocean taken from a helicopter. It is entirely possible this opening was bought from the pilot of another show that was never aired. Features trippy theme song by Massive Attack!
SCENE 2:
DR. HOUSE is in his office, downing literally handfuls of Vicodin in his easy chair with no water. This is to show how in pain Dr. House is, yet also to illustrate his level of “hardcore/bad-assness.” This appeals to the young, reckless male (YRM) demographic.
Suddenly, fair-skinned brunette ALISON CAMERON bursts into his office. She is smart but painfully afflicted with the incurable disease, naïveté, and it is apparently in its most advanced stage. She has the file for the (cheerleader/musician/humanitarian) in her hand. House will explain that he does not want to treat this case because he hates (cheerleaders/musicians/humanitarians). Something in the file, however, will inexplicably draw him in, and he will reluctantly agree to treat the patient.
SCENE 3:
DR. CUDDY and DR. WILSON are walking along in the hallway and accost House as he is walking. They will form some sort of bet or ongoing competition regarding (Dr. Cuddy’s breasts/Dr. Wilson’s current affair with some lower level employee/House’s addiction to drugs or hatred of people).
Meanwhile, House’s team, the only people in the hospital that apparently do any work at all, are talking with the patient and creating a chart from information given.
SCENE 4:
House and his team, which includes the aforementioned hot but smart chick (HSC), one hot but spoiled Australian with impossibly well-groomed hair (HSA), and one person of color (POC). They will engage in a short volley of witticism in which House belittles all their ideas about the patient’s condition and ultimately tells them what to treat the patient for.
One member of the team (rotated week by week, probably decided by coin toss), will object that this can’t be right based on the information the patient has given them. House will re-object and posit that all people, especially those dying of an extremely rare and hard-to-diagnose disease, will always lie about their medical history because, well, lying is fucking fun. A member of the team will then be dispatched to break into the patient’s house (usually POC, due to his having a criminal record) to uncover evidence that might lead them to the real cause of the disease.
House will be shown participating in “clinic hours,” wherein he scolds sick people for being unusually retarded. Most of them usually are. This C plot traditionally involves a woman who doesn’t know she’s pregnant because she’s been fucking people in her sleep, a fat woman who wants to stay fat at the cost of keeping a tumor because her husband likes his women thick, and/or a guy who has diarrhea from chewing too much sugarless gum.
SCENE 5: (patient goes batshit)
Whilst POC searches for clues, the other team members will have no choice but to start treating the patient for the initial diagnosis. At first, it will appear to be working, and the patient will tell someone on staff (usually HSC, but sometimes HAS, who is able to show sentimentality when the script calls for it) their sob story and this person will be deeply affected by it. This will usually tie in somehow near the end of the episode. It is important to note here that the character will ALWAYS be able to DIRECTLY relate to this person’s story. If the problem involves alcohol, then said character’s father was an alcoholic. If it involves a dying spouse, said character will have married a dying person in college. If it involves fucking, someone in the cast will probably get laid (or at least pine over doing so).
Suddenly, often mid-convo, the patient will go completely batshit and break into what is almost always a seizure. Everyone will freak the fuck out and the family of the patient outside the window will yell something to the effect of, “what’s happening to my baby!” or “what have you done to him/her!” Despite how messy this scene may appear, all members of the cast will still look extremely attractive throughout its duration.
SCENE 6:
Elsewhere in the hospital, Dr. House and Dr. Wilson spar over existential conundrums created by the patient’s (embrace of religion/overt belief in the goodness of people/refusal of treatment). We know that Dr. House believes in none of these things, because he is, you know, a negative guy. It will appear as if House is going to lose the bet he made in scene 3.
Meanwhile, POC will return with a shred of evidence that suggests that the seizure happened because they were treating the patient for the wrong disease. House will posit that it is not in fact DISEASE A, but is in fact an all-new, almost hysterically uncommon DISEASE B. Uproar! The staff refuses to believe him. The victim’s family will protest and say (and rightfully so) that these doctors really have no idea what they’re treating the patient for. Dr. House will scold them for their lack of unerring faith in letting doctors just do what they do.
SCENE 7:
The treatment will not be working. Patient will begin to grow weary and give up. A deeply moving and personal conversation between patient and the member of the staff from earlier (henceforth referred to as HSC, because it’s usually her) will ensue. One or both of them will cry. HSC will make an unrealistic promise to patient that she will never let them die of this apparently incurable disease, because her heart is just so big.
House and Wilson are standing out on the hospital’s balcony, lamenting the inevitable loss of this patient. Wilson will console House with some off-beat bit of wisdom, which will, for some reason unbeknownst to the audience, strangely inspire House. House will light up like a Christmas tree and bolt back inside.
SCENE 8:
House will kick down the door to the patient’s room and barge in like a superhero. The patient will usually not recognize House, because he hates people and never meets the patient face to face until the end of the episode when he has found the cure. This is so that House will always look like the man and make the rest of his hardworking staff look like fucking idiots. He will launch into a self-righteous diatribe about how the patient has (of course) lied and that only he, the direct descendant of Sherlock Holmes, could have figured it out. He will then reveal that the disease was neither Disease A or Disease B, but rather the wildly off the charts and probably mostly fictional DISEASE C, a disease only THREE people in the fucking WORLD have ever been diagnosed with.
Everyone will be skeptical, as there is no preapproved treatment for this disease, only something in “clinical trials” which are apparently being funded via private donations from the other two people who have been diagnosed, because drug companies don’t spend millions of dollars trying to cure a disease three people have.
Anyway, after much protest from the family and the patient, HRC will use the bond she has forged with the patient to convince him/her to believe in her because she believes in House and take the treatment. He/she will. This will lead to a montage over sad music where the patient sleeps and all the other doctors sit alone, looking their absolute worriedest, wondering whether this treatment might really work.
EPILOGUE:
In the end, it will, the patient will be eternally grateful, House will win the bet, the fat woman will get her tumor removed because it will turn out that she is having multiple affairs with other men who dig fat chicks, HSC will cry, HAS will continue to be spoiled and Australian, and POC will continue to be black. We will be treated to a final montage where House plays “Baba O’Reilly” on his piano and drinks scotch, as all devil-may-care TV physicians are wont to do.
CUE credits
3/3/09
An Open Letter to the Birds that Have Infested my Apartment:
Dear birds:
I feel, first, that I must clear a few things up. I believe it necessary to apologize on behalf of my species. I realize that you birds are a proud race, and that my brethren have built homes and parking lots and shopping malls and office buildings and day spas (I know, I never got the point, either) all over your habitat. We (not me, the editorial) have chopped down the trees in which you live, and forced you to find new places in which to establish your dominion.
But I should say, I have never built a house or domicile of any sort. I have never personally chopped down a tree, or bulldozed any section of forestrial area. I have never once shot at you with pellet and/or paintball guns like some of my contemporaries. I have never flushed out a gutter nor attempted to place poison in possible nesting places so as to prevent you from settling in them. I have never even attempted to climb up into crevices on my landing where you seem to congregate. I feel that I give you guys a lot of latitude, given the circumstances. But there are some things, birds, some things that I feel cross the line and that no level of human guilt for your current circumstances can abate. These things are what we humans categorically refer to as not cool.
The following is a list of things you have done that are not cool:
• Setting up a base in my dryer vent. I realize that it is warm and nest-size and that during the warmer weather, we often leave our window open to allow the vent room so we don't have to keep taking it apart and putting it back together. To do so would call for a significant amount more effort than we would like, and we would like to preserve this modest convenience. Also, we feel that closing the window would amount to an affront toward your species. However, imagine our displeasure when we can't figure out why the lint is backing up in our dryer and nearly burning our whole building to the ground only to find a mass of twigs and eggs inside of our vent. I feel this is self-explanatory. If our house burns down, we all lose. No one wants this.
• Burrowing into the wall directly next to our shower. It's not even so much that I know you're there. But holy fucking Christ do you guys make a lot of noise. I don't know what sort of avian sexual debauchery is going on in there, but it sounds like the soundtrack to a Takashi Miike film. I would like to shower without feeling like I need to shower. If you know what I mean.
• Hiding out in the alcove above our landing and shitting all over our empties. I estimate that we have at least thirty bucks worth of empties hanging out on that landing. Yes, this is Springfield, but let's be serious. No depository in the universe is going to accept these in their current state. Initially, we were going to try to tell them it was the result of an unfortunate mayonnaise or cream cheese incident, but your persistent defecation has made the substance's origin all too recognizable. The homeless guy who walks around collecting cans for a fucking living knocked on our door the other day asking if he could take some of them, and even he didn't want them. This man, whose home is likely made out of cardboard, only took the few boxes out of range of your target zone, just to give you an idea of how gross this is.
• Flying into our house and fucking shit up. Do I really need to explain this? When I'm awoken by what sounds like a break-in at 5 AM and find my roommates frantically running around the place with pots and pans trying to catch a small, winged intruder, I feel as if I'm being subject to a bad omen. I like you guys. I like you outside. This is my bird-free zone. I like it that way. Feel free to eat from the bird-feeder we keep out front that you completely fucking ignore.
This is a mere sampling of my frustrations with you. I would like this to be cordial. We need to draw up some ground rules. Let's talk. Thanks.
I feel, first, that I must clear a few things up. I believe it necessary to apologize on behalf of my species. I realize that you birds are a proud race, and that my brethren have built homes and parking lots and shopping malls and office buildings and day spas (I know, I never got the point, either) all over your habitat. We (not me, the editorial) have chopped down the trees in which you live, and forced you to find new places in which to establish your dominion.
But I should say, I have never built a house or domicile of any sort. I have never personally chopped down a tree, or bulldozed any section of forestrial area. I have never once shot at you with pellet and/or paintball guns like some of my contemporaries. I have never flushed out a gutter nor attempted to place poison in possible nesting places so as to prevent you from settling in them. I have never even attempted to climb up into crevices on my landing where you seem to congregate. I feel that I give you guys a lot of latitude, given the circumstances. But there are some things, birds, some things that I feel cross the line and that no level of human guilt for your current circumstances can abate. These things are what we humans categorically refer to as not cool.
The following is a list of things you have done that are not cool:
• Setting up a base in my dryer vent. I realize that it is warm and nest-size and that during the warmer weather, we often leave our window open to allow the vent room so we don't have to keep taking it apart and putting it back together. To do so would call for a significant amount more effort than we would like, and we would like to preserve this modest convenience. Also, we feel that closing the window would amount to an affront toward your species. However, imagine our displeasure when we can't figure out why the lint is backing up in our dryer and nearly burning our whole building to the ground only to find a mass of twigs and eggs inside of our vent. I feel this is self-explanatory. If our house burns down, we all lose. No one wants this.
• Burrowing into the wall directly next to our shower. It's not even so much that I know you're there. But holy fucking Christ do you guys make a lot of noise. I don't know what sort of avian sexual debauchery is going on in there, but it sounds like the soundtrack to a Takashi Miike film. I would like to shower without feeling like I need to shower. If you know what I mean.
• Hiding out in the alcove above our landing and shitting all over our empties. I estimate that we have at least thirty bucks worth of empties hanging out on that landing. Yes, this is Springfield, but let's be serious. No depository in the universe is going to accept these in their current state. Initially, we were going to try to tell them it was the result of an unfortunate mayonnaise or cream cheese incident, but your persistent defecation has made the substance's origin all too recognizable. The homeless guy who walks around collecting cans for a fucking living knocked on our door the other day asking if he could take some of them, and even he didn't want them. This man, whose home is likely made out of cardboard, only took the few boxes out of range of your target zone, just to give you an idea of how gross this is.
• Flying into our house and fucking shit up. Do I really need to explain this? When I'm awoken by what sounds like a break-in at 5 AM and find my roommates frantically running around the place with pots and pans trying to catch a small, winged intruder, I feel as if I'm being subject to a bad omen. I like you guys. I like you outside. This is my bird-free zone. I like it that way. Feel free to eat from the bird-feeder we keep out front that you completely fucking ignore.
This is a mere sampling of my frustrations with you. I would like this to be cordial. We need to draw up some ground rules. Let's talk. Thanks.
3/2/09
Contemplations on Boomerangs
"Don't knock boomerangs man: they're coming back!"
-Mike Forest
It's probably common knowledge that boomerangs of popular lore and boomerangs in real life do not operate by the same laws of physical mechanics. This, however, became plain to me today as I was playing The Legend of Zelda (in its purest, 1984 incarnation, on the NES). For those who have never had the privilege of playing it, you spend most of your time traversing a vast, pixelated map screen from overhead as you swing swords (or, if you have full life, throw them) at strange creatures including large spiders and weird furry things with the kind of exaggerated DSL that would make Chasey Lain blush.
Anyway, one of the items in your initially limited repertoire is the "wooden boomerang," which eschews standard real-life boomerangs in mind-bending ways, such as having the capacity to actually stun enemies and retrieve far-away items in otherwise unreachable places. Also, the homely looking wooden boomerang also comes back to you no matter where you go: in other words, you can literally walk away from it, toward it, even bee-line diagonally across the screen to escape it; but, like a loyal domesticated pet or that psychotic ex that always manages to get your new phone number, it will always come back to you.
All of this, of course, would not be noteworthy on its own. In order to enjoy a game like The Legend of Zelda (or pretty much any video game, ever), you obviously need to go in with a healthy level of disbelief. No, that's not what strikes me as absurd about Zelda's "wooden" boomerang. What truly insults the bystander's intelligence is the later acquisition of the "magical boomerang."
The magical boomerang is a little bit anti-climactic in that there really isn't anything--other than the aforementioned disregard for physical restrictions--magical about it. The magical boomerang gets down with all the homing-missile, item retrieving, enemy-stunning antics of the wooden boomerang. The only difference between the two is that the magical boomerang flies a full screen length as opposed to the wooden boomerang's half screen. That's it. It still inflicts no damage on enemies. It isn't even any faster.
So, what the creators of Zelda are trying to tell us is that it is perfectly reasonable to believe that an ordinary, everyday boomerang carved from ordinary wood is capable of astonishing feats; the only reason it would ever be necessary to even bring magic into the equation is to explain the cosmic impossibility that a boomerang could ever fly for an entire screen length.
Because I blindly trust in the scientific conclusions of Nintendo developers, I have instructed Mike Forest to fashion me a wooden boomerang. Though we do not have access to magic at our apartment, I am perfectly happy settling for one with mildly limited range, as that will be the only drawback. Once this is done, I am going to quit my shitty job and move to a small town in the quaint suburbs, where I will find gainful employment as the on-call "cat-in-tree" guy at the local fire department. It will be a lucrative endeavor for sure.
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