Wednesday, May 12, 2004

unrequited mawkish schmaltzy neophytic fop

I was invited to go see an open mic tomorrow night. I’ve been debating whether or not to go. Open mics, particularly those that involve reading short stories or “fiction,” are always a form of therapy for the author. Let’s assume for a moment that what is being read is of quality. (By quality I mean that the reading does not make one cringe or cry in terror, nor does it compel one to jot down score marks that track mistakes and clichés like a trappist monk scribbling away at La Trappe.)

The performance is a determination of what the author chooses to reveal about himself. There is an argument that what is being read is mere fiction; I do not believe fiction can ever exist. A child prodigy can play the piano perfectly in all technical aspects, but without living through life and experiencing the romance, depression, disdain, and joy needed to sustain a Beethoven, the song she plays is an empty shell. Fiction is the same way. The names and places may change, but the underlying emotion must have been experienced if it is to be believed. This makes all fiction autobiographical.

The man doing the open mic tomorrow is very tiresome; he’s one of those pseudo intellectuals. Pseudo intellectuals are the kind that take offense when someone says something that is contrary to what they believe in. I learned a lot from him. He thought he was teaching me things, like the technical word for sewing. Instead, duly since most intellectuals are intensely stupid, he tempted me to poke holes in his façade and whittle away the crap from the credible. He taught me what happens when you’re too arrogant to believe in the magic of other people—you end up alone and protected. I used a word he didn’t know—addelpated—this offended him and he became angry that I knew a word he didn’t. This is a clear indication of a pseudo intellectual. Real intellectuals are never offended by intelligence. Later, at a card game, he chose an obscure word to test out on me—he believed this to be “revenge.” Pretty bold aspirations. I have relieved myself of attendance most elegantly. I refuse to go.

I just finished watching Mambo Italliano. What a great movie! Who hasn’t been Angelo at one point. Tasty menzes throughout the movie, hilarious portraits of family life. They were very similar to another Purple Unicorn on the Front Lawn Family I knew many years ago. They weren’t nearly as interesting or attractive, but they weren’t paid to be themselves. I shied away from the movie at first—I refuse to believe romantic comedies will ever be good—think Meg “All Gums” Ryan—but this one was good. I always relate best to the unrequited mawkish schmaltzy neophytic fops anyway.

It was just a movie.


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