The Sounds of Douchebag America

I mean, yeah, like…I’ve done a lot of good in my day, but you know how I don’t like to mention it…I mean, yeah, I am a pretty successful producer who has managed to, oh, what’s the word, ‘re-define the boundaries of music as we know it,’ but…oh, I’m sorry, that’s a phrase, not a word!  Ha, I make so many silly mistakes sometimes!  It’s mostly because I’m not as smart as people think I am, in light of the fact that, you know, I’m like this big, um, oh, I guess super-important guy…it’s all pretty funny, actually.

Basically, I just didn’t know that I would get to where I am, because you know, the stuff I’d made isn’t really that good.  When I had gold and platinum records coming in, I thought, “Hey, this is ridiculous, I, uh…wow, I don’t deserve this you guys, thanks!” Or at least I didn’t think so.  Hey, I still don’t think so…but I guess they’re better judges than I am about this sort of thing, so maybe I do deserve it.  I say that because I’m not really a good judge at, you know, what would be a great record or not.  I mean, I may be this crazy successful producer, but it’s more out of luck than anything else.

This one guy, we were working on a record and he goes, “Dude, you’re just…in interviews man, you just seem so humble.”  I was, well…I was like, that line hit me like a freight train.  No one had really said that about me before, you know, that I’m like…this great, humble guy who takes his success in stride.  You know, that I’m not a braggart or something.  So I was like “Wow, thanks man…I, uh…well,” and I kind of stalled because it was actually pretty awkward.  Part of being humble is having a hard time taking compliments, so it all makes sense, I guess.  But yeah, I felt a little uncomfortable, which I do in some situations, because I’m not a perfect guy by any means, especially conversationally like that, you know?  Like, I have my flaws, for sure.  I guess awesome groundbreaking producers can’t be perfect.

I don’t know.  I just felt like the 1215-page classic really left a lot to be desired.  What exactly did Tolstoy mean with the twelve-chapter-long second part of the epilogue?  For example, “The subject of history is the life of peoples and of mankind” (1179). What does he mean by that?  He is not thorough enough in his summaries of each battle, and he was not exhaustive in describing characters’ gestures or personalities.  Take this excerpt, for example:

Being an enthusiast had become her social position, and she sometimes became enthusiastic even when she had no wish to, so as not to deceive the expectations of people who knew her.  The restrained smile that constantly played on Anna Pavlovna’s face, though it did not suit her outworn features, expressed, as it does in spoiled children, a constant awareness of her dear shortcoming, which she did not wish, could not, and found no need to correct. (4)

See what I mean?  Tolstoy is minimal, and arguably parsimonious, with his exposition.  For example: “Being an enthusiast”…what does he mean by that?  That she’s enthusiastic about something?  She’s enthused?  In what way?  My quibbles do not stop there; I have similar problems with many of the classics.  Vonnegut is not brave enough with his satire, Proust is too scared of his own memories, and Dickens doesn’t sympathize with his characters.  Oh, did you hear that I mentioned Proust?  Yeah, you know, like, Proust?  Just thought I should mention that.  Oh, and I’ve read all of them for fun, too.  Yep, for my own amusement.  Yeah.

…Anyway, I discussed this with my English advisor and he said I was trying too hard to be contrarian.  I asked him to explain, and he said, “You oppose the mainstream just for the sake of opposing it.”  Now, here’s my question: what exactly does he mean by that?  To “oppose” the “mainstream.”  What meaning could I harness from such a proclamation?  There are too many paths from which to choose.  I mentioned the exchange to my mother, and she said, “I never loved you, you’re insufferable, and you’ll never be a good writer.”  I thought to myself, “What did she mean by that?”  I knew that statement called for multi-faceted interpretation and thorough critical analysis.  Now that’s an English major’s mind, if you ask me.

I don’t know what it is about your kindness that repulses me, but there you have it.  You’re always there for a helping hand, you’re a good ear, and I know that you will take my secrets to the grave.  I can go through the list if you want the validation: compassionate, honest, intelligent, and for the most part, you’re pretty attractive.  You’re the kind of person I want to be close to for the rest of my life.  But a boyfriend?  No.  No no no.  No offense, but no.  Gross.

You know what your problem is?  You listen.  I would rather chase someone else, and then ask you for “should I-shouldn’t I?” advice, or ask you to console me (for hours, no less) when he brushes me off or tells me I’m fat.  And let me tell you, you give great advice about guys.  How could I take advantage of that great advice if I started dating you?  I mean, okay, I don’t really take advantage of your advice, because I never follow it.  But it’s still good advice.  Like we’ll talk about this hurtful, aloof guy, and regardless of how convincing your argument is to stop chasing him, there’s something about him…sigh, that scruff, you know?  If there’s anything worth emotional abuse, it’s scruff.  Which reminds me, yours is coming in quite nicely.  Not as good as his, though.

Remember the time I went totally head-over-heels for that gay friend of yours?  I can see how you’re friends with him.  You guys have similar senses of humor, similar constitutions, you guys even look the same…wow, now that I think about it, it’s kind of uncanny.  Gee, weird that I was really into him and not into you at all. I guess he had something that you didn’t.  Whoopsie!

I do declare as a prominent sophisticate, a man of high stature and reputation, that has indeed ascended from the lowest societal caste into the highest echelon of intellectual elite, and that, even if it is my upbringing rebelling against my current stature, it must be said: writing silly and dirty things on checks is quite ribald, if I may say so myself.

It is marvelous!  Oh, how titillatingly scandalous it is to write such strong, yet inconsequential, obscenities on a check!  And what reactions one gets from his butler, or his Whole Foods cashier, indeed, even his landlord at his beach-front condominium!  How one may gaze upon another as if he’s committed the utmost maladroit folly; I do declare it is a miniature comedy of manners.  Why, the fleeting moment wherein one realizes the violation of societal protocol is reminiscent of Noel Coward’s delightful Hay Fever; aye, what a splendid night at the thee-at-ruh!

The vivid, almost Proustian memories summoned upon my mind when I write anything from “boobs” to “taint” right above the account number to one of my plethora of trust funds is staggering.  The amusement is almost stifling to my albeit fragile lungs.  How I yearn to offend thy delicate sensibilities with just a mere allusion to female genitalia, be it labia, hymen, or my personal favorite, ‘man in the boat.’  Oh, how ribald I dare say, I cannot repeat it enough!