Friends, Enemies, and Internet Losers: I have returned.

Music and the Pathetic Soul

*Note: This piece was written for the express purpose of finding something to complain about that had absolutely nothing to do with Barak Obama or George Bush. BSC

 

I’ve always loved Mozart’s music but kind of hated him. It’s a Salieri thing, I’m sure, but the fact remains. How can I hate Mozart you ask (okay, you probably didn’t but the article kind of stalls here without the rhetorical device)? Very simply, the little turd accomplished more before he turned 10 than I have in 36 years. That, and every time I turn on CBC radio, the little shit rubs my face in it.

So we can’t all be musical geniuses. I figure most of us came to that conclusion at a very early age. What of it? There are plenty of lousy musicians out there to gloat over. The problem is a good portion of them are making more money than me. Lady Gaga might be easy on the eyes but her effect on the ears certainly leaves something to be desired. If both good and bad music brings on a sense of self-loathing, where I am to turn?

I can’t turn to the movies because the musical scores always evoke the image of a blind paraplegic winning the Boston Marathon in slow-motion. If your character gets a piece of music that has horns, strings, kettle drums, a choir, and a cymbal crash (such as Hans Zimmer’s “Chevaliers de Sangreal” from The Da Vinci Code), you know you’ve just found the tomb of Mary Magdaline. Of course, I could take solace in knowing that the only person who dreams of being a blind paraplegic winning the Boston Marathon in slow-motion is a blind paraplegic and I should thank my lucky stars that I’m not, but it doesn’t help. Likewise, the existence of Mary Magdaline is a myth and any “facts” that might prove she once walked the streets of Jerusalem are tenuous at best.

I suppose I could end this little diatribe by saying that, although they aren’t Mozart, whoever wrote the score to the movie I’m watching is also more talented than I am. Lame.

However, I will end this diatribe by saying that as I write these little effusions I do have my own little score: “The Bitch is Back” by Elton John and Bernie Taupin.

 

davincicodepuba

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