It's Monday night and already I can feel the noose of this week tightening around my tender, albeit manly, neck. I've filled my belly (soup straight out of the can, leftover breadsticks and some apple cider that I think may have turned the bend into something one might find in a bathroom still) and I just finished my French homework, which was like having a feral raccoon claw its way out of my entrails. Maybe that was the soup and the breadsticks and the cider. My roommate is off being studious somewhere; he's in a bioanthropology class and hasn't yet remembered that, uh, I got a degree in anthropology and could probably be of use to him. Oh, not that I hold that against him; more time, indeed, for me to screw around on here, being utterly transparent and random. Anyway, I, with closed eyes, randomly chose a CD from my rack and it happens to be one of my instrumental movie soundtracks. I am now being wooed by James Horner (of Titanic soundtrack fame...or notoriety?) and Charlotte Church on this, the soundtrack of A Beautiful Mind. I have dozens of these soundtracks. I used to wonder why I was so drawn to them, but then I thought:
It's because you are a bug-eating, flannel-wearing Turkish-speaking freak.
I took out my Ouija board ("Jim" and I are no longer on speaking terms; he thought I made him look too much like the moron he is, or more rightly, was) and asked of it:
Great, all-knowing Ouija: how is it that Paris Hilton has not yet de-evolved into a sac of fashionably pink protoplasm? Also, why is it that I collect instrumental movie soundtracks?
My fingers trembled on the little movy-aroundy thing and a clap of thunder caromed across the corn-encrusted plains. The room filled with the smell of cat-litter and that nasty fish smell that soaks into your clothes whenever you go to a Vietnamese grocery store. Nuoc mam, my ass.
The movy-aroundy thing began to lurch across the board. I was then introduced to "Harold", who apparently had ticked off a Tong member enough to have ended up as the "#7 Specierr", Chicken Chop Suey, in a dimly-lit Canal Street restuarant.
"Harold": S...o...m...e...b...i...g...f...a...t...t...o...u...r...i...s...t...l...a...d...y...a...t...e...m...e.
Me: Ok, enough of your problems, "Harold." Tell me what I want and I will let you reminisce about passing through the colon of a porcine New Jerseyan who wore a fanny pack in Manhattan.
"Harold": I...h...a...t...e...y...o...u...s...o...b...a...d.
Me: Stuff it. Now tell me the truth.
"Harold": I...t...i...s...b...e...c...a...u...s...e...y...o...u...a...r...e...a...b...i...g...g...i...r...l.
Me: Now "Harold", play nice. It's not my fault you ended up smothered in soy sauce.
"Harold": W...e...e...p...i...n...g.
"Harold" went on to tell me that I enjoyed instrumental movie soundtracks because I enjoy having my emotions manipulated. I think he has a point. Movie soundtracks are meant to enhance the film, and in doing so, they often become dramatic self-entities. Now, we're not talking about tripe like the soundtrack to Miss Congeniality or other such rubbish; nay, Schindler's List and other such ilk. One of my favorites is Beyond Rangoon, which manages to capture not only a Burmese feel but also the profound sadness of the current geopolitical situation. It's really something. Now, if you are a good boy or girl, I have made two mixes of my favorite instrumental movie soundtrack songs, and I could probably be persuaded to send you them.
Hahahaha, like any of you care. It's just me, alone, supporting the instrumental movie soundtrack industry. Yes, just me! You fools wouldn't know a good movie soundtrack if it were a rabid mandrill rending your flesh asunder from your bones!
Ooooh, my meds just wore off. *glugging sound as water is taken with two small, purplish pills*
Anyway, I am going now to the world of Dreamy Happy Places, where tonight I hope to not have the dream about being drafted into the Army and being sent to Iraq to be beheaded again.
Oh, and PS, "Harold" says that Paris Hilton hasn't reverted to her ancestral form because of all the plastic surgery. He said that a 9.2 Richter earthquake, whose epicenter was her "bungalow" in Beverly Hills, wouldn't stand a chance in doing anything more than turning her into a giant piece of Tupperware. What a hussy.
Goodnight, Indiana, and to my people, flung as you are like stars in the clear night sky across this country and the world. I miss you all.
Domonic (Demir)
1 comment:
Dom -- your funniest (and most revealing) entry yet! Jeff and I are getting a kick out of reading your daily entries. We'll give you a call. We're still recovering from our cruise!
Post a Comment