The Vice President Shot Someone In the Face With a Shotgun

Dear Blog,
So much happened, so very much happened during your long absence, that it almost hurts the spirit to contemplate summing it up. Peter Benchley died, and the Vice President shot someone in the face with a shotgun. And we were apart. We weren’t able to commune, as you knew we wanted to. We weren’t able to make the jokes about the Vice President shooting someone in the face with a shotgun. And those jokes got made by others. And those others are reaping the rewards of what is potentially the funniest thing that has happened in America this year.

My professor said, “it’s a tough thing, to realize that at my age, Beethoven had already been dead for several years. I mean, it’s one thing when it’s Mozart, and then Schubert. But Beethoven, someone who was not considered to have died young…..I’m way past the time when my “late period” should have begun, I’ll just say that.”

I have a similar recurring comparative thought, only mine is with Sir Paul McCartney. Paul McCartney was only 27 when the Beatles ENDED. I totally thought about it when I turned 27. Like, “well, that’s it.”

“you can still map your life onto paul mccartney’s life periods,” said Gary, “like, ‘oh, I’m 31, the same age as Paul McCartney when he started Wings,’ or ‘Oh, I’m 35, the same age as Paul McCartney when he did that duet with Michael Jackson.”
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modes turning into keys = 17th century
deep excitement about keys = 18th century
breaking the rules of keys = 19th century
deep excitement about breaking the rules of keys = 20th century
“over it” = now
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I wrote a paper about vampires and volcanoes. I read Derrida. I sought desperately to understand Derrida. I read “Derrida for Dummies,” which was only slightly less unintelligible. I watched a documentary about Derrida. Derrida getting a haircut. Derrida losing his keys. Derrida putting marmelade on his toast. Derrida telling a very upset South African college student that there can be no such thing as forgiveness.

I listened to the Symphonie Fantastique so many times that I think i dreamed the idee fixe last night. I said, “Berlioz revived the dies irae like Frankenstein revived his creature, giving a theme in the cultural unconscious live flesh in which to walk.”

Gary said: “you should write your paper about the part where the tubas sound like farts.” How we laughed. Wouldn’t it be great to write that paper. Then, wouldn’t you know it? One of my classmates wrote their paper on the part where the tubas sound like farts. He even made a point of illustrating how when it goes down to the A-Gflat, that is the most fartiest possible interval. I was so jealous. So insanely jealous. How I wanted to write about the part where the tubas sound like farts.

The moral of the story is: you have to listen to this stuff on period instruments. Because 20th century tubas don’t sound like farts at all. And when you say “isn’t this a hilarious piece?” to someone, they don’t get it, because it doesn’t sound the way he wanted it to. Which was like farts

I took a German midterm. It was very highschool. “BUT I’M NOT FINISHED!!” we cried as the figurative bell rang. “Ja, ze time is finished, you must hand in zis test,” said the stand-in professor. I fanned my sweating face with one hand while the other hand frantically flipped through the enormous dictionary. What the hell does “nach” mean in this context? Oh dear sweet baby lord.

Later, I practiced translating a Goethe poem. It did not go well. “Oh bird, for where in Heaven why?” does not sound like something the great master would have written.
Peter Benchley. The gentle spirit of Peter Benchley, who never a fly did he hurt in all his days, except for the cultural legacy of all sharks, which he hurt terribly and later regretted.

Peter Benchley died, and the Vice President shot someone in the face with a shotgun. Has there ever been a week marred by two more opposite events? The saddest event I can think of, coupled with the funniest? It would only be funnier if the person he shot in the face were Wolf Blitzer, mainly because Wolf Blitzer is a much funnier name than whatever that turkey-huntin’ lawyer’s name is/was. Also funny would be if the person whose face he shot was Rick Santorum, mainly just because I’d like to see it. There’s no way those two could ever be friends, though. Santorum is way too earnest. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: If you go quail shootin’ with Dick Cheney, not only do you deserve what you get, but you should have known better.