someone help me
I wish I could take credit for this one, but this RANT is compliments of Comedian Patton Oswalt, and was published in the December/January issue of GIANT magazine (thanks for the copy Fuel Detroit!). I thought it deserved a little attention…
I have friends in their thirties who have decided, out of desperation or a childish fear of death, that they’re 22 years old forever. They want the music loud. They want the conversation shouted. And they want the silent moments when they’re alone with their thoughts kept at bay.
Idiots. I can’t wait to be an old man. I am an old man. I’m in revolt against my own youth 50 years ahead of my time. But I’d enjoy being in my thirties a lot more if I weren’t surrounded by so many people in their forties trying to appear as if they were still in their twenties.
I don’t want to hear the inane half conversations on people’s cell phones. I don’t want to hear the inane full conversations when the dimwits get together, which are little more than strung-together catchphrases and punch line from TV shows and movies. Than you, iPod- God’s Conversation Avoider.
It would be fine if people knew who to talk on cell phones at a conversational level. Or if people knew how to have conversations anymore. People scream when they talk. They bray and whine and bark as if there’s a boom mike recording their every word, and a hidden camera capturing the amazing Indie Film That Is Their Lives.
And no, you smug dumbass, I’m not anti-cell phone, or anti-Starbucks or anti-anything you’re “anti” because you heard a British bassist bitching about it in a magazine that you’re the only one cool enough to read. I like technology, progress, convenience and money. And so do you. Please get over the Myth of Yourselves, hipsters, because no ones’ writing your biography. I can’t tell you how many friends I have who apologize for having a cell phone or over-explain the hours they spend on the Internet.
Guess what? No one cares. You’re not that interesting or unique. You’re not that cultural touchstone for anything. Stop over-thinking every vintage concert T-shirt you wear, or wondering what kind of “statement” you make if you wear Nike ACGs or Chuck Taylors. Relax - you’re surrounded by narcissists exactly like you, so no one’s paying attention to a single thing you do or say. Isn’t that comforting? So stop defending the integrity you didn’t have to begin with, because selling out is the new street cred.
Didn’t you know that the counterculture’s in permanent red shift? Double-chinned ex-heroin addicts, balding hipsters and saggy-armed ex-rave chicks lounge around, sneering at how bad TV and movies and music and President Hilton are, checking their e-mail and seeing if anything’s been updated on Salon.com. Being disdainful has become a full-time occupation for the too-cool-to-care elite. Know what the enemy’s been doing? They’ve been awake since dawn, pumping away on the treadmill and taking Krav Maga class while not hung-over and are getting ready to carve up the world for themselves. The Republicans have seized the entire goddamn day right out from under you. You’re doomed.
Here’s a scene from a screenplay I’m finishing up right before I blow my brains out:
Int. - hi-tech penthouse - Irvine, CA - morning
A sweaty, toned Republican Douche-Nozzle is on his cell phone. We split screen, and he’s talking to a Blonde Conservative Skeeze.
Republican Douche-Nozzle: Hey Cindy. Just hopped off the elliptical trainer. Let’s get some egg white omelets and buckwheat pancakes before we continue ruining everything for everyone!
Conservative Skeeze: Bush rocks! I hate fags!
CUT TO:
Int - stinkpit apartment - Silver Lake, CA - dusk
A 41 year old pretending he’s still a 23-year-old skateboarder is sprawled on a secondhand couch, talking on a cell phone which he almost never uses because people who own cell phones are sell-out dupes Old copies of Adbusters are piled on a TV, which he watches constantly to remind himself what a lame-o wasteland television is, especially shows like Jerry Springer, The O’Reilly Factor, According to Jim and The Simple Life, which he and his awesomely hip friends never miss and can’t believe get such huge ratings.
He’s 51 minutes into a rambling conversation with his 39-year-old buddy.
Pathetic 41-year-old: Soooooooo, anyway….
Split screen with an even more pathetic 39-year-old in his equally crappy Los Feliz apartment. The 39-year-old is currently finishing up a lengthy myspace.com blog entry (his 11th) about how lame Paris Hilton is. He wears, in a cool, ironic way, a faded Journey concert T-shirt which cost $85.
39-year-old: Uh, yeah.
41-year-old: Same shit, different day huh?
39-year-old: (with brilliant, self-mocking cynicism)
That’s hot.
41-year-old: Gotta make this quick before my piece-of-crap cell phone gives me brain cancer.
39-year-old: Did you read that thing in The Baffler about how Cheney and Halliburton own a huge stake in the MRI industry, which gives them a direct incentive to keep cell phones on the market and give people brain cancer?
41-year-old: A friend of my brother read it and told him about it and he told me.
39-year-old: Fuckin’ idiots out there.
41-year-old: Fuckin’ sheeple.
39-year-old: You know what we should do? Let’s go to the mall, check out some of the sheeple, and then go see the new Will Smith movie, to reinforce how and hollow Hollywood is.
41-year-old: Sounds like a plan. Did you TiVo that rerun of Saturday Night Lame last night?
39-year-old: Jessica Simpson’s a moron.
CUT TO:
Mel Gibson being elected Pope.
I have friends in their thirties who have decided, out of desperation or a childish fear of death, that they’re 22 years old forever. They want the music loud. They want the conversation shouted. And they want the silent moments when they’re alone with their thoughts kept at bay.
Idiots. I can’t wait to be an old man. I am an old man. I’m in revolt against my own youth 50 years ahead of my time. But I’d enjoy being in my thirties a lot more if I weren’t surrounded by so many people in their forties trying to appear as if they were still in their twenties.
I don’t want to hear the inane half conversations on people’s cell phones. I don’t want to hear the inane full conversations when the dimwits get together, which are little more than strung-together catchphrases and punch line from TV shows and movies. Than you, iPod- God’s Conversation Avoider.
It would be fine if people knew who to talk on cell phones at a conversational level. Or if people knew how to have conversations anymore. People scream when they talk. They bray and whine and bark as if there’s a boom mike recording their every word, and a hidden camera capturing the amazing Indie Film That Is Their Lives.
And no, you smug dumbass, I’m not anti-cell phone, or anti-Starbucks or anti-anything you’re “anti” because you heard a British bassist bitching about it in a magazine that you’re the only one cool enough to read. I like technology, progress, convenience and money. And so do you. Please get over the Myth of Yourselves, hipsters, because no ones’ writing your biography. I can’t tell you how many friends I have who apologize for having a cell phone or over-explain the hours they spend on the Internet.
Guess what? No one cares. You’re not that interesting or unique. You’re not that cultural touchstone for anything. Stop over-thinking every vintage concert T-shirt you wear, or wondering what kind of “statement” you make if you wear Nike ACGs or Chuck Taylors. Relax - you’re surrounded by narcissists exactly like you, so no one’s paying attention to a single thing you do or say. Isn’t that comforting? So stop defending the integrity you didn’t have to begin with, because selling out is the new street cred.
Didn’t you know that the counterculture’s in permanent red shift? Double-chinned ex-heroin addicts, balding hipsters and saggy-armed ex-rave chicks lounge around, sneering at how bad TV and movies and music and President Hilton are, checking their e-mail and seeing if anything’s been updated on Salon.com. Being disdainful has become a full-time occupation for the too-cool-to-care elite. Know what the enemy’s been doing? They’ve been awake since dawn, pumping away on the treadmill and taking Krav Maga class while not hung-over and are getting ready to carve up the world for themselves. The Republicans have seized the entire goddamn day right out from under you. You’re doomed.
Here’s a scene from a screenplay I’m finishing up right before I blow my brains out:
Int. - hi-tech penthouse - Irvine, CA - morning
A sweaty, toned Republican Douche-Nozzle is on his cell phone. We split screen, and he’s talking to a Blonde Conservative Skeeze.
Republican Douche-Nozzle: Hey Cindy. Just hopped off the elliptical trainer. Let’s get some egg white omelets and buckwheat pancakes before we continue ruining everything for everyone!
Conservative Skeeze: Bush rocks! I hate fags!
CUT TO:
Int - stinkpit apartment - Silver Lake, CA - dusk
A 41 year old pretending he’s still a 23-year-old skateboarder is sprawled on a secondhand couch, talking on a cell phone which he almost never uses because people who own cell phones are sell-out dupes Old copies of Adbusters are piled on a TV, which he watches constantly to remind himself what a lame-o wasteland television is, especially shows like Jerry Springer, The O’Reilly Factor, According to Jim and The Simple Life, which he and his awesomely hip friends never miss and can’t believe get such huge ratings.
He’s 51 minutes into a rambling conversation with his 39-year-old buddy.
Pathetic 41-year-old: Soooooooo, anyway….
Split screen with an even more pathetic 39-year-old in his equally crappy Los Feliz apartment. The 39-year-old is currently finishing up a lengthy myspace.com blog entry (his 11th) about how lame Paris Hilton is. He wears, in a cool, ironic way, a faded Journey concert T-shirt which cost $85.
39-year-old: Uh, yeah.
41-year-old: Same shit, different day huh?
39-year-old: (with brilliant, self-mocking cynicism)
That’s hot.
41-year-old: Gotta make this quick before my piece-of-crap cell phone gives me brain cancer.
39-year-old: Did you read that thing in The Baffler about how Cheney and Halliburton own a huge stake in the MRI industry, which gives them a direct incentive to keep cell phones on the market and give people brain cancer?
41-year-old: A friend of my brother read it and told him about it and he told me.
39-year-old: Fuckin’ idiots out there.
41-year-old: Fuckin’ sheeple.
39-year-old: You know what we should do? Let’s go to the mall, check out some of the sheeple, and then go see the new Will Smith movie, to reinforce how and hollow Hollywood is.
41-year-old: Sounds like a plan. Did you TiVo that rerun of Saturday Night Lame last night?
39-year-old: Jessica Simpson’s a moron.
CUT TO:
Mel Gibson being elected Pope.