Posts by MGarczynski:
The Swingin’ Sounds of Nazi Germany
April 29th, 2012This newly unearthed document suggests that American pop music of the 60s was a widespread and conscious effort to co-opt the music of the Third Reich, a theory long held by experts in Rambling Unintelligibly in Nursing Homes.
Billboard Top 10 Singles – Germany 1942
1. A Whiter Shade of Skin
2. Hey Juden
3. Blue-Eyed Girl
4. Luger, Luger
5. I Heard It Through the Barbed Wire
6. Born To Be Wild(ly Superior)
7. Light Mein Führer
8. Yellow U-Boat
9. Everyday People (But Not All of Them)
10. These Boots Are Made for Goosestepping
Names For Our Band
April 19th, 2012
A Band
Pros:
-Shows our reverence for the far superior The Band, who had every right to consider themselves the only musical collective.
-Self-referential. I wouldn’t go so far as to say it’s totally “meta,” but yeah, it’s pretty “meta.” Like Inception.
Cons:
-People might think we’re just a The Band cover band. Come to think of it, not a bad idea.
-Not enough like Inception.
A Band Within A Band
Pros:
-Not as bland as “A Band”
-Not just self-referential, but referential to Inception. So it’s like referencing two things at once. Like Inception.
Cons:
-Having different levels of band would make band dynamics pretty complicated.
-People would just think we’re covering a The Band cover band.
Hans & The Zimmermans
Pros:
-Bob Dylan’s real last name was Zimmerman, so it’s like we’re Bob Dylan’s backing band. Like The Band.
-There’s more than one thing in the name. Like Inception.
Cons:
-Hans is a pretty uncommon name, and I was planning on fronting this band. Unless we can get the real Hans Zimmer to front our band. Then I’m cool with it.
-People would just expect us to Édith Piaf really really slow.
Levonardo & The DiCaprios
Pros:
-Named after Levon Helm (drummer for The Band) and the star of Inception (who frequently collaborates with Martin Scorsese (director of The Band’s concert film “The Last Waltz”)), this title combines all our greatest influences into one catchy title.
-My name is actually Levonardo.
Cons:
-The con we’ll pull when we implant ourselves into the hearts and minds of countless fans with our dream-penetrating roots rock.
A Mariner’s Tale
April 8th, 2012
I haven’t been wharfside. Nay, not since the storm. The storm done changed things, y’see. Done changed me. I want you t’listen close to my tale, boy. Because what that storm done to me was somethin’ serious. Y’see boy, the storm done made me a gay.
Yes, a gay. A regular ol’ jack o’ the jollies. You may have noticed the way I scampered and skipped down her to greet ya, but I didn’t always walk with this pep in my step. Didn’t always appreciate the way smooth vocal stylings of Bette Midler mingled with the sound of the sea breeze out my window. Didn’t always own the largest collection of Midler LP’s from here to Boothbay Harbor. But I’ll be damned if I’m givin’ that up now.
Before the storm, boy, I had grit. I had a standin’ in this here town. Not a one could hitch a rig faster than yours truly. But after that terrible squall, I became listless and my mind turned to wanderin’, as is the way of us tinsel-ticklin’ patsies. I stopped a-pinin’ for the sea and started a-pinin’ for those fit young shiphands and the boys on the wait staff of the Jolly Roger. The scent of the salty brine brought me no content. I much preferred the delicate aroma of white lavender bath salt, and the way they exfoliate my weather-wearied pores.
Ne’er will I forget that fateful night. We was out Nova Scotia way when the skies opened up somethin’ fierce. Took the whole crew to pull in the traps as the waves pounded against the hull as one pounds his beloved. Y’ever seen a man swept up by his britches and dragged into the murky depths of the sea? One minute I was wavin’ at Percy to come inside from the bulkhead hatch, the next he was servin’ as Poseidon’s doxie boy, gettin’ sodomized by a trident twenty ways to Tuesday. Bless his soul.
Of the rest of the ordeal, I can’t rightfully say I remember much. What I do recall is me an’ the crew huddlin’ close in the galley. With our clothes in one pile, our shiverin’ bodies in another, we awaited our fate. The restless waters tossed our boat like salad. A bolt of lightnin’ sensually struck the sensitive masthead. A deafenin’ clap of thunder stood our fleshly bones on end. The ship leaned portside, and all o’ the sudden I was swimmin’ in the murky depths of another man.
Well, sonny, ‘at is my tale. ‘Tis been a blessin’ and a curse, bein’ a bum-buggerin’ ninny and all. A curse in that it done took away my livelihood. My friends and family done deserted me and I’ve got no one left. A blessin’ in that I no longer have to worry about the Freudian implications of heartily suckin’ on this here pipe all day. And I can be proud to call myself a seaman. No use bein’ a homophonephobe.
D’ya get it, boy? Homophonephobe. Y’can have that one.
Frommer’s Guide to The Friend Zone
April 8th, 2012
The Park
Set amidst the backdrop of leafless trees and an overcast sky, the park is a great place to remember that one moment you shared on the swing set this past summer, just a week before she started her new job and met Shithead Darren. A favorite spot among smiling couples who are unfazed by the cold wind and utter meaningless of existence.
Darren’s Birthday Party
Taking place some time Shithead Darren hopefully never lives to see, this festival marks the anniversary of the coming of the antichrist. While there, make note of way she touches your shoulder when she asks if you’re having fun, and be sure to take advantage of the local wines and liqueurs.
Victoria’s Secret
Take a stroll through aisles of lacy pink underwear as she tries to pick out the perfect belated “gift” for Shithead. It is customary not to imagine her naked at any time during your visit, nor would it be advised to profess your feelings for her when she mentions that SD seems a little distant lately. Take mental pictures of her expression when the saleswoman refers to you as her boyfriend. Look back on them for years to come and wonder what the hell kind of game she was playing.
YouPorn.com
Hours of fun to be had at this remote site searching for a girl who looks virtually identical to her. Once found, freeze frame on a closeup of her smiling face. Ignore the glaring sense that you will never make her feel as happy as her slutty doppelgänger seems in that moment. Gently stroke the screen as you break down to Ray Charles’ “You Don’t Know Me.”
Her Window
Accessed only by a steep drunken climb up a fire escape, Her Window is the perfect place to take in the view of her sleeping figure. Recommended only for the extremely desperate, as it is easy to let one’s better judgement and pride get in the way of a grand adventure!
A Typewriting Monkey Has an Existential Crisis
April 1st, 2012
Monkey Space-Time 112.367.793.0244
Didn’t get up today, as my ceaseless wakefulness prevents me from ever not being up. Sky was black, ground black, everything on the x, y, and z plane of the universe black. Only light was from work lamps, shining on our standard-issue Smith Coronas. Typed and thought about love.
Monkey Space-Time 112.367.793.0253
Clive called to me over cubicle wall today. Said he was starting a religion to deal with dreariness of spending life a typewriting ape in a never-ending sea of aimlessly typewriting apes. He’s writing bible now. Prophesies coming of the Chosen One, or first ape to type the Golden Words. Clive has no way to disseminate bible to the others, but he takes comfort knowing that at least one of us will stumble upon the same sequence of characters some time in the undying universe’s existence.
Monkey Space-Time 112.367.793.0259
Thought: It has come to my attention that this may not be first time an ape has written this exact diary. This exact character sequence may have been typed three, four, infinite times already. Originality and individuality are illusions. Any hope of being “Chosen One” slowly fading.
Monkey Space-Time 112.367.793.0266
Found something in my work today.
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What does it mean? Am I king of infinite space? Am I Chosen One?
Monkey Space-Time 112.367.793.0278
Was wondering. How did I learn how to read? How did I learn to reason? I guess out of infinite apes, at least one of us has to have stumbled upon those abilities. Maybe that means I really am speci4D&∑ s†490Î8 adπf#sgluukm.1′ds,¿dap..n1n kldask!!!1%m
Monkey Space-Time 112.367.793.0284
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The Beatles Make A Snow Penis
February 26th, 2012
Matt Garczynski ’14Roberto Benigni Gives a Eulogy
February 13th, 2012Ho ho! Welcome, welcome! My friends! Please, sit. Stand. Dance if-a you
please. Make love to the people. This is a day to celebrate, no? Today we must celebrate the joy that is life.
Life – what a sad and beautiful thing it is! A poet once say, “It is a-sad because it ends. Beautiful because it ends too.” Ah, and the life of Richard, my friend, his life was a-very beautiful. I did not a-know him, but I a-love him very much.
When I first pass the, how do you say, funeral home ten minutes ago, I say to my driver, “This was a very a-special man. I love this man.” I see you people – Mrs. Richard, the children, the grandchildren, the grand-grandchildren – you come to say goodbye and to give back the joy he a-gave to you. What a wonderful gift he a-gave, this joy and love to the world. I imagine all the times he make beautiful love to the bella donna Mrs. Richard, and I bring tears to know that there is so much love in the world. I want to be, how do you say, this much love in my world. Like Richard.
But now he kick the bucket. This is the way he crumble the cookie.
When I was a boy, in small village in Italy, my Mama cook for us the chocolate cakes on our birthday. This was a-the best chocolate cakes in all of Italy. Like a beautiful sunset, they taste. In Italy we say, “merda di angeli – the shit of the angels” they a-taste so good. One day my Mama die. I love my Mama Giorgia. I love a-her cakes. I love a-Richard.
I write a poem for Richard. It is a poem in English. I put my heart to make this poem. And now I am sad. It is a sad poem, so I burn it now. My apologies to you. I must remember to never be sad in this world, because there is so much love. “Love is the beauty of the soul,” St. Augustine say. He is right. Love is a-beauty. Beauty is a-love. Of the soul. No? Yes.
Now, to show you the joy and beauty of this day, I make a puppet show for you. You have heard of famous Italian Luigi Galvani, no? Please, open the box. I show you now.
A Pressing Question
February 5th, 2012
Listen, Emily, I know we’ve only been dating for a month or so, and we haven’t even kissed, but I was hoping I could ask you something. It’s a question I’ve been turning over in my head for a while, and I thought now would be the perfect time to ask. And you the perfect person to ask. So here goes. Do girls really pee out their butts?
I only ask you because I’ve never been sure. Scotty Bilfeld told me that they do in the first grade, and I have been presented with literally zero evidence to the contrary. I have no sisters, I have a mother who pees on her own, and the topic has never come up in health class. It’s like Ms. Raskin just assumes we know that basic fact coming into the class and glosses over it the whole semester. And I’m too embarrassed to ask.
It’s not that I don’t know other options exist. That’s what has been confusing me lately. So the vagina is there, right? And they didn’t want us to know about it as kids for whatever reason you don’t tell kids about vaginas. So what if the whole thing about girls peeing out out their butts was just so we wouldn’t start asking about vaginas? What if we all just assumed girls peed out their butts because we just knew that they couldn’t pee out their pee pees? Because we knew that much — we knew they didn’t have pee pees. I mean, if you don’t have a pee pee, where else are you gonna pee from? Were we expected to theorize about a whole other hole existing down there? Presented with the knowledge we had, Occam’s Razor was clearly in favor of the butt theory.
So if you do happen to pee out your vagina, where is it coming from? I get that you can put a penis in there, and that’s what presses the button that speed-dials the stork, but is there another hole in there for pee? Or is it the same exact hole? Because that would just be gross!
What do you mean you don’t speed-dial the stork?! Then how the fuck does he know when to bring you a baby? Huh, Emily?! Don’t mindfuck me like this! I’m embarrassed enough as it is!
Wait, where are you going? Emily! Don’t go! I thought we were finally going to put our whirly twirlies in the tot tot!
Adam, After Taking Some WGST Courses and Getting Really Into Palindromes, Apologizes to Eve for Laying the Blame of Original Sin on Her
February 5th, 2012
“Madam, I’m Adam”
For Eve,
Neo-feminism’s in!
I. Me. Foe.
Never of “madam.”
-I’m Adam.
Lost MTV Show
January 29th, 2012
After a decade of running exclusively music-related content, MTV was set to diversify its lineup in the early nineties. Before the network finally saw success with The Real World, more than a few flops had come and gone. Tapes of these shows have either been lost or destroyed. For twenty years, these programs had been successfully torn from the pages of television history. Until now.
What follows is a transcript from Appraizzle, MTV’s short-lived attempt at tapping into the auctioneering craze of the time.
———
Title sequence. Brightly colored swirly shapes shift positions slightly to the beat of a saxophone-laden dance jam.
Cut to:
Host Chet, 31, decked in a lime green helmet, matching elbow pads, and a neon pink sweatshirt with rolled-up sleeves, skateboards to center frame and awkwardly drags his back heel to stop. Someone hands him a mic from offscreen.
Chet: Hey homeboys and homegirls of TV land, welcome to Appraizzle – your number one source for all things gnarly. I’m your host Chet Walkman and this week we’re in Chicago, Illinois showing the Windy City what’s punk and what’s junk. Let’s get kickin’!
Chet does a high front kick and runs to the center of the auction house floor. Darryl, 17 with poor skin and a peach fuzz mustache, stands in front of a video game console.
Chet: Whoa, Darryl, what do we have here?
Darryl: Um, this is a Nintendo Entertainment System. It’s four years old and I’m looking to get rid of it. I might buy a car or something.
Chet: Anything special about this particular Nintendo, Darryl?
Darryl: Yeah, well, about a year ago I won a contest from the radio to hang with Sammy Hagar for a day. But he was too hungover to go anywhere, so we just sat and played this Nintendo the whole time.
Chet: Way cool! Sounds like this is a hot item. Girls?
Two models, who can only be described as “bodacious”, strut onscreen. One is wearing a sexy Sherlock Holmes outfit, the other is a sexy nurse. Sexy Sherlock Holmes closely scrutinizes the item with a magnifying glass. The nurse listens to it with a stethoscope that she wears incorrectly.
Chet: The verdict?
The sexy nurse whispers into Chet’s ear.
Chet: Whoa, ladies, he’s only seventeen years old!
Darryl giggles and tries to hide an erection. He fails.
Chet: I mean, it’s punk! The item is totally punk!
Darryl: Wicked! So how much is it?
Chet: A punk item like that officially snags you a free gift card to Friendly’s! And as you know, “There’s no place like Friendly’s.”
Darryl: Wait, that’s it? Can I just keep my NES?
Chet: Sorry brother, but I got to cut you off there. We’ll get things kickin’ [does a front kick] once more after this commercial break.
—
Cut to:
Chet stands beside Kimberly, 16. Behind her is an acoustic guitar leaning on a stand.
Chet: Hey, welcome back to Appraizzle, I’m here with Kimberly and she’s going to show us this righteous git box she’s got here. Tell us about it, Kimberly.
Kimberly: This is an antique Oscar Schmidt blues guitar I got from my grandpa, who was a friend of Robert Johnson. Johnson is often considered the greatest blues musician of all time, and was an immense influence on countless rock musicians like Eric Clapton, Keith Richards, and Jimmy Page.
Chet: Whoa, you’re dropping a lot of names there, Kimmy. Care to tell us what makes this hunk of junk a hunk of punk?
Kimberly: Well, little is known of the enigmatic Johnson–
Chet: Radical! Girls, what do you think?
The two models walk onscreen. One is dressed as the MTV Moon Man in a skimpy and nonfunctional spacesuit. The other might be a sexy teacher? Or a prostitute? The sexy astronaut takes out some sciencey-looking instruments made out of tin foil and examines the guitar. The other licks it. They finish and whisper in Chet’s ear.
Chet: Ladies, I’m married! Whoa, I mean, this is junk! Hate to break it to you, but this item is just lame-o-rama.
Kim: Oh. Bummer.
Chet: But wait! There is a way to turn this junk into punk. Here to perform their number one hit “(Can’t Live Without Your) Love and Affection” on your guitar, here’s the boys of Nelson! Kick it [he does another front kick]!
Gunnar Nelson grabs the guitar and shoves an amplifier cable into its brittle body, cracking a makeshift input jack into the wood. Matt Nelson accompanies his brother on a Stratocaster. They do a stunning rendition of the hit single right on the floor of the auction house, which apparently has been fitted with sophisticated lighting and pyrotechnic rigs. The models dance against the Nelson brothers with gusto. The song ends with Matt and Gunnar sweatily panting and smiling, as Kimberly tries to hold back tears. She fails.
Chet: Can you say “bombdigity”?! That was killer! Keep it fresh, dudes. We’ll be right back with more Appraizzle.
Chet high fives the Nelsons.
—
Cut to:
Chet stands in front of the camera as roadies dismantle the pyrotechnic and lighting rigs.
Chet: Well that’s it for this week’s episode of Appraizzle. See you next w–
Andre: Wait.
Andre, 18, walks onscreen wearing a leather jacket and skinny jeans. His face is obscured by a shaggy Joey Ramone hairdo. He holds a small ornamental oak box.
Andre: I have something to show you.
He opens the box. Inside is a shriveled gray mass shivering against the box’s fine silk lining. On close inspection, it resembles a severely premature fetus. It blinks and whimpers.
Chet: What the–
Andre: This is the true spirit of rock n’ roll. I found him working ground crew at a Poison concert. He was cold and scared. And dying.
Chet: You want us to appraise that thing?
Andre: Yeah, my Pops is making me sell it to pay for school.
The shriveled thing lets out a faint shriek at the utterance of the word “school.”
Chet: No, no, no. Get real, kid. That is junk.
The two models come out, one dressed as a sexy Bugs Bunny in drag, the other is a sexy Golden Gate Bridge wielding a riding crop.
Chet: Don’t worry about it, girls, this kid was just leaving.
Andre closes the box dejected. The true spirit of rock n’ roll hisses at the onset of darkness.
Chet: Well that about wraps it up for this week on Appraizzle. Next week we take it to Long Beach, California to kick things up a notch!
Chet does a haphazard front kick to his side, where Andre has just turned to leave, knocking the box out of Andre’s hands. The sickly embodiment of rock flies from its box and falls under the stiletto heel of the Golden Gate Bridge.
Sexy Golden Gate Bridge: Oops.
A flight of black doves emerge from rock n’ roll’s dead body. An unseen guitar strikes a mournful A minor chord, sapping any sense of joy or hope in the world from all who hear it.
Andre weeps. A white limousine crashes through the auction house wall. Tom Freston, CEO of MTV Networks, emerges and runs to the site of rock’s demise.
Tom: I came as soon as I heard. Dammit, Chet. You’ve done it!
Chet: I didn’t do anything, sir! I was just signing off.
Tom: No, you magnificent fool! You’ve saved us!
Chet: Saved us?
Tom: You’ve destroyed the one thing holding us back. No more carrying on with this charade.
Chet: Oh, yeah. You’re welcome.
Tom: No more must we slave for the sake of music and youth culture!
Chet looks confused. Freston reaches down and picks up rock’s tiny remains. He slowly raises them above his head. An unseen choir dissonantly howls like a noxious wind through a sea of dead trees.
Tom: We are free to create our own culture – a popular culture – popular for the simple fact that we say it is. We shall optimize viewership and revenue by shilling idiotic bullshit that appeals to humanity’s most base desires. Anything with half a spinal cord will want to watch our network! “Music Television”. Ha! We may now take complete advantage of the youth without the pesky rebellious and anti-authoritarian spirit of counter- and alternative culture!
The choir, wailing now like the souls of the damned, builds to a deafening crescendo.
Tom: Goodbye uninhibited youthfulness! Farewell choice and free will! For I Am Become Death, Shatterer of Worlds!
Tom laughs from deep within the hollow of his being.
Chet: This mean we get a prime time slot?
Tom: Fuck no. I’m canning this piece of shit.
Roll credits. Swirly shapes shift slightly to a saxophone-laden beat.