Notes from the Desktop of a Thanatophobe

It has been precisely three months to the day since I received that mysterious phone call which advocated for my aid in what I soon realized was a revolutionary scientific study. The anonymous voice I spoke with seemed to know much about me, my psychiatric expertise and my rising status within the world of academe. However, all I could conjecture about the possible identity of the caller was that it was in fact a he (the constant rustling noises emanating from the other line undoubtedly a result of the caller's burly beard playing patty cake with the receiver) and that he had fairly recently consumed a carbonated beverage (a fact that was given away by the inexplicable pauses and resounding belches that pervaded our dialogue).

The caller bubbled with enthusiasm over a recent scholarly publication which detailed my findings of animal intelligence evidenced by a psychiatric study in which I placed a typewriter and a month's supply of paper into the gorilla pen of the San Diego Zoo. Four weeks later, I returned to the same site to find in place of the blank pages a neatly bound manuscript titled If You Scratch My Back: A Treatise on Animal Rights signed in a cursive sprawl by JoJo the Gorilla.

The anonymous bearded caller then asked if I knew anything about Woody Allen. I excitedly answered in the positive. My interest in the filmmaker dated back to my undergraduate years at Columbia when I took a course that compared and contrasted the neurotic New Yorker's filmography with the history of the Ukranian high-step dance, the Kozachok.

I was then informed of Mr. Allen's unexpected foray into the world of social media, heralded by the filmmaking maestro's activation of a Twitter account. The caller wondered if I would be interested in taking a break from my monkey business in order to psychologically investigate the eccentric screenwriter's Tweets and later publish my findings to the world. When I expressed my doubts on making the transition from the study of animal neurology to that of the chaotic world of celebrity, I was met with encouragement from the caller. "I believe you will find the two subjects not to be mutually exclusive," the voice reassured.

After the call ended, I must admit I had my doubts about the whole endeavor. I had labored the better part of the past sixteen years through laughably miniscule research funding and mounds of banana-filled gorilla dung to reach the level of respect within the scientific community which I was currently enjoying. Should I risk it all to study the daily musings of an aging filmmaker/jazz enthusiast/stepdaughter enthusiast? Four nights after the mysterious phone call, any lingering skepticism towards the project was quelled when I received an envelope in my mailbox containing a small note that read "To Dr. K." wrapped around $200,000 in cash. I began my study immediately after dinner that night.

Below, I have included a short excerpt from what proved to be an unexpectedly fascinating exploration into the mind of this auteur. I am confident that I have broken down mental barriers with my analysis, allowing those uneducated in the realm of psychology to comprehend and experience the mental process of a celebrity. My book, tentatively titled Notes from the Desktop of a Thanatophobe: An Exploration into the Mind of Celebrity, will be published later this year by New York University Press and will include a forward by Mr. Allen himself, followed by an introduction by Benjamin Franklin.

(Writer's note: The following excerpt may not be suitable for those who suffer from shellfish allergies)

December 3, 2010
@WoodyAllen: Woke up with terrible pain in back, thought it was tumor, imminent death?, etc. Advised by doctor to stop sleeping on shake weight

Tweet Analysis: It did not take long for Mr. Allen to grace the Twitterverse with his undying obsession with death. Yet, it is the literary giant's reference to the shake weight as a symbol of the exasperating nature of the recent Medicare plan that I find a move of particular genius. Not many writer's would even think of uncovering the striking relevance between the much maligned medical bill and the hand-job-trainer-disguised-as-ineffective-excercise-equipment-for-menopausal-women. Bravo, Mr. Allen.

February 18, 2011
@WoodyAllen: Bisexuality immediately increases your chances for a date on Saturday night 


Tweet Analysis: I must admit that I had to dig up some of my Freudian literature in order to uncover the meaning of Mr. Allen's maddeningly sparse prose here. After much research and a few heated debates with some of my trusted colleagues, I can confidently say that this Tweet is a comment on the metaphysical qualities of long, hot showers taken on especially cold winter nights.

March 23, 2011
@WoodyAllen: Thought about the meaningless of life again today after choking on an avocado sandwich- Indeed, it's not easy being green


Tweet Analysis: Once again, death finds its way into Mr. Allen's daily thoughts, now accompanied by the appearance of an avocado. See how the act of choking on the presumably soft sandwich cleverly mirrors the act of childbirth? Once again, bravo, Mr Allen! Side note- what about the the second half of his Tweet, you ask? Clearly, the seed of Mr. Allen must have been conceived during a screening of The Muppet Movie.

June 10, 2011
@WoodyAllen: Midnight in Paris opens tomorrow in theatres. C#6!


Tweet Analysis: Mr. Allen seems to be brimming with excitement in this Tweet, but why exactly? I believe this Tweet acts twofold: first, as an aggressive middle finger to all those who have joked that the man is in the twilight of his career and second, as a proclamation of his favorite note on the clarinet. The use of the pretentious spelling of theater only confirms the musical quality of Allen's prose here.

Holiday Who-be-what-ee?

My life is a constant stream of quotations from Ron Howard's big-budget movie adaptation of Dr. Seuss' How the Grinch Stole Christmas. You know- the one with Jim Carrey prancing around for 104 minutes in a green suit that makes him look like a furry booger while he distorts his face into grimaces that resemble a Picasso painting. Yeah, that one.

Somehow, I manage to find the relevance of quotations from this film in numerous events in my daily routine.  Ask me how my accounting exam on Tuesday went. I will respond in an imitation of Carrey's garbled Grinchy cadence, "If you utter so much as one syllable, I'LL HUNT YOU DOWN AND GUT YOU LIKE A FISH!" When I see your shocked, hurt expression after this remark, I then try to smooth things over with a "If you'd like to fax me, press the star key."

Alexandre Burrows just took a chomp on the Boston Bruins' star Patrice Bergeron's right index finger? "Oh, the Who-manity!"

Did you just criticize my fashion decision to wear a black shirt and black jeans? "It's not a dress, it's a kilt.....sicko."

Is that homeless dude on the sidewalk of this busy Los Angeles boulevard leaning over into the street while he takes a shit into a small plastic bag? "Oh bleeding hearts of the world UNITE!"

Or is he actually pulling out a small plastic bag that has been lodged inside his asshole? "Oh no, somebody looks FABULOOOOUS!"

I would not have such a problem with this strange movie quotation/life event associative tendency if the quotations that I were enamored with came from a legendary piece of cinema. Something from one of those AFI top 100 lists, perhaps. Or maybe from a chic Truffaut New Wave film. But, alas, it is Ron Howard's The Grinch, which is, by all definitions of the term, an atrocity. Even my 11-year old self could smell something rotten befouling the air in Lawrence Showcase Cinemas 7-14 when my mom took Ashleigh, Bubs, and me to see this in late November 2000.

The list of offenses is seemingly endless. It includes but is not limited to:
1)  unnecessarily literal translations of the good Dr's twirly architectural designs
2) eery makeup effects that make the Whos look like pointy nosed werewolf babies with beer bellies
3) a hazy aesthetic to the cinematography that leaves one wondering if a cameramen accidentally sneezed on the lens early in physical production and no one decided to clean it off

                                                                (the sneeze quality in full effect)


Yet, even with all of these unforgivable characteristics considered, my subconscious has chosen The Grinch to act as one of my life's constants- a format of measurement by which I judge seemingly unrelated life events. This has not changed for the last eleven years and, as far as I'm concerned, it will never change.

I could ponder the reason why my brain has made the conscious decision to remember this movie but I don't think that this is the proper question I should be mulling over. Because the truth is we are all helpless in our fight against the enjoyment of bad movies. We don't pick bad movies, bad movies pick us. They seek us out individually, ready to pounce upon our consciousness.

You can't fathom Ben Affleck's terrible choices for acting roles from 2001-2009? Too bad. You and me both know that you regularly quote from Gigli in everyday conversation.

John Travolta in dreadlocks isn't your cup of tea? Then why was your wedding song Elia Cmiral's main theme from Battlefield Earth?

Nicolas Cage's monotonous drawl makes you want to stick a pencil through your ears? Then take down that poster for 2006's remake of The Wicker Man!

I am not sure why I still erupt into uncontrollable laughter when my brother adopts his best Jim Carrey Grinch voice. I have no idea why my siblings and I still pop in that DVD more than once a year. But I do know that just as good movies can bring a community together, so too can bad movies. The Grinch may be a Serrano thing but, for all I know, Daddy Day Camp is a insert family name here thing and Showgirls is a insert other family name here thing.

Unfortunately, some people close their hearts forever to the possibility of finding their bad movie. Let your bad movie  find you and when it does, embrace it. I could care less if you look at me like I have three heads after I randomly let out a Grinchy salutation. I will say it loud and proud. "Thaaaat feeeeels gooood."

A Question I Don't Necessarily Want to Know the Answer To

Now that this whole Rapture fiasco has died down and it looks like the world will continue onward past May 21, 2011, is the Christian group who predicted today would be the apocalypse (a) happy that the world will continue on its proper course or (b) upset that their prediction did not come true and the rest of civilization was not annihilated?
Either way they might respond to this question, I have a sneaking suspicion that the answer will be disturbing.

Pretty Ghost Girl

After the monumental triumph and subsequent mainstream success of Animal Collective's eighth studio album Merriweather Post Pavilion in 2009, the group should have been living the high life. So why, when  his solo album came out just one year later, did David Portner seem so bummed out? In an interview with Pitchfork last summer, Portner, known by his stage name Avey Tare (phonetically pronounced "A-V Tear"), acknowledged, "In the past two years, I've had a darker time." Coping with the news that his sister had recently developed cancer while he simultaneously was attempting to make sense of his recent divorce and his group's newfound fame, Avey Tare's songwriting and musical style is admittedly more morbid and morose than usual on his aptly titled solo project, Down There.

Though maybe not up to the Animal Collective-standard in terms of infectious beats and creative hooks, Tare manages to convey his confused state of being throughout the album and, in the moments when he allows for instances of hope and optimism to surface, his music becomes painstakingly heartbreaking. It is Tare's unique ability to blur the lines between beauty and ugliness that makes his track Ghost of Books my new favorite song.

Keeping in line with the album's concept of being Down There, "Ghost of Books" begins with escalating gooey throbs playing over nauseating gurgling noises as Tare invites us further and further down into the bleak depths of his nightmarishly murky sonic cave. Tare's repetition of the nonsensical line "Keeping myself in my mind" only increases our dread of what awaits us when we reach the bottom. For those of you who are unacquainted with Animal Collective's style, the general rule of thumb when it comes to their music is that the group cares less about comprehensible lyrics and more about using vocals as part of their music's instrumentation.  Using his beloved musical round format, Tare begins to tell a tale of ghostly love. It's all very macabre, strange, and downright esoteric. Yet, at the 1:37 mark, everything changes. Tare's voice emerges from its murky hollows as he joyfully sings over a pulsating bass, "I went away to a ghost land/ It felt like a perfect dream/ I grabbed ahold of two ghost hands/ In a voice that I'll always be."

Surely, this isn't your conventional acoustic guitar-strumming, saxophone-blaring love tune but Tare manages to bring a sincerity to his song that is curiously missing in other musical professions of love. Tare felt like shit at the time he recorded this record and he was not afraid of letting his listeners know it. There is no knight in shining armor idealism to be found here. No banana pancakes to be made. Instead, he comes across as vulnerable, damaged, and disillusioned. It is for this reason that, when "Ghost of Books" draws to its bittersweet conclusion, we sincerely wish Avey Tare all the best as he starts, hand-in-hand with his ghost girl, back down into the cavernous depths of his mind.

Oh Man, Oh My, Oh Me

For lack of a more interesting and witty inaugural sentence to trumpet in the humble beginnings of this blog, I will simply say that Fleet Foxes' sublime "Montezuma," the first track on their recently released sophomore album Helplessness Blues, is my new favorite song of the moment.

Lead singer Robin Pecknold's lilting vocals flow effortlessly over the group's characteristically delicate guitar licks and ethereal vocal harmonies. With lyrics like "Gold teeth and gold jewelry/ every piece of your dowry/ throw them into the tomb with me/ bury them with my name," Fleet Foxes once again prove that they have a knack for undertaking potentially depressing concepts (i.e., remorse, failed childhood dreams, solidarity) and molding them into such goddamn poignant, uplifting tunes.

In 2008, Fleet Foxes shocked the music world, and perhaps themselves, with their near-perfect, critically acclaimed debut album. Now, three years later, the fact that the band has created a new sound complete with all the same energy, creativity, and heartbreaking honesty as their original album is not simply hard to believe. It is a small miracle.