Heavy-Handed Bananas

Normally, about now, I'd be queuing (like that one, Chantal?) some lovely music on the ol' Youtube for a nice accompaniment for my typistry. Yes, I am aware that typistry is not in fact a word (yet), but I find it to be an accurate portrayal of what happens here.

However, the Youtube is being exceptionally slow for me tonight, and I do not rightly know why. I blame the general inanity of Youtube commenters. I mean, seriously. I'm TRYING to queue up the 1812 Overture here, and you're arguing over, "Oh, well, you see, the Russians were really better because they had cannons." "No, you see, the Austrians and the Germans really put their EMOTIONS into it." "No, you're wrong. It's all about the French, because they really made the ethereal and absurd nature of life apparent in their music." "Ethereal and absurd nature of life? What the hell are you smoking?" "I smoked your mom last night." I mean, at least it took 4 exchanges before we resorted to those sorts of comments, but seriously? Do you think Tchaikovsky is feeling honored by this up in his music pantheon with Saint-Saëns and Freddie Mercury?

Further proof that Keanu Reeves is immortal. Also, "WE ARE NOT AMUSED BY THESE TUBES OF YOU."

 Is it queued up now? I have high hopes. Hopefully we won't have the terrible quasi-rap National University ad that I've been seeing so often lately. Looks queued up, and looks like there aren't any ads attached. Let's do this.

Hmmmmm mmm mmm mmm MMMMMM. Hmm mmm MMM. Mmmm Mmmm MM MM M MMM MMM MMM MMM MMMM MMM MMM MM MMM Mmmm MMMMM.

Come on, Tchaikovsy, get to the good part. Enough with the strings, here. This is a bit absurd. Bring out the freaking cannons. Yes, I get that there's something about the ravaged countryside and all that going on in here, but really? I'm not here for that.

Oh ho! We have some woodwinds over the strings now (I think- don't kill me for this, musical friends). Oh, and hey, the strings are changing up and starting to crescendo a bit.

SUSTAINED NOOOOTE!

Uh oh, it's a key change! And now there's a possible clarinet and some deep strings? Maybe?

Okay, but seriously, where's the good part?

Get out of here, you no talent ass clown. But seriously, I like that song.

While I was captioning that picture, there might have been some brass that added in. There we go.

Anyway, the point of this was initially to try to provide onomatopoeiae (screw you, Firefox) to indicate the general triumph going on here. I'm rocking (for a given value of "rocking," because we have yet to get to the good part) some 1812 Overture, in case you didn't guess by, you know, my explicit statement of such.

More importantly, I need to stay focused, keep my head down, and keep my eyes on the prize. Even more importantly, once again I need to figure out a decent topic for this business. It was for a brief moment going to be that onomatopoeia of music idea, but boy howdy did that not work out for me. Zelda offered the option of phoning a friend on this one, but it's the last one of Novemblog. I can do this solo. Maybe not Han Solo, but solo nonetheless.

LADIES.

I will say that whatever happens tonight, I am most likely going to go take the weekend off to catch up on sleep and store up some ideas. (Oh, Tchaikovsky- are you about to get ready for the good part? It's sounding like you might. Maybe  you just are.)

I KNEW I could find an image of this. I had no idea it would be a gif. That just makes it even better.

MUTHAFUCKIN CANNONS, MUTHAFUCKAS. Ahem. I'm sorry. Artillery in orchestral pieces does that to me.

BA DA BA BA BA BUM BUM BUM or some such. I don't even know. CANNONS. CANNONS EVERYWHERE. OH MY GOD THIS IS JUST SO EPIC AND TRIUMPHANT YOU DON'T EVEN KNOOOOW. WORDS FAIL ME. THEY SHOULD HAVE SENT A POET. BUT INSTEAD I'M HERE, SO I'LL JUST KEEP TYPING AND HOPE THAT SOME STROKE OF INSPIRATION HAPPENS SHORTLY. OR THAT PARLIAMENT OR BIG BEN OR SOME SUCH EXPLOOOODES.

Ahem. That's enough of that, then.

So, options for tonight. There's the fallback of talking about ways in which to never end a relationship with a person (including real and true Rob Cameron anecdotes!), but I want to save that for when I don't have the word requirement. There was also the possibility of a general recap of Novemblog, but while conclusive, it seems like a bit of a cop out. There's another possibility of talking about cartoons or comic books, but that's a definite soapbox, and I don't need to be dealing with that right now. It's late, and I have to lead some folks about a merry chase in Charleston tomorrow.

You have no idea how much yaoi DeviantArt I uncovered in a Google Image search for this. Oh, fangirls.

You know what? Why not. (There I go again, using punctuation as a means of indicating intonation rather than as an indication of the meaning of the sentence. See what I did there? That's something approaching chiasmus right there. Yes, I did initially put chiasma, because I have been in medical school for too long.)

We're going to talk about the mindf**k.

Obligatory warning: Here be spoilers.

First off, good movies with mindf**ks. You could argue that ANY movie has some degree of a mindf**k, because there should be SOMETHING that's left to the audience to figure out. But we're talking about the big ones here. Examples like Memento, Blue Velvet, Inception, Mullholland Drive, Fight Club, maybe Zodiac, Eraserhead, (from what I hear) Brazil, and others. Out of my understanding of the ones listed (admittedly, having not seen Brazil, I'm going by hearsay), it seems like there are three main categories.

The first is where the reveal is concrete and happens midway (or at some climax) through the movie. Fight Club and Memento come to mind- the reveal was vital to the plot, and it forced you to shift what you thought was going on up to that point. That said, the reveal is very clear, and while repeated viewings will reveal new details and will make you watch the earlier scenes in a new light, you know exactly what was going on in the reveal.

The second time we met Mr. Jameson, he was stepping through the old halls in his bathrobe and slippers. We could hardly say why he held a paper from three days past. We could only hope that it held a fresh bit of tuna steak rather than his recent predilection (or was it obsessioN?) with cod? ONly wheN he turNed away from us did we realize the gravity of the eveNt.

His lovely wife, loNg since passed, had always preferred tuNa. Was this a sigN of the temperiNg of his grief or somethiNg far more siNister?

AloNg a wall stood three large spiders, separated by iNtaNgible filameNts that, to our eyes, coNNected all the rooms of those old halls. ONe could simply reach out and expaNd oNe's miNd, aNd all would be revealed. So it seemed oN that day.

Alice began to turN to leave, but Mr. JamesoN wheeled about to say, "I recall your potatoes. They twereN't NuffiNg special. They was filled wiv preteNtioNs, delusioNs of graNdeur what had No place iN a tuber iN the earf.

"I dreams, iNNa Nights, of times of scieNces aN sammiches. Times of rot allegories fr'a shag. I kNows what I seeN. Bad spells of bad spelliN'. I remembers me a geNt iNNa fiNe suit, prattliN about some game of the devil by the Thames.

"I seeN a maN's beard shift 'fore my very eyes. I seeN a boy say what he wouldN't Never say, aN' I seeN him break that most capricious promise.

"I heard tales of tha world arouNd us, wha? There was pretty paiNtiNs aN a fella wiv a sigN. TwereN't NuffiN wroNg wivva sigN, aN' it doN't say much, but peoples waNted t'read the sigN. Wossa sigN wivout the people what caN reads it? Wossa story wivout those what hears it? Wossa taste wivout a toNgue?

"I heard the dead rise aN' those what lived worshippiN' those what raised 'em. The dead 'uNs, Not the live 'uNs. Such behavior'd be uNseemly, thas what it'd be."

Mr. JamesoN sighed, wistfully. Alice aNd I dared Not move. We saw the sea water drippiNg from the cod through the Newspaper. The pretty pictures were lost to memory, shiftiNg to the grotesque before our very eyes. This was no accideNt. Mr. JamesoN, for all his posturiNg, was the calcuatiNg sort. There was always a reasoN, but for the first time, I woNdered if those reasons might Not be his owN.

"I remembers me a time wheN there was little but food, fiNe cakes aN' pies, the likes of what you lot haiNt Never seeN, Nor will you agaiN. Theys was each uNique. I remember whats wheNs we all came about. Food aN' rage, there was. Rage agaiNst the poor-maNNered folks what helped form us from the whassit... miasma? Ether? NuffiN?"

With that, Mr. JamesoN trailed off, gaziNg at the threads of the spiderwebs as they braNched between oNe another.

Some time later, perhaps days, perhaps minutes, I asked Mr. JamesoN of his reverie. What exactly HAD he seeN? What horrors, what woNders lay beyoNd the hall, beyoNd the boardinghouse, iN that great beyoNd? How had he left, and uNder what circumstaNces had he returNed? Was there some meaNs of escapiNg the cycle of drudgery in these oNce thriviNg halls?

He leaNed close. He cleared the spittle from his lips. He gazed iNto my eyes, aNd, perhaps approviNg of what he saw, he revealed what he kNew.

He called it "The Aristocrats."

THANK YOU AND GOOD NIGHT.