Centaur Poaching

I have taken a handful of film classes at UMass in the past two years and have willingly exposed myself to the hordes of pseudo-intellectual bro-jobs that fill the various auditoriums and classrooms. I don't mean to take out my hunger/fatigue or just general bitterness on one person, but I'm going to. In my spiritual cinema class, which is located in Machmer Hall (i.e.: the most offensively maze-like building on campus with East and West Wings. quoi?!) there is the standard array of film geeks (this is not meant to be taken as an insult, as I am one myself) and a critical but very friendly professor of indistinguishable origin (Russia, Moldova? it is any one's guess)

So I finally make it to my film class, a little late, and take a seat in the back. I have to move a little to see the screen and try to snuggle into my sweater, as I am situated by a window. My professor is actually a really adorable old man but he can never figure out how to start the films regardless of how many times he has taught the course. I never mind, purely because there is no need to get all antsy about trivial things. It is not as though I have anything better to do on a Monday night. So we are all just hanging back, waiting to see Pickpocket, and this kid that sits in the front of the classroom(who looks like a centaur) starts rolling his eyes obnoxiously at the class because my professor can't figure out which button to press. It is this first impression that I have carried with me as I harshly criticize his character in all of my following classes (via angry blog).

The class is pretty interactive as far as film courses go. There is a viewing once a week, and then the next day, there is a discussion. We are all responsible for presenting a film analysis, etc etc throughout the term.

Without fail, at least five times during every class, this kid will interrupt whoever is speaking to enlighten us with his superior knowledge on the "essence of film." I'm not a very hateful person, but something about him makes me what to commit violent crimes. He sits straight up in his chair, throws back his mane like hair, crosses his leg and starts spewing all of this incorrect unintelligible filmic word vomit.

What should have been the death of the last centaur.

I highly doubt he has even seen more than one Bergman film in his entire life, let alone reign as the supreme barren of knowledge in Ingmar's cabinet of consultants. Not only does he repulse me intellectually, but he always winks (!) at me during class. I was unaware that this was still a living practice. For now, I suppose I will just stick with my air of distaste and start carrying anti-pseudo-intellectual-centaur mace. All of this negativity is putting me in a bad mood, but I'm sure there will be more on this topic in the weeks to come. Hopefully the focus will just be shifted from creeps towards mythological beasts, as they are far more exciting.

pass a glass of that groupie-hatorade®

The term is thrown around quite loosely. "Groupie" You know, the sassy chick at the show hanging all over the mediocre bassist, Hanes-her-Way nylons pulling together her postured mirage of bare-legged brilliance. You resent her a little as you sit along the back wall in your classy corduroy slacks and modest, but tight, v-neck shirt. You ask yourself, "When will these back-stage stallions get a hold of that golden egg of fame that will make all of those impromptu gyno visits worthwhile in the end?" You resignedly think, "I can rely on my superior health to get me through my young twenties." Chin up, nose down. It's the name of the game.
Now don't be hasty, dear reader, for I am not about to litter your screen with anti-groupie propaganda. I am, in fact, here to shed some light on the fine art of reeling in those musically inclined honeys without irritating the Christian volcano of remorse. Perhaps the lava will stir, but I can confidently vow that the casualties will not reach that of Mount Pinatubo.

Step 1: Research.
Like any worthwhile project, this requires a little bit of work. No pain, no gain. You must peruse the web or newspaper for upcoming shows featuring the artists of your choosing. Now, just showing up to these events will barely get you past the doors with a balance of -20 dollars. You have to make contact whilst remaining classy. Send an e-mail to the band asking a boring and schedule related question, such as "hey guys, I noticed that your band will be touring through Northampton, but I didn't catch the dates, mind sending me some info?" That seemingly simple and casual gem is worth its weight in gold. And that is just the first step, friends.

Step 2: Where the perks start perking.

Now that you know where and when the festivities are taking place, you need to start thinking about the how’s. Your previous message, being concise, sharp and witty surely garnered a response from, at the very least, the drummer. Now, you must utilize some networking skills to get yourself onto the guest list. Usually, it is a wise idea to simply ask if they have extra spots, but if it is a well-known, or local band you may run into a problem. It is at this point where you must pull a Pamela Des Barres and steal their hearts. Unfortunately, we live in a technologically advanced and impersonal age, so there will be no pre-show meeting in which to work your magic.

Step 3: Forfeit all dignity.

Well, do you want to meet the band or not? No one will mention this at the after-party or future shows, it’s just something you have to do: be their Myspace pen pal. I know, this will strip you of all of your “I’m too cool for the interweb” pretensions, but it is undeniably à la mode. Now go young grasshoppers. Exert your zeal on the musical population and bring us back a winner.