Archive for vinz’s love letter from paris

Religion reloaded: An open letter to the modern-day priest

Come on, anti-party people (the priests, preachers and nuns, I mean), it’s time to face the music. Nobody cares about your stories anymore. It’s not that they lack interest -nothing like some good ol’ Jesus-lynching before bedtime to put you to sleep-, it’s that they’ve lost their punch. Your sermons are passé, as they say.

 

I know you might think you’re teaching us a valuable lesson or that you’re scaring us away from sin by explaining how this guy got thrown to the lions, the other one was turned into salt and the scrawny carpenter dude was carved up like a Thanksgiving Turkey.

 

But do you really find that hardcore? I grew up watching Freddy Krueger and Jason Vorhees dismember horror-stricken teens. I listened to Death Metal for a while (we all did). I read Japanese mangas and comic books about The Joker falling face-first into a barrel of acid. Do you really think a story about one dude being flogged and crucified hits the spot with my generation?

 

It’s not that we’re impervious to morale or ethics. It’s just that you need to speak our language. Alien 2, for example. About 50 guys get trapped in a nest of acid-spitting, stomach-exploding creatures. They scream in terror as they’re massacred. That, we got: *don’t fuck with the aliens*.

 

A cop screaming in terror as Michael Madsen slices his ear off in reservoir dogs; Robocop being impaled by the bad guy at the end of the movie; those are our references.

 

You know us, the 21st century schizoid man : we’re jacked up on soft-porn from TV and advertising, rattled from all the violence and worried the Apocalypse will happen soon (in 2000! No, 2001! No, May 21st! No, 2012… yawn).

 

So why not make church fun for once? I mean, the Apocalypse is coming, with or without our consent. We can’t avoid it. So let’s go down in style: Reaguetton churches. That’s what I’m thinking. You want to get us out of bed in time for mass at noon on a Sunday? Think “big, wet asses”, bouncing all over the pulpit. Yeah, baby. That’ll get more than one lost soul in there.

 

Because church is supposed to be sexy. Isn’t it all about “love”? But the only ones getting some are pedophile priests, and I don’t think that’s fair. Why is he allowed to have a hard-on during mass, while he scopes the audience for new, ripe lips to wrap around his cock?

 

We, heterosexuals horny as fuck from Kardashian Reality-TV shows, should also be allowed to get boners.

 

Or you could change the language, give it some nuance. Take French, for example. In French, the word “Jesus” is strangely close to the phrase “I blow”: “Je suce“. My oh, my, have I had some interesting religious conversations with French girls! “I blow, it’s all about love”, she would say to me, while her eyes, big as almonds, looked me over in the Alcoholics Anonymous meeting at the local Church. “For sure, baby, I couldn’t agree more”, I replied, trying my sexy-eyebrow move on her. “I blow, you say? Tell me something else about this fascinating practice”.

 

I’d never felt so religious in my life.

 

“Epiphany” they call it.

 

That’s what I had, a huge epiphany, bulging through my pants.

 

That’s why I -heart- religion, especially the one that blows you to clear your sins.

Earth to Woody Allen: You’re rich, bitch!

…And there’s nothing wrong with that, you goddamn hippie. So stop being so preachy. Stop shoving “valuable lessons” down our throats. I paid my 10 dollars, now make me laugh for an hour and a half and we’ll call it a day.

 

 

 

I’m talking about your Europeeeean period, pronounced with a snotty accent. I get it: now you have periods and stuff, like painters. You’re an artiste (French pronunciation). Snore.

 

So first of all, we need to have the names of cities in the titles. And not any city, mind you: cultural cities. “Vicky Cristina Barcelona”, “Midnight in Paris”. It’s about the meaning of art and life, right? So I guess, “Vicky Cristina Ibiza” or “Midnight in Amsterdam’s Red-Light District” was never an option. No meaning of life there, my friends…

 

But putting the name of the city in the title is pointless, since you never actually use the city to say anything. In these two movies, the spectator gets the impression Barcelona is barely the Gothic district and Paris starts at Notre-Dame and finishes at the Champs-Elysées. It’s like you’d shot the movie on the set of Disney’s Ratatouille.

 

Of course you have no idea how these cities function or how real people live. You’re rich, so it makes total sense that, seen from your perspective, Owen Wilson is swallowing expensive champagne in a five-star hotel overlooking the Louvre and Scarlet Johansson never sets foot in the Rabal neighborhood of Barcelona (which is, by the way, where real artists go at night).

 

Your pathetic little bourgeois characters wine and dine themselves to a stupor in these cities and ramble about how they want to “make art”, be it photography or writing, without ever approaching the artists that live in these cities. Of course, in order to do that, they’d have to walk away from the arab-less neighborhoods of Paris, into the northern part, where real underground art goes down.

 

Even when an “artist” appears (Bardem), he’s some ridiculously shallow version of a sellout who prowls the salons of Barcelona looking for groupies and drives a sports car. That’s your idea of an artist? Seriously?

 

So stop pretending, Woody. You’re rich and comfortable, and that’s fine. Stop trying to tell us “what art is about” or creating characters who are “artists” and hang out at posh restaurants. You’re becoming an annoying, intellectual version of Sophia Coppola. You know: the girl who’s only “existential dilemmas” in life are being rich in a five-star hotel in Tokyo and being too stupid to try and learn Japanese. No, I’ll just stay in my room listening to Radiohead records and feeling miserable because I can’t find my sense in life. Christ.

 

We, the real people, we don’t have time to go around wondering what the “swinging twenties” were like or imagining if it’d be better to hang out with Toulouse-Lautrec or Dali. We don’t go around being nostalgic about Paris. We’re too busy trying to pay our bills, trying to shoot guerrilla movies without landing in jail and scoping supermarkets for wine under 2 euros that won’t make you blind.

 

So fuck off, Woody, with your stupid new-age lessons. It’s not our fault you’re too rich to come hang with us at our underground events. It’s too bad you seem to think there’s no black people in Paris or that anything worthwhile is around Notre-Dame. Somehow, you got lost in translation and obviously, you’re bored to hell with your social life.

 

The problem is you think we’re all miserable or that we’re all concerned with your childish fits of crass existentialism. Just make a straight-up comedy, man. You know, one where your lead character actually holds a job.

 

Either that, or enjoy being rich. Go hang out with Sophia Coppola and talk about the next Picasso you’re going to buy. Enjoy life, dude. And spare us the self-misery.

now i make postcards

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