Oh, fuck OFF with your goddamn composer bust.
Unless you are a piano playing motherfucker, why have a goddamn composer bust in your house? Really?
As I was walking to work this morning, I passed this crappy office furniture store and in one of their displays they had the giant bronze bust of Beethoven. What the fuck? What. The. Fuck.
Busts like that are good if you are Roman or a Howard Hawks-style forties wise guy that keeps a bust of Longfellow around the office to toss your fedora on in a gently mocking fashion.
Of course, in my belief systems Fedora = MASSIVE douche, so yeah, we’re back to zero on the Mills Douchebag Scale.
I think part of my problem with the composer bust thing is there like seven guys that appear over and over again: Beethoven, Mozart, Bach, Chopin (for your piano playing types), Tchaikovsky, and I dunno, Brahms or something. Never someone like Schumann or Rachimaninoff. Probaby because they lack bitching locks.
Who knows, I might be into a Satie, or Debussey, or Ravel, or a nice Varese. Someone weird. Stravinsky! That'd be a cool bust, if only because people might confuse him for Groucho Marx.
When I was a kid we had a lumpy Beethoven and a tiny Chopin. (Sister was a piano player.) The Chopin was the perfect size for jamming the marzipan eyes of chocolate rabbits into. We may have a had a Tchaikovsky with a broken nose, though I may be confused.
I guess what bothered me most about the Beethoven statue was it was in an office furniture store. What is that supposed to say about you, oh mid-level sales manager, that you have a Beethoven head? What Beethoven brought to symphonic expression, I hope to emulate in my spreadsheets. When I look upon Ludwig Von, I find the power within to crunch numbers with nuance and power. Dude was motherfucking DEAF.
"Hey, Bob. Before we dive into the Q4 numbers, how about we spin the Eroica Symphony, just to set the mood."
I'm an ass.
As I was walking to work this morning, I passed this crappy office furniture store and in one of their displays they had the giant bronze bust of Beethoven. What the fuck? What. The. Fuck.
Busts like that are good if you are Roman or a Howard Hawks-style forties wise guy that keeps a bust of Longfellow around the office to toss your fedora on in a gently mocking fashion.
Of course, in my belief systems Fedora = MASSIVE douche, so yeah, we’re back to zero on the Mills Douchebag Scale.
I think part of my problem with the composer bust thing is there like seven guys that appear over and over again: Beethoven, Mozart, Bach, Chopin (for your piano playing types), Tchaikovsky, and I dunno, Brahms or something. Never someone like Schumann or Rachimaninoff. Probaby because they lack bitching locks.
Who knows, I might be into a Satie, or Debussey, or Ravel, or a nice Varese. Someone weird. Stravinsky! That'd be a cool bust, if only because people might confuse him for Groucho Marx.
When I was a kid we had a lumpy Beethoven and a tiny Chopin. (Sister was a piano player.) The Chopin was the perfect size for jamming the marzipan eyes of chocolate rabbits into. We may have a had a Tchaikovsky with a broken nose, though I may be confused.
I guess what bothered me most about the Beethoven statue was it was in an office furniture store. What is that supposed to say about you, oh mid-level sales manager, that you have a Beethoven head? What Beethoven brought to symphonic expression, I hope to emulate in my spreadsheets. When I look upon Ludwig Von, I find the power within to crunch numbers with nuance and power. Dude was motherfucking DEAF.
"Hey, Bob. Before we dive into the Q4 numbers, how about we spin the Eroica Symphony, just to set the mood."
I'm an ass.
Labels: music, Weltschmerz
posted by Greg Mills at 10:30 AM
3 Comments:
maybe that was the office furniture store that caters for Britney Spears' and Kevin Federline's offices.
a. they are musicians
b. they are douches, at least Federline is.
c. they wear a crazy amount of fedoras.
I have been reading this series of LA Times articles. It's about this music prodigy who went schizo and lived on the streets for 35 years.
Then this reporter hooks him up with the LA Phil and he gets to play a date at Disney Concert Hall.
As a gift, they gave him a bust of Beethoven.
Which the poor schizo prodigy now has to lug around with him in his shopping cart.
I'm glad you both have spent some time thinking about this. Chloe, your linking of composer busts to the Federline clan is impressive.
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