Authors That Would Make Bad Writing Infinitely Better

As a manipulator of the English language myself, I hold several beliefs dear to my heart. They are as follows:

1) If you are over the age of 12 and still cannot successfully distinguish when words should have apostrophes (confusing “it’s” and “its,” “your” and “you’re”), I cannot respect your education. Why are you stupid?
2) If you can’t write something nice, don’t write anything at all. I’m not talking about pleasant or polite; I’m referring to “nice” writing as the opposite of writing that is bad, boring, poorly written, wrong, pointless, confused, frustrating, or Rick Perry.

Yeah, I know. It’s radical. Of course, not as radical as Rick Perry. But let’s face it: there is some literature/film/music that simply should have been penned by someone other than the original author. In some cases, aforementioned art is a slice of brilliance that got tarnished in the current writer’s incapable hands; in other cases it is an unsalvageable failure whose only option is to get worse so as to become presentably heinous.

In fact, may I make a few suggestions?

Twilight
by Terry Pratchett*
We’d all like this series so much better if Ms. Meyer’s attempt at a love story about a girl next door (translation: exposition on How To Have A Dysfunctional Relationship) had relatable and quirky characters with different fonts for every time they spoke. P-rad knows exactly how to make a totally impossible instance (Death playing Santa Claus? Criminals becoming post-men? Women in the army and not in the kitchen?) plausible, insightful, and funny — qualities which are all completely lacking in the hands of its current author.

Miley Cyrus’s memoir, Miles to Go
by Lemony Snicket
I haven’t read the original, but here is what I imagine it will read like, “My daddy is the only reason I’m famous. My brother croakmoans uncomfortably horny music to an audience that hasn’t got boobies yet. My boyfriend is way too old for me. I like drugs.” Are you attached to any of these characters? Do you care if the melancholy wit of Lemony Snicket creatively kills them off? Me neither. Just add a narrator who regularly urges you to stop reading, a meaninglessly depressing end,** and illustrations by Brett Helquist, and we’ve got ourselves acceptable piece of literature. It might even be appropriate for children, unlike everything else about Miley. Which brings us to:

“Party in the USA”
by Adele
Face it. She’d sing it better. Adele’s been so angsty lately (trying to set fire to the rain and all. She must be so frustrated) I’d like to see her getting down and shaking those God-given gifts. We know that when a Jay-Z song is on in Adele’s taxicabs, you better believe she puts her hands up.

Freud’s Early Theories
by Tara Gillespie
If you think about it, it wouldn’t be too different: My Immortal (the world’s worst fanfiction) and Freud’s The Interpretation of Dreams are both mostly about sex/mostly wrong about sex. But if our favorite “goff” wrote it, we’d have the added pleasure of trying to decipher what words were behind the awful spelling in addition to laughing at his concept of penis envy and her concept of orgasm. Maybe she’d throw in some Harry Potter references*** along with her My Chemical Romance worship, extensive description of fishnets, and use of the phrase “passively frenching.” On the negative side, there will undoubtedly be a morbid amount of it’s/its confusion, but on the plus side, as far as we can tell, Tara wasn’t on cocaine, unlike Freud.

Glee
by Tommy Wiseau
Oh hai: it’s another artist who lacks command of the English language. Be honest with yourself — you don’t watch Glee for its**** gripping storyline. Having America’s most multi-untalented artist write/direct/produce/star/fornicate in the musical TV show can only make it more interesting. You know you want more of the writing that made Tommy’s masterpiece, The Room, so fantastic — what better way than to sit down with a bowl of popcorn to a fusion of pop culture featuring quotable magnificence such as, “You ah tearing me apaht, Wachel!” and “I did NAHT hit on Kurt. I did NAHT.” Best of all, we get to hear more of his wonderfully attractive accent/speech impediment as applied to music. Which, of course, he’ll arrange and sing entirely by himself.

Unfortunately for you, I have no suggestions on how to improve your terrible English paper. And so, I leave you with the immortal words of Dr. Seuss:
You have brains in your head, you have feet in your shoes,
You have heinously read all Sir Twattingworth spews.
You can steer yourself any direction you choose
(Just as long as it sounds like Erman Shmavenues).

——————————————————————————————————————————
*Another soul who understands the beauty in a footnote. All I want for Christmas is his semen in a petri dish with the reproductive cells of Bristol Bacchus. Bristol, dibs on being godmother.
**I’m all for realistic children’s literature, but I was really attached to Uncle Monty. And did anyone else develop a phobia of Lachrymose Leeches in Lake Michigan?
***Godwin’s law of NU: the longer a conversation continues between two NU students, the more likely a Harry Potter reference becomes.
****Did you see that apostrophe? No, you didn’t, because it does not belong there. It belongs in the first sentence of that paragraph.

Girl Talk at Congress Theater

Gillis gets his mashup on at the Congress Theater

Girl Talk. Say the name and you’ll invoke either confused stares (you mean when two girls have a conversation?) or swoons. For all those who are sane and awesome, the primary response is definitely swooning and awe. And at his concert Saturday night at the Congress theater, good old Gregg Gillis, a.k.a. “Girl Talk,” did not disappoint his loyal legions of followers.

Lessons learned at Girl Talk:

Gregg Gillis truly is a god among men.
Sitting through the first two opening acts was worth it just to hear Gregg push buttons on a keyboard. There are very few people who can legitimize the pushing of buttons as a talent, and he is one of them. Girl Talk played a bunch of his newer mixes from “All Day,” but kept things lively by not just using samples the audience would have heard before. Instead he mixed things up, keeping the dance party fun and bumpin’. (In many cases, quite literally bumping. But I’ll get to that later.) His remix of “Shout!” was probably one of the best things ever — the sold out theater thought nothing of crouching onto the disgusting, beer-covered floor and “gettin’ a little bit softer now.” Nothing would have made me touch that floor unless Girl Talk commanded me to. Also, for those with some PITTSBURGH PRIDE, there was a quality remix of Black and Yellow that personally melted my heart. (Girl Talk is a Pittsburgh native, suckas. Interestingly enough, so is Christina Aguilera.). Gregg even whipped out some classics, like a mix of “Jesse’s Girl” with “BUT I’D RATHER GET SOME HEAD” thrown in. Good stuff.

We assume that the same person who did Kanye's "All the Lights" video was also responsible for Girl Talk's lighting

The visual elements were also sick. The constantly changing lights behind Gillis on stage were absolutely insane. (Also a quick shoutout to the opening act who had a scene from The Room incorporated into one of his songs.) The audience was frequently barraged with artillery raining down from the sky — balloons, confetti, etc. — which only made the show even more fun and chaotic.

Overall, Girl Talk kept things funky fresh and superb. His ability to make hipsters flail their arms and dance wildly instead of headnodding is unchallenged. Ain’t no party like a Girl Talk dance party.

Grow a pair. Or pregame harder.
The only problem with Girl Talk concerts, quite honestly, is the crowd. Back in the good old days, when Gregg was performing at smaller venues in Pittsburgh — Mr. Small’s, this is your shoutout — the crowd was fun and goofy. If you wanted to climb on stage with your friends, it was pretty easy. Everyone respected your dance space. One time, on stage, Girl Talk announced he wanted Taco Bell. So he got some — and then upon leaving, bouncers handed out burritos to everyone. Girl Talk had ordered Taco Bell for everyone in the audience. Nowadays, it’s not as personal of an atmosphere. As a chica barely over five feet, I can (and do) get my shit wrecked by pushy high schoolers, which, while embarrassing, is mostly just annoying.

Sweaty-bastard overload

The crowd at the Congress was particularly rowdy. Getting to the front row basically required a willingness to never let your feet to touch the ground, instead simply being pushed violently from side to side. It was a feeling similar to being hit with tsunami waves simultaneously from all sides. So that was unfortunate. This phenomenon leaves the audience members with two options: either accept the imminent crushing of infinite sweaty bodies, or push back. Or a perfect compromise: go to the side a wee bit, still dance intensely, but avoid being elbowed in the face about twenty times. And then just go to town and not give a crap about who you hit with your own elbows. It’s a dog eat dog world out there, people.

The Verdict:
Prepare to get extremely sweaty, pushed around by high schoolers who think they are cool and moshers who are a little desperate for human contact. Did I get sweaty? Yes. Did I have drinks spilled on me? Yes. Was it fucking awesome? YES.

–Alison Decker