The "About The Author" section in 1984 by George Orwell struck me with equal force as the book itself. I don't know what the traditional blurb is supposed to sound like. Usually you don't read them, you just look for the picture.
Terry Pratchett's says he used to work a million different jobs and likes banana daquiris.
Oscar Wilde's says he was flamboyant, brilliantly witty, and known for his splendid epigrams.
George Orwell's says he was a man of intense feelings and fierce hates.
He hated totalitarianism. He was critical of communism, but considered himself a socialist. He hated intellectuals, but was a literary critic. He hated cant and lying and cruelty in life and in literature. He had the conviction that modern man was inadequate to cope with the demands of his history.
In the essay "Why I Write", Orwell lists "four great motives for writing" which he feels exist in every writer. He explains that all are present, but in different proportions, and also that these proportions vary from time to time. They are as follows:
1. Sheer egoism- Orwell argues that many people write simply to feel clever, to "be talked about, to be remembered after death, to get your own back on grown-ups in childhood, etc." He says that this is a great motive, although most of humanity is not "acutely selfish", and that this motive exists mainly in younger writers. He also says that it exists more in serious writers than journalists, though serious writers are "less interested in money".
2. Aesthetic enthusiasm- Orwell explains that present in writing is the desire to make one's writing look and sound good, having "pleasure in the impact of one sound on another, in the firmness of good prose or the rhythm of a good story." He says that this motive is "very feeble in a lot of writers" but still present in all works of writing.
3. Historical impulse- He sums this up by simply stating this motive is the "desire to see things as they are, to find out true facts and store them up for the use of posterity."
4. Political purpose- Orwell writes that "no book is genuinely free from political bias", and further explains that this motive is used very commonly in all forms of writing in the broadest sense, citing a "desire to push the world in a certain direction" in every person. He concludes by saying that "the opinion that art should have nothing to do with politics is itself a political attitude."
In other news, the new pokemon suck. They all look the same, they're all angular and inorganic and composed of flat, rounded shapes. The legendaries are overpopulated and indistinguishable and meaningless.
There are hardly any new shapes - it as if the previous generation was disassembled into lego parts, recolored, and built again into a new 150.
I will still buy White. The day I don't buy the new pokemon will be a very different day indeed.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
And So Summer Comes To A Close
What part of I'm Insanely Bored don't you people get? How many more inane accomplishments in The Worlds Of Warcraft do I have to achieve before you give me something to do?THERE AREN'T THAT MANY DRAKES LEFT.
In other news, Mr Oizo.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Friday, July 23, 2010
Thursday, July 15, 2010
In Which The Author Has A Run-In With A Juvenile Gecko
There is a teeny tiny gecko who will not leave me alone.
I've named him Charles. He's about an inch long, and incredibly inquisitive.
He's been running around my desk area and staring at me for about an hour now. Every so often he inches forward up to the edge of my desk, cocks his head, gauges the distance, shuffles his feet a little and springs onto my leg.
"Well hello! What are you doing here, little guy! I'm not your natural habitat!"
I gather him onto a little piece of paper and set him down on my desk again, and in three minutes he'll do it again.
He just did it again. This is getting silly. Has to be the fifth, seventh time he's done it.
By now he has to recognize what's going on. I set him down maybe two feet away, he runs down the book and to the corner of my desk where he observes the massive chasm. Then he sneaks along the edge of my desk with his head craned over until he's close enough to jump on my leg.
He's getting gusty now. Making bigger jumps, from farther away. Then he runs up to the top of my knee and poses until I gather him up and start him off again.
I like to think he's just practicing his jumping.
He just did it again.
I want to like, feed him. Find his parents. "This little scamp gone missing, madamn gecko?"
Get off that DS gecko. You can't even use a stylus.
....This is getting absurd.
Edit: I moved my knee away, and now he's just sort of right there at the edge of my desk, going "Uh....I thought we had a deal, bro. What gives?" NO GECKO IT IS TIME TO GROW UP AND EAT BUGS GET OFF OF ME.
Anyway I had a real post but it was dumb so instead you got to hear about Charles the Gecko. There are pictures and shoddy videos on my phone but I'm un...clever at getting them off my phone just this second. And by me I mean Samsung sucks.
Damn it Charles it is time for you to leave the nest. Stop making me sit awkwardly. If you jump on the chair of my arm I will relocate you.
Oh right real post. Uh um.
Mos Def is gonna be on Maui on the 23rd. I guess I'll be at a wedding instead. Oh well. Usually blatantly religious songs irk me. Mos Def is an exception to this rule!
....This is a real post now, right?
I've named him Charles. He's about an inch long, and incredibly inquisitive.
He's been running around my desk area and staring at me for about an hour now. Every so often he inches forward up to the edge of my desk, cocks his head, gauges the distance, shuffles his feet a little and springs onto my leg.
"Well hello! What are you doing here, little guy! I'm not your natural habitat!"
I gather him onto a little piece of paper and set him down on my desk again, and in three minutes he'll do it again.
He just did it again. This is getting silly. Has to be the fifth, seventh time he's done it.
By now he has to recognize what's going on. I set him down maybe two feet away, he runs down the book and to the corner of my desk where he observes the massive chasm. Then he sneaks along the edge of my desk with his head craned over until he's close enough to jump on my leg.
He's getting gusty now. Making bigger jumps, from farther away. Then he runs up to the top of my knee and poses until I gather him up and start him off again.
I like to think he's just practicing his jumping.
He just did it again.
I want to like, feed him. Find his parents. "This little scamp gone missing, madamn gecko?"
Get off that DS gecko. You can't even use a stylus.
....This is getting absurd.
Edit: I moved my knee away, and now he's just sort of right there at the edge of my desk, going "Uh....I thought we had a deal, bro. What gives?" NO GECKO IT IS TIME TO GROW UP AND EAT BUGS GET OFF OF ME.
Anyway I had a real post but it was dumb so instead you got to hear about Charles the Gecko. There are pictures and shoddy videos on my phone but I'm un...clever at getting them off my phone just this second. And by me I mean Samsung sucks.
Damn it Charles it is time for you to leave the nest. Stop making me sit awkwardly. If you jump on the chair of my arm I will relocate you.
Oh right real post. Uh um.
Mos Def is gonna be on Maui on the 23rd. I guess I'll be at a wedding instead. Oh well. Usually blatantly religious songs irk me. Mos Def is an exception to this rule!
....This is a real post now, right?
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Hey. Hey guys.
Fffffffuck you guys
I, Ted:" According to the Brazillian National Heritage Bill of '98, every music video to come out of that country has to by law follow a 1:3 culture-to-ass ratio of content - that is, one event of breakdancing/samba/capoeira to three brazillian women's asses.
This is what happens when you leave me, fuckers. Frolicking whores.
Old men playing dominos are considered optional.
I, Ted:" According to the Brazillian National Heritage Bill of '98, every music video to come out of that country has to by law follow a 1:3 culture-to-ass ratio of content - that is, one event of breakdancing/samba/capoeira to three brazillian women's asses.
This is what happens when you leave me, fuckers. Frolicking whores.
Old men playing dominos are considered optional.
Friday, July 9, 2010
Ugly Dance
Etid: light skin food air metal sex misery fire mushrooms webs ships torture beer frog spikes bleach violin ink crags sodomy money wings colorberries gods chainsaw bones puzzles babies concrete shellfish stilts entrails snow darkness isthisadream?
This is really the song that started it all.
Fucking Pendulum.
Too long! Too long chained down rendered floppy and molten useless.
Finally break free of this terrible and suspicious gravity that pervades this world.
All it took was time, time enough for sitting and waiting and wasting away in all dimensions
things were DULLED. Now I experience everything again, filters are a crutch for those who rely on sanity proper.
Let the mint of toothpaste burning your tongue be as real and visceral as any stolen kiss, any secret touch, let sensation intermingle as it ought to bring out the true in you.
Honestly. Honesty. Honey? Honor. Hone. Home.
I belong here no longer, and it knows it as much as I do. but we have passed the halfway mark together, and now I have freedom waiting at the visible end with laughter and intimacy and my own goddamn food oncemore.
Godshit I am not meant for this environment any longer, you wouldn't try and make a butterfly eat the same milkweed it had to choke down in order for it to make itself poisonous after it had hatched!
What a brilliant metaphor, I did not know, research break in middle of nightscream defiancing tells me caterpillars ingest cardenolide aglycones in order to make themselves poisonous. They are full of poison and it lasts them their whole life. They forcibly ingest enough poison in their pupal stage to give their dangerous orange color merit later on.
Inapplicable metaphor regardless continue.
What it TOOK was other people.
I am not a creator, I am no artist inmyownself I take and warp reflect twist that part and give it back and you will thank me for showing yours corrupted back again.
There was a book when I was a kid of a boy in a magic medievable castle university for mages and he garbled every spell and had no ability of his own but in the end he saved them all by acting as a conduit, an amplifier for their abilities. He was the lens the martyr the observer and focuser required to defeat whatever people couldnt do on their own.
I thought it was very different than usual, anyway, even as a kid.
People need input, I am not unique in this.
Books did it. Books here are shit, so I'm reading all the ones that I once tossed ignored into my narniadrobe. Alternate 1920's synthetic universe in a history noosphere from the future where europe has been replaced with a primordial soup of a rainjungle?
Warping, meandering intensely personal chronicle of a half dozen interweaving modern european drug dealers, fine art restorers, laundromat operators as they attempt to make sense of the juxtaposition of englands insidious past spirits unmaking connections?
Perhaps I have graduated from Dragons into this. Unwittingly.
How these people manage to craft worlds, people, in stunning clarity and originality, stuns me into oblivious worship.
What drives me is astonishment at the accomplishments of others.
Now I just need enough steady influx to maintain this to feed to microsurvive I can emerge as orange and black striped as I can manage.
This is really the song that started it all.
Fucking Pendulum.
Too long! Too long chained down rendered floppy and molten useless.
Finally break free of this terrible and suspicious gravity that pervades this world.
All it took was time, time enough for sitting and waiting and wasting away in all dimensions
things were DULLED. Now I experience everything again, filters are a crutch for those who rely on sanity proper.
Let the mint of toothpaste burning your tongue be as real and visceral as any stolen kiss, any secret touch, let sensation intermingle as it ought to bring out the true in you.
Honestly. Honesty. Honey? Honor. Hone. Home.
I belong here no longer, and it knows it as much as I do. but we have passed the halfway mark together, and now I have freedom waiting at the visible end with laughter and intimacy and my own goddamn food oncemore.
Godshit I am not meant for this environment any longer, you wouldn't try and make a butterfly eat the same milkweed it had to choke down in order for it to make itself poisonous after it had hatched!
What a brilliant metaphor, I did not know, research break in middle of nightscream defiancing tells me caterpillars ingest cardenolide aglycones in order to make themselves poisonous. They are full of poison and it lasts them their whole life. They forcibly ingest enough poison in their pupal stage to give their dangerous orange color merit later on.
Inapplicable metaphor regardless continue.
What it TOOK was other people.
I am not a creator, I am no artist inmyownself I take and warp reflect twist that part and give it back and you will thank me for showing yours corrupted back again.
There was a book when I was a kid of a boy in a magic medievable castle university for mages and he garbled every spell and had no ability of his own but in the end he saved them all by acting as a conduit, an amplifier for their abilities. He was the lens the martyr the observer and focuser required to defeat whatever people couldnt do on their own.
I thought it was very different than usual, anyway, even as a kid.
People need input, I am not unique in this.
Books did it. Books here are shit, so I'm reading all the ones that I once tossed ignored into my narniadrobe. Alternate 1920's synthetic universe in a history noosphere from the future where europe has been replaced with a primordial soup of a rainjungle?
Warping, meandering intensely personal chronicle of a half dozen interweaving modern european drug dealers, fine art restorers, laundromat operators as they attempt to make sense of the juxtaposition of englands insidious past spirits unmaking connections?
Perhaps I have graduated from Dragons into this. Unwittingly.
How these people manage to craft worlds, people, in stunning clarity and originality, stuns me into oblivious worship.
What drives me is astonishment at the accomplishments of others.
Now I just need enough steady influx to maintain this to feed to microsurvive I can emerge as orange and black striped as I can manage.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Veus Dox
Stage one is complete, I am thinking. The part where I sort of cast about wildly and look, look, observe.
Here is the gist of it: I have been doing this in an incomplete fashion. By nature, all the songs I post on here and there have been put through the selection thresher of my exquisite tastes.
They are the stuff that sticks in your head and are highly enjoyable to listen to, but a dinner of nothing but Turkish Delight proved to be one young boys downfall and this metaphor is that it is time to grow up and also something about Narnia?
I Need. More. Music.
I need binders full of discs. I need crates full of music. I need more that is if not equally good, at least adequate.
And that takes a fair decent amount of time. You have to listen to songs in real time to get a proper feel for them, and I need literally hours of music that I can paint with.
AND it's always been the hard part for me, is accepting things I don't particularly enjoy the flavor of - not to say I dislike so much as prefer other varieties.
God I hate Tiesto. I hate Tiesto so much right in his stupid face.
I dislike trance, but love house.
I dislike acid house, but love electro house.
I love dubstep but hate darkstep.
I love drum and bass and breakbeat but hate glitch.
I hate minimalist, some trip-hop is nice, high-energy rave stuff is an aural assault (seen that porn), and wobble bass is the best sliced bread since thing.
So. Obviously there are some hurdles I will have to overcome, or some hoops I'll have to jump through to manage a proper set list library without playing the same. fucking. UNST UNST UNST. for ten minutes my GOD I hate Tiesto.
So my new rule is, if I hear a song that's remotely bearable I am by law required to hunt it down and physically download it. I need a decent quality copy on my drive so I can manhandle it. Youtube-only songs are no longer allowed. Unless youtube downloading software has suddenly made a giant upswing in quality.
Have they?
Here is the gist of it: I have been doing this in an incomplete fashion. By nature, all the songs I post on here and there have been put through the selection thresher of my exquisite tastes.
They are the stuff that sticks in your head and are highly enjoyable to listen to, but a dinner of nothing but Turkish Delight proved to be one young boys downfall and this metaphor is that it is time to grow up and also something about Narnia?
I Need. More. Music.
I need binders full of discs. I need crates full of music. I need more that is if not equally good, at least adequate.
And that takes a fair decent amount of time. You have to listen to songs in real time to get a proper feel for them, and I need literally hours of music that I can paint with.
AND it's always been the hard part for me, is accepting things I don't particularly enjoy the flavor of - not to say I dislike so much as prefer other varieties.
God I hate Tiesto. I hate Tiesto so much right in his stupid face.
I dislike trance, but love house.
I dislike acid house, but love electro house.
I love dubstep but hate darkstep.
I love drum and bass and breakbeat but hate glitch.
I hate minimalist, some trip-hop is nice, high-energy rave stuff is an aural assault (seen that porn), and wobble bass is the best sliced bread since thing.
So. Obviously there are some hurdles I will have to overcome, or some hoops I'll have to jump through to manage a proper set list library without playing the same. fucking. UNST UNST UNST. for ten minutes my GOD I hate Tiesto.
So my new rule is, if I hear a song that's remotely bearable I am by law required to hunt it down and physically download it. I need a decent quality copy on my drive so I can manhandle it. Youtube-only songs are no longer allowed. Unless youtube downloading software has suddenly made a giant upswing in quality.
Have they?
Monday, June 7, 2010
Am I A Sinner Because I Lust For You?
Gentlemen!
I have nothing to do.
It's, I mean, I've truly exhausted the entire "sit down" portion of the internet. Not in content, perhaps, but most definitely in ability.
Oh this island is awful. Offal. Wreckage. Detritus.
Late night discussions, apparently, are all we are capable of here.
Or rather. Late night drunken tirades. We take turns.
I also send texts. Here is a gem from last night, verbatim:
"
;
v7ttttqiooo cell ohone upside down deiciouus pasta. And whorres."
Oh lordy loo.
I need a hobby, a time waster. Ask me about my Cataclysm preparations.
So. SO.
I'm going to do something I haven't done in, uh, ever.
I'm going to sit and listen to the radio.
No, not that bullshit 98.1 FM bullshit No Song You Haven't Heard Yesterday And Forevermorebestofthe80s90'sandtodayareyougettingtiredofthesame15songsyetordoyouonlyplaytheradiotocoverupyourowndesperatesilenceyouawfulperson.
I'm going to listen to Pete Tong's Essential Mix on BBC Radio 1 and he is going to instruct me on what people want to listen to.
My end goal for this project is an hour, maybe two or three, of solid transitioning and crossfading beatmatching etcetc dance music, hand selected by me.
You there. Arcadian. Give me your electrohouse. Give me your big beat dubstep wobblebass.
Give me, as Lily Allen put it, "any kind of like, sort of punk-y electronica kind of grime, kind of like new-wave grime, kind of maybe like more broken beats, like kind of dubby broken beats but a little bit kind of soulful? like kind of drumandbass-y, but kind of more broken drumandbass-y, like a kind of broken beats break beat kind of broken drum bass kind of..."
Edit: Oh you know I can't stay mad at you, internet.
MARK RONSON ILOVEYOOOOOU
Biggie, you're okay too.
I have nothing to do.
It's, I mean, I've truly exhausted the entire "sit down" portion of the internet. Not in content, perhaps, but most definitely in ability.
Oh this island is awful. Offal. Wreckage. Detritus.
Late night discussions, apparently, are all we are capable of here.
Or rather. Late night drunken tirades. We take turns.
I also send texts. Here is a gem from last night, verbatim:
"
;
v7ttttqiooo cell ohone upside down deiciouus pasta. And whorres."
Oh lordy loo.
I need a hobby, a time waster. Ask me about my Cataclysm preparations.
So. SO.
I'm going to do something I haven't done in, uh, ever.
I'm going to sit and listen to the radio.
No, not that bullshit 98.1 FM bullshit No Song You Haven't Heard Yesterday And Forevermorebestofthe80s90'sandtodayareyougettingtiredofthesame15songsyetordoyouonlyplaytheradiotocoverupyourowndesperatesilenceyouawfulperson.
I'm going to listen to Pete Tong's Essential Mix on BBC Radio 1 and he is going to instruct me on what people want to listen to.
My end goal for this project is an hour, maybe two or three, of solid transitioning and crossfading beatmatching etcetc dance music, hand selected by me.
You there. Arcadian. Give me your electrohouse. Give me your big beat dubstep wobblebass.
Give me, as Lily Allen put it, "any kind of like, sort of punk-y electronica kind of grime, kind of like new-wave grime, kind of maybe like more broken beats, like kind of dubby broken beats but a little bit kind of soulful? like kind of drumandbass-y, but kind of more broken drumandbass-y, like a kind of broken beats break beat kind of broken drum bass kind of..."
Edit: Oh you know I can't stay mad at you, internet.
MARK RONSON ILOVEYOOOOOU
Biggie, you're okay too.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Nope, Wait, That's Stronger Than My Body
Wahhhhrrrhhgh
I have grown fat and happy in my dotage. Rain and grey and the warmth of satisfaction have set me out to pasture, and I'm totally okay with it except for the part where I'm exiled to this, my Saint Helena, for the next two months.
And so quickly, too!
Usually I travel at a slow enough pace that I gather my bearings, proceed with some dignity, and adapt. My philosophy of isolate and resume, remember. The world of California and the world of Maui and the world of College, three separate worlds of Mother and Father and Self that I maintained for as long as I've had them.
Only in the past day or two I've blazed from one, past the other, and fallen into the third before I was capable of remembering how I'm supposed to act here.
Hrmmmmm.
I was thin and miserable and sharp, or at least I fancied myself acceptably so. I had established myself as such, anyway, a while ago.
Like the end of the Lion, Witch and Wardrobe. They fall back out and go "Uh, buh, kingdom, grownup, stag hunt, oh right boarding school and war. Damn."
Only in reverse, I suppose. That's what it feels like.
It doesn't help that I can just waltz into Foodland and go "one vodka please".
Actually, that doesn't help, because the shit is COSTLY here on Saint Helena.
Oh I miss my computer. This laptop is insufficient.
Here is the problem: I have no purpose. I am in suspended animation for the summer, with no goals and no intentions, and I have no desire for my current situation.
I didn't need a break. I was fine. Give me more school, give me the same thing I just had. God I hate change. I hate the end of the school year, I hate the end of the semester! I hate the end of the week! I just like doing what I'm doing, why does everyone think you have to finish just when you're comfortable. Yes, finals were difficult and I lost some sleep and teeth like everyone else, but then you coma up for a week and you're fine! Lets go!
(Summerschool? Summerschool might work, but I doubt the schedule will fit as finely as I've shaved my schedule)
I used to go "why would I do anything else with my summer but the traditional return to alcatraz?". It's the way it goes, we all show up in hoods and torches and go "yes, hello, I remember you, lets drink and pretend" and it's usually quite fun and I was confused as to why people seemed to stop doing it and now I realize it is out of necessity and inability. Eventually it is no longer an option. I wonder what I shall do next summer. I hope it isn't work. I hate work.
Hey, look, over there! It's the new Pendulum album!
Immersion is out!
I have figured out why I like Pendulum so damn much - other than the boring reason of "seamless blend of drum&bass and 'what DeathCab would sound like if they were all dubstep maniac badasses'".
Pendulum produces the type of songs I would want to start playing in the background if I suddenly discovered I could fling fire from my fingertips.
That is an incredibly accurate description.
If I don't find something to do in the next week I'm going to build a Warhammer and fight Caleb.
Possibly The World.
I have grown fat and happy in my dotage. Rain and grey and the warmth of satisfaction have set me out to pasture, and I'm totally okay with it except for the part where I'm exiled to this, my Saint Helena, for the next two months.
And so quickly, too!
Usually I travel at a slow enough pace that I gather my bearings, proceed with some dignity, and adapt. My philosophy of isolate and resume, remember. The world of California and the world of Maui and the world of College, three separate worlds of Mother and Father and Self that I maintained for as long as I've had them.
Only in the past day or two I've blazed from one, past the other, and fallen into the third before I was capable of remembering how I'm supposed to act here.
Hrmmmmm.
I was thin and miserable and sharp, or at least I fancied myself acceptably so. I had established myself as such, anyway, a while ago.
Like the end of the Lion, Witch and Wardrobe. They fall back out and go "Uh, buh, kingdom, grownup, stag hunt, oh right boarding school and war. Damn."
Only in reverse, I suppose. That's what it feels like.
It doesn't help that I can just waltz into Foodland and go "one vodka please".
Actually, that doesn't help, because the shit is COSTLY here on Saint Helena.
Oh I miss my computer. This laptop is insufficient.
Here is the problem: I have no purpose. I am in suspended animation for the summer, with no goals and no intentions, and I have no desire for my current situation.
I didn't need a break. I was fine. Give me more school, give me the same thing I just had. God I hate change. I hate the end of the school year, I hate the end of the semester! I hate the end of the week! I just like doing what I'm doing, why does everyone think you have to finish just when you're comfortable. Yes, finals were difficult and I lost some sleep and teeth like everyone else, but then you coma up for a week and you're fine! Lets go!
(Summerschool? Summerschool might work, but I doubt the schedule will fit as finely as I've shaved my schedule)
I used to go "why would I do anything else with my summer but the traditional return to alcatraz?". It's the way it goes, we all show up in hoods and torches and go "yes, hello, I remember you, lets drink and pretend" and it's usually quite fun and I was confused as to why people seemed to stop doing it and now I realize it is out of necessity and inability. Eventually it is no longer an option. I wonder what I shall do next summer. I hope it isn't work. I hate work.
Hey, look, over there! It's the new Pendulum album!
Immersion is out!
I have figured out why I like Pendulum so damn much - other than the boring reason of "seamless blend of drum&bass and 'what DeathCab would sound like if they were all dubstep maniac badasses'".
Pendulum produces the type of songs I would want to start playing in the background if I suddenly discovered I could fling fire from my fingertips.
That is an incredibly accurate description.
If I don't find something to do in the next week I'm going to build a Warhammer and fight Caleb.
Possibly The World.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Now Wat
Finals over. Maui in 2 weeks exactly.
Um um um. New computer. Information to follow.
That's about it.
What did I do before I took tests?
Oh right. Post stupid shit on the internet.
I should get some new music...
Um um um. New computer. Information to follow.
That's about it.
What did I do before I took tests?
Oh right. Post stupid shit on the internet.
I should get some new music...
Monday, April 19, 2010
Listening To Music As With Griffin Weston
Mother of Fuck.
God Damn It Quincy Jones One Of These Days. The credit you earned from Thriller and Soul Bossa Nova is running out, my friend.
Corrupting Akon with your latest abomination is stretching it a little fucking thin.
Now, I mean, if you take it at face value, it isn't that bad.
And I have nothing against Akon! Akon is alright! Akon...successfully uses the correct amount of Autotune, and he's allowed to because his voice is actually quite versatile and good and blah blah good businessman as well as good voice-man.
Do every single one of his songs sound the same? Absolutely.
(Does the song he did with David Guetta sound exactly like every other Guetta guest star song? Yes. But that's beyond the point, because it's exactly what I want to hear when I step into the club.With or without a bottle full of bub. Why do I have to say that every fucking time.)
However, I've discovered another interesting phenomenon exclusive to me.
I like Akon because he's real.
Now, that's a highly specific word in the overarching hip-hop terminology.
Authenticity is one of the most highly prized characteristics for American music artists today - especially in hip-hop, where the song content often has to do with personal representation, bragging, storytelling, etc etcI'm whiiiiiiite.
Growing up in the ghetto is one of the greatest things that can happen to you as a rapper. Fuck, you could make the case that it's mandatory.
(And that might be a legitimate claim, actually. If you want to connect with that audience you sure as hell better be able to give them a reason to listen to you)
For American artists in particular, this means New York City (Run Fucking DMC,Jay-Z, B.I.G, etc). MAYBE Chicago (Kanye, Common, etc.) or Philly (The Roots, Will Fucking Smith In west Philadelphia, born and raised...?), or Los Angeles if you're lucky (N.W.A, Dr. Dre, etc).
You're pretty fucked if you aren't from the nasty part of a major city.
Which I don't like, of course, because it results in authenticity being such a peacocked characteristic that it masks a lot of personality in stereotypes. Oh, you're from Brooklyn? You're going to rep the FUCK out of Brooklyn, aren't you. You're going to have stomping beats and splashy snares and your music videos are going to have a lot of panning shots of graffiti.
Because that's Brooklyn, goddammit, and that's fine!
But I've developed a new....tic, a new tendency, because of this:
If you're a hip hop artist from OUTSIDE the United States, you automatically have me won over to a significant degree.
If you're any good at all, you will garner my respect much much faster than your respective stateside equal.
Is this bad? It just seems logical to me. It's a continuation of the thought process.
You think you're tough in Ohio? Go to Los Angeles, they're rough as shit.
You think you're tough in L.A., go to Brooklyn.
You think you're tough in the U.S.?
Go to fucking AFRICA.
International artists have an automatic win card.
Back to Akon, for example. He's from Dakar,Senegal.
So, in fact, is MC Solaar.
M.I.A. is, of course, from Sri Lanka.
This guy, Blitz the Ambassador
is from Ghana.
Fuck, man! I don't even know where Ghana is.
50 Cent got shot nine times? Who gives a dick. This guy is from GHANA.
(Also he's got a live horn section on his tracks and is actually quite good regardless of his country of origin. I'm using him to prove a point.)
Hell, even Rihanna is from Barbados, and that makes me like her more because sometimes it shines through! It's legitimate!
("Rude boy", of course, being the Anglo/Jamaican term for either a street-level gangster-type or a fat white boy who likes ska way too much. You decide which one she was going for here.The giant pixelated Rastafarian lions in the background might help with that decision)
You can't let it define the musician, though.
That's stereotyping.Is Was Nujabes good because he was Japanese? No. Can you tell absolutely that he's Japanese when you listen to his music? Absolutely.
More importantly, are there a shitload of really shitty international artists? F'sho.
It's just like everything else, I suppose. It's a beneficial characteristic on those characters who are already beneficial, and it's null and void on those who don't have anything else.
Makeup makes pretty people look prettier, and boring people look like they're wearing makeup.
How depressing.
Oh, and by the way - the reason I'mpissed disgruntled with Quincy Jones and Akon (remember? remember from the beginning? go. go listen. go check em.)
is because it's a shitty cover of the song "Strawberry Letter 23" by The Brothers Johnson, one of the greatest funk duos of all time.
SO MUCH BETTER.
God Damn It Quincy Jones One Of These Days. The credit you earned from Thriller and Soul Bossa Nova is running out, my friend.
Corrupting Akon with your latest abomination is stretching it a little fucking thin.
Now, I mean, if you take it at face value, it isn't that bad.
And I have nothing against Akon! Akon is alright! Akon...successfully uses the correct amount of Autotune, and he's allowed to because his voice is actually quite versatile and good and blah blah good businessman as well as good voice-man.
Do every single one of his songs sound the same? Absolutely.
(Does the song he did with David Guetta sound exactly like every other Guetta guest star song? Yes. But that's beyond the point, because it's exactly what I want to hear when I step into the club.
However, I've discovered another interesting phenomenon exclusive to me.
I like Akon because he's real.
Now, that's a highly specific word in the overarching hip-hop terminology.
Authenticity is one of the most highly prized characteristics for American music artists today - especially in hip-hop, where the song content often has to do with personal representation, bragging, storytelling, etc etc
Growing up in the ghetto is one of the greatest things that can happen to you as a rapper. Fuck, you could make the case that it's mandatory.
(And that might be a legitimate claim, actually. If you want to connect with that audience you sure as hell better be able to give them a reason to listen to you)
For American artists in particular, this means New York City (Run Fucking DMC,Jay-Z, B.I.G, etc). MAYBE Chicago (Kanye, Common, etc.) or Philly (The Roots, Will Fucking Smith In west Philadelphia, born and raised...?), or Los Angeles if you're lucky (N.W.A, Dr. Dre, etc).
You're pretty fucked if you aren't from the nasty part of a major city.
Which I don't like, of course, because it results in authenticity being such a peacocked characteristic that it masks a lot of personality in stereotypes. Oh, you're from Brooklyn? You're going to rep the FUCK out of Brooklyn, aren't you. You're going to have stomping beats and splashy snares and your music videos are going to have a lot of panning shots of graffiti.
Because that's Brooklyn, goddammit, and that's fine!
But I've developed a new....tic, a new tendency, because of this:
If you're a hip hop artist from OUTSIDE the United States, you automatically have me won over to a significant degree.
If you're any good at all, you will garner my respect much much faster than your respective stateside equal.
Is this bad? It just seems logical to me. It's a continuation of the thought process.
You think you're tough in Ohio? Go to Los Angeles, they're rough as shit.
You think you're tough in L.A., go to Brooklyn.
You think you're tough in the U.S.?
Go to fucking AFRICA.
International artists have an automatic win card.
Back to Akon, for example. He's from Dakar,Senegal.
So, in fact, is MC Solaar.
M.I.A. is, of course, from Sri Lanka.
This guy, Blitz the Ambassador
is from Ghana.
Fuck, man! I don't even know where Ghana is.
50 Cent got shot nine times? Who gives a dick. This guy is from GHANA.
(Also he's got a live horn section on his tracks and is actually quite good regardless of his country of origin. I'm using him to prove a point.)
Hell, even Rihanna is from Barbados, and that makes me like her more because sometimes it shines through! It's legitimate!
("Rude boy", of course, being the Anglo/Jamaican term for either a street-level gangster-type or a fat white boy who likes ska way too much. You decide which one she was going for here.
You can't let it define the musician, though.
That's stereotyping.
More importantly, are there a shitload of really shitty international artists? F'sho.
It's just like everything else, I suppose. It's a beneficial characteristic on those characters who are already beneficial, and it's null and void on those who don't have anything else.
Makeup makes pretty people look prettier, and boring people look like they're wearing makeup.
How depressing.
Oh, and by the way - the reason I'm
is because it's a shitty cover of the song "Strawberry Letter 23" by The Brothers Johnson, one of the greatest funk duos of all time.
SO MUCH BETTER.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
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I don't listen to the words of hip hop.
Wait for it.
I mean, I do, I acknowledge that there are words being said and often I will follow along - especially if the flow is well done and if the wordplay is hilarious.
Does Jay Z "check cheddar like a food inspector"? Absolutely.
Does Kanye West have a "Jones like Norah for your sorror'"? Fuck, of course.
Is NOE in a rush, so should you "show the money like Maguire, or get your ass nestled in a trunk like a tire" because the "situation's dire" and he's "not a new buyer" so should you better get it or "you can feel the Cannon like Mariah"?
....Goddamn. Let me run that past you - NOE is performing a drug deal, and he wishes to just get it over with easy and quick. He references the movie Jerry Maguire, in which Cuba Gooding Jr's catchphrase is "show me the money!", and threatens that if you do not comply he will shoot you - a play on the slang "cannon" for giant ass handgun being exchanged for Nick Cannon, who married Mariah Carey in 2008. Holy fuck.
However, I isolate exemplary shows of master wordsmithing. I don't listen to the song as a whole, I don't follow the "story" that songs apparently follow. The title isn't a preview and I don't finish agreeing with the singer.
This is not exclusive to hip hop, it's just most evident there. Words account for more mean weight per song than in, say, rock music.
Now, of course, the moment I realized this trend of mine I immediately began reversing it. I've been listening earnestly to the message songs are (I assume) attempting to convey to me, the listener.
This is exactly what our old Republican tightass ancestors feared. Obviously I'm going to surround myself with hookers and blow and the blood of innocents.
Actually, I'm going to immerse myself in music I A)listen to fairly frequently and B)consider the vocals to merely be another instrument, unladen with greater significance than as a rad noise element.
What I've been finding out is, song lyrics are usually basically the equivalent of literary fluff in essays you used to write for English Lit.
To sing for several minutes about a single subject is pretty damn intensive, and apparently the modus operandi is to say the same damn thing over and over again until a sweet guitar solo picks it up.
This is most evident in "older" music like general rock and roll or blues.
Led Zeppelin's "Babe I'm Gonna Leave You" is basically Robert Plant wailing about how he absolutely has to leave his lady, for no apparent reason. For six and a half minutes.
Jimi Hendrix's "Foxy Lady" is, as you can guess, Jimi basically soundfucking this girl with his guitar and voice. This girl is a stone cold fox, and Jimi (noticing this) makes the case that he needs to get on top of that like immediately. For three minutes he advances until the song just sort of anticlimactically fades out. (Actually, the Experience always had a real hard time deciding how to end this song. Fun History Fact)
(Not implying, of course, that all rock is straightforwardly titled. Paul McCartney is recorded as saying "Let the fuckers work that one out." while writing I Am The Walrus, and so on. Usually rock going pear-shaped is a direct measure of how drug addled the singer is at the time.)
This travels to the hip hop genre pretty fluidly.
Notorious B.I.G. raps in "Big Poppa" about how he loves it when girls call him Big Poppa.
But it goes so much farther than just matching song content with the title.
He says the same goddamn thing for four minutes:
He calls the attention of all the honeys in the club. Informs them where he'll be, and drops hints about how horrifyingly stuffed with cash money his pockets are. He assures the women of his stupendous sexual prowess - and as well, indeed, the sexual prowess and economic status of his entire crew.
That's verse ONE.
Verses two and three further compound on this general idea. He actually lays down a gameplan for the night in verse 2 and fits in time for a little self reflection on how nice his life is now that he doesn't have to sell drugs for a living (not to imply that he's some kind of pussy fag, he still straps gats cause he's a hardass thug).
I guess what got to me is the concept of saying the same thing for multiple minutes, considering that that's such a cardinal sin in any other medium.
As well, the fact that I listen to these songs so often and yet completely ignore the overarching message that (I can only assume) the musicians intentionally crafted me to listen to.
That's why hip hop distinguishes itself - so much importance is placed on the words the emcee is delivering. It's a specific message, it's a statement, it's got weight.
At least, you know, like, decent hip hop. 50 Cent is obviously worthless
Not that that is inherently better because of that. Music doesn't always have to be such a charged bomb of importance. Jamiroquai probably doesn't give a shit about much other than dancing and fuckin' ladies and smoking cheeba. (Disregard the songs Virtual Reality and the entire album Emergency on Planet Earth, which blatantly contradicts my previous statement)
I guess what I'm saying to is that all music revolves around sex
except in the case of rock music where 10% of it revolves around just being rad(see Foo Fighters etc), 5% of it revolves around the opinions of the artists (see Rage Against the Machine etc), and 5% of it is completely acknowledged as nothing more than a vehicle for noise (see any Radiohead song, White Stripes), and the REST revolves around sex (see everyone else especially the Red Hot Chili Peppers.
except in the case of hip hop, where 20% of it revolves around how great the artist is (see[among others] Jay Z, Copywrite, Aceyalone etc), 20% of it revolves around money and ways of getting/losing it (Wu Tang, etc) 10% of it revolves around the opinions of the artists - usually on how damn racist white folks are(Mos Def and Talib Kweli, etc), 5% of it revolves around the concept of Old School Hip Hop (Jurassic Five, Soul Position), and 5% of it is completely acknowledged as nothing more than a vehicle for noise (see Outkast's middle albums, Del The Funkee Homosapien, etc)
and the REST revolves around sex.
100% of all funk music revolves around sex.
100% of all electronic music revolves around electronic music.
100% of all indie rock revolves around revolving around indie rock.
Bjork revolves around a small pebble in Iceland.
Kanye West orbits around himself.
Jack Johnson orbits the concept of frisbee golf
Yeasayer orbits the planet Glorgnarg in the Farbzee Nebula
Griffin Weston keeps making jokes only he thinks are funny
Wait for it.
I mean, I do, I acknowledge that there are words being said and often I will follow along - especially if the flow is well done and if the wordplay is hilarious.
Does Jay Z "check cheddar like a food inspector"? Absolutely.
Does Kanye West have a "Jones like Norah for your sorror'"? Fuck, of course.
Is NOE in a rush, so should you "show the money like Maguire, or get your ass nestled in a trunk like a tire" because the "situation's dire" and he's "not a new buyer" so should you better get it or "you can feel the Cannon like Mariah"?
....Goddamn. Let me run that past you - NOE is performing a drug deal, and he wishes to just get it over with easy and quick. He references the movie Jerry Maguire, in which Cuba Gooding Jr's catchphrase is "show me the money!", and threatens that if you do not comply he will shoot you - a play on the slang "cannon" for giant ass handgun being exchanged for Nick Cannon, who married Mariah Carey in 2008. Holy fuck.
However, I isolate exemplary shows of master wordsmithing. I don't listen to the song as a whole, I don't follow the "story" that songs apparently follow. The title isn't a preview and I don't finish agreeing with the singer.
This is not exclusive to hip hop, it's just most evident there. Words account for more mean weight per song than in, say, rock music.
Now, of course, the moment I realized this trend of mine I immediately began reversing it. I've been listening earnestly to the message songs are (I assume) attempting to convey to me, the listener.
This is exactly what our old Republican tightass ancestors feared. Obviously I'm going to surround myself with hookers and blow and the blood of innocents.
Actually, I'm going to immerse myself in music I A)listen to fairly frequently and B)consider the vocals to merely be another instrument, unladen with greater significance than as a rad noise element.
What I've been finding out is, song lyrics are usually basically the equivalent of literary fluff in essays you used to write for English Lit.
To sing for several minutes about a single subject is pretty damn intensive, and apparently the modus operandi is to say the same damn thing over and over again until a sweet guitar solo picks it up.
This is most evident in "older" music like general rock and roll or blues.
Led Zeppelin's "Babe I'm Gonna Leave You" is basically Robert Plant wailing about how he absolutely has to leave his lady, for no apparent reason. For six and a half minutes.
Jimi Hendrix's "Foxy Lady" is, as you can guess, Jimi basically soundfucking this girl with his guitar and voice. This girl is a stone cold fox, and Jimi (noticing this) makes the case that he needs to get on top of that like immediately. For three minutes he advances until the song just sort of anticlimactically fades out. (Actually, the Experience always had a real hard time deciding how to end this song. Fun History Fact)
(Not implying, of course, that all rock is straightforwardly titled. Paul McCartney is recorded as saying "Let the fuckers work that one out." while writing I Am The Walrus, and so on. Usually rock going pear-shaped is a direct measure of how drug addled the singer is at the time.)
This travels to the hip hop genre pretty fluidly.
Notorious B.I.G. raps in "Big Poppa" about how he loves it when girls call him Big Poppa.
But it goes so much farther than just matching song content with the title.
He says the same goddamn thing for four minutes:
He calls the attention of all the honeys in the club. Informs them where he'll be, and drops hints about how horrifyingly stuffed with cash money his pockets are. He assures the women of his stupendous sexual prowess - and as well, indeed, the sexual prowess and economic status of his entire crew.
That's verse ONE.
Verses two and three further compound on this general idea. He actually lays down a gameplan for the night in verse 2 and fits in time for a little self reflection on how nice his life is now that he doesn't have to sell drugs for a living (not to imply that he's some kind of pussy fag, he still straps gats cause he's a hardass thug).
I guess what got to me is the concept of saying the same thing for multiple minutes, considering that that's such a cardinal sin in any other medium.
As well, the fact that I listen to these songs so often and yet completely ignore the overarching message that (I can only assume) the musicians intentionally crafted me to listen to.
That's why hip hop distinguishes itself - so much importance is placed on the words the emcee is delivering. It's a specific message, it's a statement, it's got weight.
At least, you know, like, decent hip hop. 50 Cent is obviously worthless
Not that that is inherently better because of that. Music doesn't always have to be such a charged bomb of importance. Jamiroquai probably doesn't give a shit about much other than dancing and fuckin' ladies and smoking cheeba. (Disregard the songs Virtual Reality and the entire album Emergency on Planet Earth, which blatantly contradicts my previous statement)
I guess what I'm saying to is that all music revolves around sex
except in the case of rock music where 10% of it revolves around just being rad(see Foo Fighters etc), 5% of it revolves around the opinions of the artists (see Rage Against the Machine etc), and 5% of it is completely acknowledged as nothing more than a vehicle for noise (see any Radiohead song, White Stripes), and the REST revolves around sex (see everyone else especially the Red Hot Chili Peppers.
except in the case of hip hop, where 20% of it revolves around how great the artist is (see[among others] Jay Z, Copywrite, Aceyalone etc), 20% of it revolves around money and ways of getting/losing it (Wu Tang, etc) 10% of it revolves around the opinions of the artists - usually on how damn racist white folks are(Mos Def and Talib Kweli, etc), 5% of it revolves around the concept of Old School Hip Hop (Jurassic Five, Soul Position), and 5% of it is completely acknowledged as nothing more than a vehicle for noise (see Outkast's middle albums, Del The Funkee Homosapien, etc)
and the REST revolves around sex.
100% of all funk music revolves around sex.
100% of all electronic music revolves around electronic music.
100% of all indie rock revolves around revolving around indie rock.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
It seems like this blog has devolved. Oh, the time, it slips away
Nearly every chapter of this book used Sagan as the “model”, or as the perfect example of what the scientific community needs to emulate. He made science interesting to everyone (willing to watch Cosmos), he played the media expertly (he wrote Contact, for crying out loud), he explained without dumbing down (too explicitly), he held the ear of the President (a few, anyway), and managed to churn out insightful and (most importantly to many) professional and diligent scientific publications.
It seems as if all of the many steps Mooney and Kirshenbaum outline as being needed to take are specifically planned to tailor our universities towards producing the next scientific Kiwsatz Haderach.
And yes, that’s a Dune joke. It seemed appropriate for an Environmental Politics class.
Well, I've always been a fan of white boys who can sing. VevoYoutubeBannerAdwhatever just reminded me that I need to get Daniel Merriweather's album (see: Mark Ronson post for a quick reminder).
It also reminded me of Jamie Lidell.
Oh Jamie Lidell.
Imagine if...Gnarls Barkley grew up in an affluent white neighborhood.
Imagine if Sufjan Stevens was a beatboxer. Imagine if Jamiroquai and....a dancing Sam Rockwell from Charlie's Angels had a baby.
That was British. And had a set of fucking PIPES on him. Observe.
Eh?
Oh my gaaawd, and if that hasn't sold you, watch him kill his unicorn girlfriend with an axe.
Wait, what?
Or: Ignore the video (srsly, corrupted)
It seems as if all of the many steps Mooney and Kirshenbaum outline as being needed to take are specifically planned to tailor our universities towards producing the next scientific Kiwsatz Haderach.
And yes, that’s a Dune joke. It seemed appropriate for an Environmental Politics class.
Well, I've always been a fan of white boys who can sing. VevoYoutubeBannerAdwhatever just reminded me that I need to get Daniel Merriweather's album (see: Mark Ronson post for a quick reminder).
It also reminded me of Jamie Lidell.
Oh Jamie Lidell.
Imagine if...Gnarls Barkley grew up in an affluent white neighborhood.
Imagine if Sufjan Stevens was a beatboxer. Imagine if Jamiroquai and....a dancing Sam Rockwell from Charlie's Angels had a baby.
That was British. And had a set of fucking PIPES on him. Observe.
Eh?
Oh my gaaawd, and if that hasn't sold you, watch him kill his unicorn girlfriend with an axe.
Wait, what?
Or: Ignore the video (srsly, corrupted)
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
I have absolutely nothing more to say
The movie that will inevitably be made of my life will involve this song during a montage of my daily routine. It beats that damn "I AAAM A MAAAAAHN, DAAAAILY GRIIIIND" song that currently dominates.
Breaded: Hello, chums! This is Griffin's hindbrain speaking. Do you have a nice pair of speakers? Do you have fancy headphones, of the type that go all-the-big-boy-way around the ear? Do you have sound software with an equalizer? Have you been thinking too much recently?
Turn that bass up and sit tight until the drop hits at 3:30.
The entire three and a half minutes before that is intentional buildup.
JUST. LISTEN.
Breaded: Hello, chums! This is Griffin's hindbrain speaking. Do you have a nice pair of speakers? Do you have fancy headphones, of the type that go all-the-big-boy-way around the ear? Do you have sound software with an equalizer? Have you been thinking too much recently?
Turn that bass up and sit tight until the drop hits at 3:30.
The entire three and a half minutes before that is intentional buildup.
JUST. LISTEN.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Cell Phone Popcorn And The Shit That It Entails
I wrote this letter just now, and I figured it was worth sharing.
Nobody has perfect parents. In fact, all things considered, I actually have the greatest parents I know of save for Gabe's mom (and A. I'm sure she's got her flaws and B. that's balanced out by his shitbag of a dad {sorry Gabe}).
I never had any teenage screaming fits with my parents, I was raised freely and lovingly, and I find both my mom and dad to be entertaining, enjoyable, and engaging conversationalists (which, if you know me, is a serious compliment.)
That being said, I don't know of anyone who can't name some incredibly obviously wrong thing their parent(s) believe in - whether it's mistrust of GMOs or a belief that homosexuality is a sin or that 9/11 was an inside job OR something as insignificant but still bothersome as:
The idea that cell phones are capable of popping popcorn. Which leads me to this essay.
Dearest Mother,
I'm a big fan of technology. I'm also a big fan of skepticism. These two cross a lot more often than I'd like, and I usually have to take the defensive stance protecting some element of technology that's supposedly causing harm, or will be a problem, or blah blah something bad.
The point is, cell phones are recent. The internet is recent. Recent technology - indeed, recent anything - causes suspicion and fear in a lot of people. Fear that is usually completely unfounded, or brought about due to rumors or latent mistrust or unfamiliarity with this new thing.
Mostly though, it's the rumors. People can lie, and they do, and technology just makes it easier.
When photographs came out, they were initially taken as the final proof of evidence. A picture of an event proved it happened.
Nowadays, we know Photoshop can literally make any picture look like anything you want. You can make Obama ride a skateboard out of an exploding helicopter while waving nunchucks about, and more importantly you can make it look real.
It's the same with sound, the same with video - you can fake anything. We have entire movies of digital effects now. (Incidentally, have you seen Avatar yet? It's worth a theater view, even if you don't opt for the 3D).
And you can put these fake videos on youtube, and hundreds of thousands of people can watch them, and this literal hoax can propagate through enough people that it gets distorted into an accepted truth.
Just like pictures, just like video, only moreso - information on the internet has to be incredibly carefully scrutinized, because the vast majority of it is bullshit spread through either purposeful incorrectness or genuine ignorance/stupidity.
If this is coming across as heavy-handed or patronizing, I apologize, but I've recently been dealing with a lot of people who are convinced of things that (to put it politely) "go against the facts".
I truly think that misinformation (intentional or otherwise) is one of the biggest contributors to any levels of ignorance and misunderstanding that plague the human race.
Only through willful and diligent scrutiny of all incoming bits of information can we, as individuals, avoid the traps of ignorance and the subsequent prejudice, fear, and mistrust it brings about.
Those are heavy words, but I stand by them. Everything I've learned and am continuing to learn in my classes backs me up on this - my logic class, my religion classes, my history classes and especially my current environmental politics class.
So many actions, so many beliefs are based on faulty or incorrect data, or at the very least data that has been bent, shrouded, or warped to fit the agenda of whoever is using it.
Now, you and I and most folk we know aren't going to be in any position to screw shit up too bad but we still have our own beliefs and our own methods of receiving information that we need to watch out for.
The offhanded remark about cell phones being able to pop popcorn kernels immediately sent a jolt of wariness through me when I heard it, and I'm going to use it as a model example.
Because (IF it's true) it's a serious concern. A lot of people use cell phones, including people we know.
So let's think about it. Scientifically. What do we know about cell phones? Not much, actually. I personally don't know much other than they use electromagnetic radiation to transmit information across long distances. That sounds pretty powerful, and pretty scary, when you first think about it. But when you realize that we've been using electromagnetic radiation since the invention of the Radio, and that information sent to the rabbit ears of TV's is way larger and more powerful than anything a cell phone can put out, it becomes less scary.
So what do we know about popcorn?
Well, once again, not that much. But I am familiar with the fact that you have to either cook the kernels in oil that is frickin scalding or microwave the shit out of them in order to get them hot enough to explode into popcorn. And even those methods take minutes at the least.
This is the point where I conclude that I don't know enough about the subject myself to make an informed opinion.
This is the point most people skip.
It also happens to be, in my opinion, the most important point.
There are a few ways to go from here: We can either try and augment our own knowledge pool, or we can scrutinize the source of this information in the first place.
In this day and age, both of those paths typically mean using the internet again. This is an irony not lost on me, but it also serves as a reminder that once again we have to be constantly vigilant of our incoming information: If the internet is full of bullshit (and remember, it is), where do we go for trustworthy information? For facts?
Trusted, public, and well-used sites exist specifically as wellsprings of reliable information. You already know Google and Wikipedia. We can start there.
There is a MASSIVE article on cell phones on Wikipedia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cell_phones
This is a daunting amount of information, so let's specialize.
Lets instead search for "cell phone health" (or "cell phone radiation" or any such keywords) again in Wikipedia. Behold! Another long and daunting mass of text. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cell_phone_radiation
So we skim. The top of any article is typically a summary of all the relevant information and indeed in the second paragraph we find a very strong sentence.
"The World Health Organization, based upon the consensus view of the scientific and medical communities, has stated in the past that cancer is unlikely to be caused by cellular phones or their base stations and that reviews have found no convincing evidence for other health effects."
The World Health Organization? That's a trusty source. Consensus view of the scientific and medical communities? That sounds promising, and more importantly valid. Cancer unlikely, no convincing evidence for other health effects? Red flag.
When as reliable a source as Wikipedia directly contradicts the information you're investigating, it's a pretty solid warning sign that you're being screwed with.
Which leads us to our second avenue: Testing the source.
Where did you find out about this factoid about cell phones and popcorn? Was it a chain email, a well-meaning friend, a youtube video, or (horror upon horrors) an unidentifiable rumor? If so (and again, this is based off of all available evidence I've amassed) it is probably full of shit.
Emails, quoted truths, factual statistical evidence, youtube videos - all full of shit.
Again we dive into the breach: Snopes.com is a fantastic site devoted entirely to debunking urban legends, chain emails, and hoaxes (internet or otherwise). It is trustworthy, thorough, and methodical and it just so happens to have an article on cell phone health that I found by searching "cell phone popcorn": http://www.snopes.com/science/cookegg.asp
Snopes articles usually open with the Claim being made, and then immediately below it offer the current judgment on said claim.
We see that it says "Claim: Eggs or popcorn kernels can be cooked by placing them between activated cell phones". Great! Exactly what we want to know.
And below it, in block letters, "FALSE".
And below that, pile upon pile of evidence.
With this much research spread out among multiple trustworthy sources, we can now safely and confidently continue forming our opinion.
Which ought to be "There is no conclusive evidence that cell phones are harmful, much less that they have the power to pop popcorn"
Which is good! It means we're safe from radiation scrambling our brains, and more importantly, that we arrived at this conclusion in a rational and scientific fashion.
Again, I'm sorry if the overarching tone of this was high and mighty or even disapproving - I meant no personal offense, only to properly convey the seriousness and urgency with which I view this particular issue. I was over-formal and precise on purpose, and I understand that every little unknown fact that passes through can't undergo this level of scrutiny....but I still hope this shed some light - not only on the issue at hand, but on my overall belief system and as an explanation into why I'm sometimes a very difficult and timorous conversationalist indeed.
Your Son Who Obviously Currently Lacks Things To Do
Griffin
And now, some deep house lounge.
Nobody has perfect parents. In fact, all things considered, I actually have the greatest parents I know of save for Gabe's mom (and A. I'm sure she's got her flaws and B. that's balanced out by his shitbag of a dad {sorry Gabe}).
I never had any teenage screaming fits with my parents, I was raised freely and lovingly, and I find both my mom and dad to be entertaining, enjoyable, and engaging conversationalists (which, if you know me, is a serious compliment.)
That being said, I don't know of anyone who can't name some incredibly obviously wrong thing their parent(s) believe in - whether it's mistrust of GMOs or a belief that homosexuality is a sin or that 9/11 was an inside job OR something as insignificant but still bothersome as:
The idea that cell phones are capable of popping popcorn. Which leads me to this essay.
Dearest Mother,
I'm a big fan of technology. I'm also a big fan of skepticism. These two cross a lot more often than I'd like, and I usually have to take the defensive stance protecting some element of technology that's supposedly causing harm, or will be a problem, or blah blah something bad.
The point is, cell phones are recent. The internet is recent. Recent technology - indeed, recent anything - causes suspicion and fear in a lot of people. Fear that is usually completely unfounded, or brought about due to rumors or latent mistrust or unfamiliarity with this new thing.
Mostly though, it's the rumors. People can lie, and they do, and technology just makes it easier.
When photographs came out, they were initially taken as the final proof of evidence. A picture of an event proved it happened.
Nowadays, we know Photoshop can literally make any picture look like anything you want. You can make Obama ride a skateboard out of an exploding helicopter while waving nunchucks about, and more importantly you can make it look real.
It's the same with sound, the same with video - you can fake anything. We have entire movies of digital effects now. (Incidentally, have you seen Avatar yet? It's worth a theater view, even if you don't opt for the 3D).
And you can put these fake videos on youtube, and hundreds of thousands of people can watch them, and this literal hoax can propagate through enough people that it gets distorted into an accepted truth.
Just like pictures, just like video, only moreso - information on the internet has to be incredibly carefully scrutinized, because the vast majority of it is bullshit spread through either purposeful incorrectness or genuine ignorance/stupidity.
If this is coming across as heavy-handed or patronizing, I apologize, but I've recently been dealing with a lot of people who are convinced of things that (to put it politely) "go against the facts".
I truly think that misinformation (intentional or otherwise) is one of the biggest contributors to any levels of ignorance and misunderstanding that plague the human race.
Only through willful and diligent scrutiny of all incoming bits of information can we, as individuals, avoid the traps of ignorance and the subsequent prejudice, fear, and mistrust it brings about.
Those are heavy words, but I stand by them. Everything I've learned and am continuing to learn in my classes backs me up on this - my logic class, my religion classes, my history classes and especially my current environmental politics class.
So many actions, so many beliefs are based on faulty or incorrect data, or at the very least data that has been bent, shrouded, or warped to fit the agenda of whoever is using it.
Now, you and I and most folk we know aren't going to be in any position to screw shit up too bad but we still have our own beliefs and our own methods of receiving information that we need to watch out for.
The offhanded remark about cell phones being able to pop popcorn kernels immediately sent a jolt of wariness through me when I heard it, and I'm going to use it as a model example.
Because (IF it's true) it's a serious concern. A lot of people use cell phones, including people we know.
So let's think about it. Scientifically. What do we know about cell phones? Not much, actually. I personally don't know much other than they use electromagnetic radiation to transmit information across long distances. That sounds pretty powerful, and pretty scary, when you first think about it. But when you realize that we've been using electromagnetic radiation since the invention of the Radio, and that information sent to the rabbit ears of TV's is way larger and more powerful than anything a cell phone can put out, it becomes less scary.
So what do we know about popcorn?
Well, once again, not that much. But I am familiar with the fact that you have to either cook the kernels in oil that is frickin scalding or microwave the shit out of them in order to get them hot enough to explode into popcorn. And even those methods take minutes at the least.
This is the point where I conclude that I don't know enough about the subject myself to make an informed opinion.
This is the point most people skip.
It also happens to be, in my opinion, the most important point.
There are a few ways to go from here: We can either try and augment our own knowledge pool, or we can scrutinize the source of this information in the first place.
In this day and age, both of those paths typically mean using the internet again. This is an irony not lost on me, but it also serves as a reminder that once again we have to be constantly vigilant of our incoming information: If the internet is full of bullshit (and remember, it is), where do we go for trustworthy information? For facts?
Trusted, public, and well-used sites exist specifically as wellsprings of reliable information. You already know Google and Wikipedia. We can start there.
There is a MASSIVE article on cell phones on Wikipedia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cell_phones
This is a daunting amount of information, so let's specialize.
Lets instead search for "cell phone health" (or "cell phone radiation" or any such keywords) again in Wikipedia. Behold! Another long and daunting mass of text. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cell_phone_radiation
So we skim. The top of any article is typically a summary of all the relevant information and indeed in the second paragraph we find a very strong sentence.
"The World Health Organization, based upon the consensus view of the scientific and medical communities, has stated in the past that cancer is unlikely to be caused by cellular phones or their base stations and that reviews have found no convincing evidence for other health effects."
The World Health Organization? That's a trusty source. Consensus view of the scientific and medical communities? That sounds promising, and more importantly valid. Cancer unlikely, no convincing evidence for other health effects? Red flag.
When as reliable a source as Wikipedia directly contradicts the information you're investigating, it's a pretty solid warning sign that you're being screwed with.
Which leads us to our second avenue: Testing the source.
Where did you find out about this factoid about cell phones and popcorn? Was it a chain email, a well-meaning friend, a youtube video, or (horror upon horrors) an unidentifiable rumor? If so (and again, this is based off of all available evidence I've amassed) it is probably full of shit.
Emails, quoted truths, factual statistical evidence, youtube videos - all full of shit.
Again we dive into the breach: Snopes.com is a fantastic site devoted entirely to debunking urban legends, chain emails, and hoaxes (internet or otherwise). It is trustworthy, thorough, and methodical and it just so happens to have an article on cell phone health that I found by searching "cell phone popcorn": http://www.snopes.com/science/cookegg.asp
Snopes articles usually open with the Claim being made, and then immediately below it offer the current judgment on said claim.
We see that it says "Claim: Eggs or popcorn kernels can be cooked by placing them between activated cell phones". Great! Exactly what we want to know.
And below it, in block letters, "FALSE".
And below that, pile upon pile of evidence.
With this much research spread out among multiple trustworthy sources, we can now safely and confidently continue forming our opinion.
Which ought to be "There is no conclusive evidence that cell phones are harmful, much less that they have the power to pop popcorn"
Which is good! It means we're safe from radiation scrambling our brains, and more importantly, that we arrived at this conclusion in a rational and scientific fashion.
Again, I'm sorry if the overarching tone of this was high and mighty or even disapproving - I meant no personal offense, only to properly convey the seriousness and urgency with which I view this particular issue. I was over-formal and precise on purpose, and I understand that every little unknown fact that passes through can't undergo this level of scrutiny....but I still hope this shed some light - not only on the issue at hand, but on my overall belief system and as an explanation into why I'm sometimes a very difficult and timorous conversationalist indeed.
Your Son Who Obviously Currently Lacks Things To Do
Griffin
And now, some deep house lounge.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Striatus
Now, this is the model for the given data (i.e. at a surrounding temperature of 20 degrees C.) What we're each supposed to do is pick a different surrounding temperature, in 5 degree increments, and model out the curve of the D(t) as it decreases. As well, we're to calculate how long the water stays at or above 95 degrees C for each of our curves (in order to simulate a real scenario where we'd be cooking...something with bacteria in it, apparently. Not really sure what that'd be, other than raw meat. Maybe if you're boiling a caribou you've just slain. Who knows.)
The power is going to go out.
Everyone I know has left, either for Logging in Colorado or Rowing in Sacramento. The house is empty, and will be until tuesday.
And the power is going to be out from 2 pm Saturday until an estimated 12pm Sunday.
As a man who has been solely consumed by an Xbawks for the past two weeks
As the first human Spectre
As the Commanding Officer of the SSV Normandy SR-1
As an ELECTRONIC MAN
This is going to be a serious period of darkness in my life. I'm not going to sugar coat it here.
I plan on going off the deep end and swan diving into batshit territory. When day breaks on Sunday, if I haven't made myself a mayoral sash out of tortillas and had in-depth conversations with my sock-puppet chairman...
That would be great, actually.
Seditative: As for finding out how long the water stays above 95 degrees C, we just need to find all places where (since the temperature difference at 15 degrees C of 95+ C water would be 80) solve 80\geq 85e^{-0.0240465t} for t to get \frac{ln(\frac{80}{85})}{-0.0240465}=t=2.5211 hours of 95+ temperature, which is plenty long enough to boil some caribou.
HALSBASDLGBJDFA DEADMAU5 REMIXES
The power is going to go out.
Everyone I know has left, either for Logging in Colorado or Rowing in Sacramento. The house is empty, and will be until tuesday.
And the power is going to be out from 2 pm Saturday until an estimated 12pm Sunday.
As a man who has been solely consumed by an Xbawks for the past two weeks
As the first human Spectre
As the Commanding Officer of the SSV Normandy SR-1
As an ELECTRONIC MAN
This is going to be a serious period of darkness in my life. I'm not going to sugar coat it here.
I plan on going off the deep end and swan diving into batshit territory. When day breaks on Sunday, if I haven't made myself a mayoral sash out of tortillas and had in-depth conversations with my sock-puppet chairman...
That would be great, actually.
Seditative: As for finding out how long the water stays above 95 degrees C, we just need to find all places where (since the temperature difference at 15 degrees C of 95+ C water would be 80) solve 80\geq 85e^{-0.0240465t} for t to get \frac{ln(\frac{80}{85})}{-0.0240465}=t=2.5211 hours of 95+ temperature, which is plenty long enough to boil some caribou.
HALSBASDLGBJDFA DEADMAU5 REMIXES
Monday, March 1, 2010
Drink this, it will sooth you
Graphed on geogebra, it makes a pretty boring scale. Basically, c(t) (as t\rightarrow\infty) approaches 0.1, or the ratio between numerator and denominator. The +50 becomes insignificant, and then it's just 0.5 of an arbitrarily large number divided by 5 of the same number. Which is 0.1.Which is, hey presto, the concentration of the inflowing water. Which is what the large tank consists of almost entirely.
Obviously I am not the greatest mind out of my seven groupmates, but I still do all the goddamn work anyway and it. is. starting. to. show.
Is it starting to show?
I haven't been around lately. Sorry. Busy. World's outside, things to do in it.
World's inside, vidya games to play. Things to break, packages to open, events to observe and by observing change them irrevocably.
The trend of long videogames nowadays to include large-scale choices that affect plot, gameplay, and events really bugs me.
I don't want that in my games. I have that in my life already. That's all life is.
And that's terrifying.
Let's flip a Google coin.
# of hits for "Today is a good day to die" = 101,000,000
# of hits for "Today is not a good day to die" = 144,000,000
I wonder which phrase came first.
Trust me, it's not poison.
Edité: Still on hiatus, by the way.
You know what? You need to rewatch this. It's been far too long, friends
There are too many reasons why I love this video to cover.
Maybe it's the amazing jumpsuit the drummer is wearing. Or his sweet hair.
Maybe it's the cameo by famous drag queen RuPaul.
Maybe it's the weird gardeners outside who don't get explained.
It's definitely the giant martini glass being filled with bathwater.
No, it's definitely the slow motion bartender shot.
No, it's definitely how AMAZINGLY FUCKING GAY Fred Schneider's entire existence is.
Obviously I am not the greatest mind out of my seven groupmates, but I still do all the goddamn work anyway and it. is. starting. to. show.
Is it starting to show?
I haven't been around lately. Sorry. Busy. World's outside, things to do in it.
World's inside, vidya games to play. Things to break, packages to open, events to observe and by observing change them irrevocably.
The trend of long videogames nowadays to include large-scale choices that affect plot, gameplay, and events really bugs me.
I don't want that in my games. I have that in my life already. That's all life is.
And that's terrifying.
Let's flip a Google coin.
# of hits for "Today is a good day to die" = 101,000,000
# of hits for "Today is not a good day to die" = 144,000,000
I wonder which phrase came first.
Trust me, it's not poison.
Edité: Still on hiatus, by the way.
You know what? You need to rewatch this. It's been far too long, friends
There are too many reasons why I love this video to cover.
Maybe it's the amazing jumpsuit the drummer is wearing. Or his sweet hair.
Maybe it's the cameo by famous drag queen RuPaul.
Maybe it's the weird gardeners outside who don't get explained.
It's definitely the giant martini glass being filled with bathwater.
No, it's definitely the slow motion bartender shot.
No, it's definitely how AMAZINGLY FUCKING GAY Fred Schneider's entire existence is.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Qui coule de tes levres
Well this is pretty goddamn good. Also adorable in the end.
Wish I still had my french.
Wish I still had my french.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Pime Taradox!
Hi Amigos! Welcome to Bounty Huntarz!
Remember last week when I blew my mind out doing mathe-mat-ics?
I HAVE DONE IT AGAIN AND YOU CAN ONCE MORE REAP THE BENEFIT
https://docs.google.com/Doc?docid=0ASqWWYZ9FZCDZGhxaHJjdmhfNmYza3gyc2Y2&hl=en
I cannot avoid inserting actual flavor into my responses. Oh well.
Shucks Howdy!
Remember last week when I blew my mind out doing mathe-mat-ics?
I HAVE DONE IT AGAIN AND YOU CAN ONCE MORE REAP THE BENEFIT
https://docs.google.com/Doc?docid=0ASqWWYZ9FZCDZGhxaHJjdmhfNmYza3gyc2Y2&hl=en
I cannot avoid inserting actual flavor into my responses. Oh well.
Shucks Howdy!
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
All I want is one thing and that is what you want
What an exceptionally dangerous thing to finally find, in my current state of mind.
http://clickflashwhirr.blogspot.com/
Edit: I CANNOT STOP LAUGHING THESE MUST BE GOOD COMMERCIALS
http://clickflashwhirr.blogspot.com/
Edit: I CANNOT STOP LAUGHING THESE MUST BE GOOD COMMERCIALS
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Conversations w/ Self Re: Disillusionment & Reflection Delivered Via Klosterman-esque Dialogue
My math group is pretty damn miserable.
However, that is not the topic.
One member of the team is a regular girl, pretty but not remarkably so. She would be unassuming and dismissible were it not for her totally rad as hell exhibition of heterochromia (read: one eye blue, one eye brown.)
In the brief moments between my noticing this uniquely aesthetically pleasing trait and the first time I actually listened to the words coming out of her head, I desired her intensely.
This did not last, for she is boring and ordinary and more than a little dumb in the traditional judgmental Griffin sense.
However: She stuck with me for the rest of my day. Not the girl herself - she only provided the template.
No, what stuck was the floating presence of my imaginary heterochromatic girlfriend.
Who, as girlfriends are wont to do, argued with me.
"Griffin", she said as I walked through the blustery winds outside my math classroom.
"Not now, sweetheart", I brushed her off, "It's just me and J Dilla time."
"Griffin, I'm worried your only motive for dating me is a singular physical attribute - in this case, my stunningly gorgeous heterochromatic eyes."
"That is a remarkably cohesive opening statement. You must have rehearsed that." "You're avoiding the question."
"I object outright to this slander, honey bunches. I love your stunning heterochromatic eyes solely because they are a fascinating and appropriate metaphor for your overall personality - for if there is one thing I love more than any other thing, it is metaphorical appropriateness."
"Please explain this visual representation of my very being."
"Well, you see, you have one beautiful blue eye and one beautiful brown eye. Therefore, there must be a wonderful, bright, and capricious element of your personality and also a darker, more pensive and emotional side of you. Together they are yin and yang and they are all that I love about you"
"Griffin this is exactly what I was afraid you would say. Your answer revealed that, while you are both a romantic dreamer and an eloquent bullshit artist and that is endearing enough for me to sleep with you repeatedly (which is the very definition of a relationship), you know nothing about me as a person. Your proposed metaphor merely created a template outlining a typical vague desirable personality - and what's worse, it linked it all to a single physical attribute - in this case, my stunningly gorgeous heterochromatic eyes. You haven't described me at all, merely who you wished I was."
"Yes, well -"
"And the worst thing of all is, that's the best you could do? I have a light and a dark eye, so I have a light and dark personality? Everyone does, you patronizing asshole. Duality lies in the foundation of our very human nature, and by the way I'm breaking up with you."
"This conversation has shifted dramatically, darling, from its initial point. In fact, judging by your intentional shift in tone, Imaginary Heterochromatic Girlfriend, I can assume you've been harboring these begrudging feelings for some time. However, for the first noticeable time during our tumultuous and short relationship you have expressed valid, thoughtful, and thought-provoking (albeit deeply critical) opinions.
I find this profoundly attractive, especially when I once again gaze into your stunning heterochromatic eyes. Also, you cannot just break up with me."
"Of course you find it attractive and intelligent, you insensitive and narcissistic fuck! It's you! This is your own analysis, you just made me say it because you only ever listen to pretty girls! You never considered my own imaginary needs as an imaginary heterochromatic girlfriend! You didn't even give me a personality; you just made me a facet of your own consciousness! Do you know how frustrating this is for me?"
"I'm...I'm so sorry, Imaginary Heterochromatic Girlfriend. Everything you've said so far is true, and it is my fault. I should have come clean from the start."
"What do you mean? What are you saying?"
"Imaginary Heterochromatic Girlfriend, I was never in love with you. I shamelessly used you as an asinine fantasy and subsequent literary element from the very beginning.I was only interested in you as an insightful tool of self analysis after I became enamored with and immediately disillusioned with your real life counterpart. Who, by the way, is boring, lacks a desirable personality, and possesses stunningly gorgeous heterochromatic eyes."
"....Tell me the truth. I'm not the first, am I?"
"No. Yesterday I heard a girl with an Australian accent talking, and Imaginary Adventuresome Australian Girlfriend and I were halfway around the world chasing komodo dragons before I noticed her real life counterpart had a tattoo of the Japanese character for 'peace' on her back."
"You're an idiot."
"I know, I'm sorry. It's a serious prob -"
"No, I mean komodo dragons don't live in Australia."
"Oh."
"That's your problem, you know."
"What?"
"You build these ridiculously perfect scenarios almost instantly, and then act devastated when they ultimately are thwarted - and by such insignificant, hypocritical, overtly male-minded......Ugh! It makes me annoyed just thinking about it."
"So I'll change! You've shown me the repeated error of my ways! We can work through this, me with my cunning intellect and you with your stunning heterochromatic eyes and sudden dramatic increase in personality and insight!"
"No, you won't. And we won't. It's over between us. Maybe it always was, or maybe whatever could have happened just got lost in my stunningly gorgeous heterochromatic eyes. Maybe this one, out of all of them, will help you break this self destructive cycle. I hope it does, actually, because despite all you've done you are still a lovable character."
"Of course you'd say that. You're me, and I love me."
"I do love you."
"I know, me. I know."
"Goodbye."
"You'll be back."
"Oh, probably. Eventually. You won't recognize me, though. You know how it is."
"I do."
DTIE:
However, that is not the topic.
One member of the team is a regular girl, pretty but not remarkably so. She would be unassuming and dismissible were it not for her totally rad as hell exhibition of heterochromia (read: one eye blue, one eye brown.)
In the brief moments between my noticing this uniquely aesthetically pleasing trait and the first time I actually listened to the words coming out of her head, I desired her intensely.
This did not last, for she is boring and ordinary and more than a little dumb in the traditional judgmental Griffin sense.
However: She stuck with me for the rest of my day. Not the girl herself - she only provided the template.
No, what stuck was the floating presence of my imaginary heterochromatic girlfriend.
Who, as girlfriends are wont to do, argued with me.
"Griffin", she said as I walked through the blustery winds outside my math classroom.
"Not now, sweetheart", I brushed her off, "It's just me and J Dilla time."
"Griffin, I'm worried your only motive for dating me is a singular physical attribute - in this case, my stunningly gorgeous heterochromatic eyes."
"That is a remarkably cohesive opening statement. You must have rehearsed that." "You're avoiding the question."
"I object outright to this slander, honey bunches. I love your stunning heterochromatic eyes solely because they are a fascinating and appropriate metaphor for your overall personality - for if there is one thing I love more than any other thing, it is metaphorical appropriateness."
"Please explain this visual representation of my very being."
"Well, you see, you have one beautiful blue eye and one beautiful brown eye. Therefore, there must be a wonderful, bright, and capricious element of your personality and also a darker, more pensive and emotional side of you. Together they are yin and yang and they are all that I love about you"
"Griffin this is exactly what I was afraid you would say. Your answer revealed that, while you are both a romantic dreamer and an eloquent bullshit artist and that is endearing enough for me to sleep with you repeatedly (which is the very definition of a relationship), you know nothing about me as a person. Your proposed metaphor merely created a template outlining a typical vague desirable personality - and what's worse, it linked it all to a single physical attribute - in this case, my stunningly gorgeous heterochromatic eyes. You haven't described me at all, merely who you wished I was."
"Yes, well -"
"And the worst thing of all is, that's the best you could do? I have a light and a dark eye, so I have a light and dark personality? Everyone does, you patronizing asshole. Duality lies in the foundation of our very human nature, and by the way I'm breaking up with you."
"This conversation has shifted dramatically, darling, from its initial point. In fact, judging by your intentional shift in tone, Imaginary Heterochromatic Girlfriend, I can assume you've been harboring these begrudging feelings for some time. However, for the first noticeable time during our tumultuous and short relationship you have expressed valid, thoughtful, and thought-provoking (albeit deeply critical) opinions.
I find this profoundly attractive, especially when I once again gaze into your stunning heterochromatic eyes. Also, you cannot just break up with me."
"Of course you find it attractive and intelligent, you insensitive and narcissistic fuck! It's you! This is your own analysis, you just made me say it because you only ever listen to pretty girls! You never considered my own imaginary needs as an imaginary heterochromatic girlfriend! You didn't even give me a personality; you just made me a facet of your own consciousness! Do you know how frustrating this is for me?"
"I'm...I'm so sorry, Imaginary Heterochromatic Girlfriend. Everything you've said so far is true, and it is my fault. I should have come clean from the start."
"What do you mean? What are you saying?"
"Imaginary Heterochromatic Girlfriend, I was never in love with you. I shamelessly used you as an asinine fantasy and subsequent literary element from the very beginning.I was only interested in you as an insightful tool of self analysis after I became enamored with and immediately disillusioned with your real life counterpart. Who, by the way, is boring, lacks a desirable personality, and possesses stunningly gorgeous heterochromatic eyes."
"....Tell me the truth. I'm not the first, am I?"
"No. Yesterday I heard a girl with an Australian accent talking, and Imaginary Adventuresome Australian Girlfriend and I were halfway around the world chasing komodo dragons before I noticed her real life counterpart had a tattoo of the Japanese character for 'peace' on her back."
"You're an idiot."
"I know, I'm sorry. It's a serious prob -"
"No, I mean komodo dragons don't live in Australia."
"Oh."
"That's your problem, you know."
"What?"
"You build these ridiculously perfect scenarios almost instantly, and then act devastated when they ultimately are thwarted - and by such insignificant, hypocritical, overtly male-minded......Ugh! It makes me annoyed just thinking about it."
"So I'll change! You've shown me the repeated error of my ways! We can work through this, me with my cunning intellect and you with your stunning heterochromatic eyes and sudden dramatic increase in personality and insight!"
"No, you won't. And we won't. It's over between us. Maybe it always was, or maybe whatever could have happened just got lost in my stunningly gorgeous heterochromatic eyes. Maybe this one, out of all of them, will help you break this self destructive cycle. I hope it does, actually, because despite all you've done you are still a lovable character."
"Of course you'd say that. You're me, and I love me."
"I do love you."
"I know, me. I know."
"Goodbye."
"You'll be back."
"Oh, probably. Eventually. You won't recognize me, though. You know how it is."
"I do."
DTIE:
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Taste Petals
This track got played for 2 hours on repeat.
While I did this.
http://docs.google.com/View?id=dhqhrcvh_6f3kx2sf6
Drunk.
Holy shit equation editing is time consuming.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Found It (to be impossible)
Drums. Guitar. Repetition. Slightly electronic.
It just took an hour of listening to the first ten seconds of a few discographies.
Fetid: There is no conceivable reason why I should not buy one of these with my money.
.....BUT WHICH ONE? They all have their separate uses. Do I want a 25-key velocity sensing keyboard, a 12 pad MIDI controller and X/Y pad, or a 9 knob/slider track controller?
In all probability this will sit on my desk and frustrate me to no end, but the annoying thing is that to make any kind of electronic or hip hop music you need real hardware. Hundreds of dollars of hardware. And you have to start somewhere.
I just have absolutely no idea where to start. It is nothing like learning an instrument, you know? You can go out and buy a guitar, and a book of chords, and go from there.
You can't do that with this kind of music. You have to have a massive library of music and sounds to sample from, a sequencing program and the accompanying knowledge and skill to operate said program, and the hardware to make the music and software interact. And it's impossible, all of it is impossible.
It's like saying "I want to Art, please. I've downloaded Photoshop and I've purchased a tablet and there are a million tutorials on DeviantArt and I'd like to learn how to Art please. Where do I start?"
In fact, it's strikingly similar to that.
Ahh, I go through this every few months.
Here is my dilemma in a nutshell: I watch videos of this nature
And I simply do not know how much of that is the original sample, is the personalized piece of hardware, what software he's running that through, and/or him randomly rubbing his damn thumb on some squares. Somehow he makes a great, if rudimentary, breakbeat sound. No idea.
It just took an hour of listening to the first ten seconds of a few discographies.
Fetid: There is no conceivable reason why I should not buy one of these with my money.
.....BUT WHICH ONE? They all have their separate uses. Do I want a 25-key velocity sensing keyboard, a 12 pad MIDI controller and X/Y pad, or a 9 knob/slider track controller?
In all probability this will sit on my desk and frustrate me to no end, but the annoying thing is that to make any kind of electronic or hip hop music you need real hardware. Hundreds of dollars of hardware. And you have to start somewhere.
I just have absolutely no idea where to start. It is nothing like learning an instrument, you know? You can go out and buy a guitar, and a book of chords, and go from there.
You can't do that with this kind of music. You have to have a massive library of music and sounds to sample from, a sequencing program and the accompanying knowledge and skill to operate said program, and the hardware to make the music and software interact. And it's impossible, all of it is impossible.
It's like saying "I want to Art, please. I've downloaded Photoshop and I've purchased a tablet and there are a million tutorials on DeviantArt and I'd like to learn how to Art please. Where do I start?"
In fact, it's strikingly similar to that.
Ahh, I go through this every few months.
Here is my dilemma in a nutshell: I watch videos of this nature
And I simply do not know how much of that is the original sample, is the personalized piece of hardware, what software he's running that through, and/or him randomly rubbing his damn thumb on some squares. Somehow he makes a great, if rudimentary, breakbeat sound. No idea.
Monday, January 25, 2010
And occasionally there would be one who did none of this
It seems to me that almost all our sadnesses are moments of tension, which we feel as paralysis because we no longer hear our astonished emotions living. Because we are alone with the unfamiliar presence that has entered us; because everything we trust and are used to is for a moment taken away from us; because we stand in the midst of a transition where we cannot remain standing. That is why the sadness passes: the new presence inside us, the presence that has been added, has entered our heart, has gone into its innermost chamber and is no longer even there, - is already in our bloodstream. And we don't know what it was. We could easily be made to believe that nothing happened, and yet we have changed, as a house that a guest has entered changes. We can't say who has come, perhaps we will never know, but many signs indicate that the future enters us in this way in order to be transformed in us, long before it happens. And that is why it is so important to be solitary and attentive when one is sad: because the seemingly uneventful and motionless moment when our future steps into us is so much closer to life than that other loud and accidental point of time when it happens to us as if from outside. The quieter we are, the more patient and open we are in our sadnesses, the more deeply and serenely the new presence can enter us, and the more we can make it our own, the more it becomes our fate.
-Ranier Maria Rilke
Letters To A Young Poet
Letter Eight (12 August 1904)
-Ranier Maria Rilke
Letters To A Young Poet
Letter Eight (12 August 1904)
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Love Is A Doing Word (Fearless On My Breath)
Edit This one I am really proud of.
a minute in to
HEAR IT?
I took this picture on 9/19/2009, in an attempt to document my lifestyle and placate my fans.
I think it captures everything about who I was in September.
Which is fine.I made it my facebook profile for a while and promptly forgot about it.
Here is the problem:
I took this picture tonight, after looking in the mirror and recognizing a startling similarity.
Only one thing in my life has changed since....four months ago.
Same shirt. Same pants. Same weird shit on the whiteboard. iTunes in one window, writing in the other. Pencil on person. Sword at the ready. Wires tangled. Checks needing to be cashed.
Chiseled jaw. Soft eyes. Impeccable manners and class, as befits a gentleman of standing.
Wait, no, thank god. That second picture is just George Clooney.
I get us confused so often.
a minute in to
HEAR IT?
I took this picture on 9/19/2009, in an attempt to document my lifestyle and placate my fans.
I think it captures everything about who I was in September.Which is fine.I made it my facebook profile for a while and promptly forgot about it.
Here is the problem:
I took this picture tonight, after looking in the mirror and recognizing a startling similarity.
Only one thing in my life has changed since....four months ago.
Same shirt. Same pants. Same weird shit on the whiteboard. iTunes in one window, writing in the other. Pencil on person. Sword at the ready. Wires tangled. Checks needing to be cashed.
Chiseled jaw. Soft eyes. Impeccable manners and class, as befits a gentleman of standing.
Wait, no, thank god. That second picture is just George Clooney.
I get us confused so often.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Sunday, January 17, 2010
A Dietary Inorganic Macro-Mineral
In the dark in the dark in the dark I remember things better.
So when I'm here, in the light, in front of the computer I have to remember twice I have to remember what I remember in the dark.
I forget incredibly easily.
What does that mean.
It means I live in sections, jumping from environment cue to cue.
I live embedded in location, within music, in the memories of tv shows or films or restaurants or people; very little of me makes the transition unaffected.
I don't.....link memories together, I don't follow a linear path of thought. What happened last month isn't chronologically ordered in front of what happened last year, or what happened a week ago.
I really enjoy rereading these posts later. Especially the ones with music, which I usually haven't heard since the instance when they were initially fresh. I can go back, in order, entry by entry, and get refreshed on what was in my head.
My memories are encoded in media, so my brain is empty and available.
I can make myself remember things at a whim, because I forget everything.
Random-Access Memory.
Why is this important.
Because I'm getting worse.
This will go away in a day or two when school starts, when I move to that next time for four months.
I guess that's all there is to say.
Actually, that's it in a nutshell. That's all I have to say, I haven't done anything in what feels like years. I've been hibernating, I never really wanted a break. I wanted Fall to go on forever. I was fine, functioning.
Of course, I wanted my job to go on forever back at MCC.
And I wanted high school to go on forever, before that.
I guess I want any good thing to go on forever.
I sure do hate change. Even change away from change.
In other news, I've been having trouble sleeping.
This is probably connected to everything else but I'm not in the mood for stopping anything so either I'll get used to it or eat my pillow some time around 2:00.
2:00 is an impressive time again because I have to get up at 8.
Maybe that does it. Maybe the drastic fluctuation between Break and Semester, between Place and Place and Place, between lifestyles, has simply thrown me for a loop.
Perhaps it is that simple.
For now I'm going to lie in the dark and stare vaguely towards the future, ears straining to catch errant and odd sounds from outside, wishing I could fall asleep but literally and utterly unable.
Did I mention that my dreams have started lying to me?
Helium. Latin. The hungry bird orbits the sun.
My friend stabs me with a pin to explain that he's started doing drugs.
My old chemistry classroom has moved four stories up. I can no longer escape out the window.
I see sounds. A car beep is a bright minty green spike in the upper left corner of my brain. A truck doppelering away is a colorless blob slowly getting smaller, off to the right.
These are the ones I remember.
I could sleep with a pen and paper and turn these experiences into memories into encoded words, but I'm content to leave them the way they are.
Experiences.
I'm no photographer. I've never been good at documenting. This only becomes a problem when I want to have something to show for myself, for profile pictures or christmas cards or ego boosting.
Except.
Helios. Greek for sun.
I understand why people get obsessive and intrigued about interpreting their dreams.
It is alluring. It promises hidden and secret knowledge with little effort since it's supposed to be things you already know. Revealing messages from your backbrain.
Alluring and incredibly dangerous.
Don't listen.
Listen to Radiohead.
I guess that is neither obscure or fresh and new. Oh well.
So when I'm here, in the light, in front of the computer I have to remember twice I have to remember what I remember in the dark.
I forget incredibly easily.
What does that mean.
It means I live in sections, jumping from environment cue to cue.
I live embedded in location, within music, in the memories of tv shows or films or restaurants or people; very little of me makes the transition unaffected.
I don't.....link memories together, I don't follow a linear path of thought. What happened last month isn't chronologically ordered in front of what happened last year, or what happened a week ago.
I really enjoy rereading these posts later. Especially the ones with music, which I usually haven't heard since the instance when they were initially fresh. I can go back, in order, entry by entry, and get refreshed on what was in my head.
My memories are encoded in media, so my brain is empty and available.
I can make myself remember things at a whim, because I forget everything.
Random-Access Memory.
Why is this important.
Because I'm getting worse.
This will go away in a day or two when school starts, when I move to that next time for four months.
I guess that's all there is to say.
Actually, that's it in a nutshell. That's all I have to say, I haven't done anything in what feels like years. I've been hibernating, I never really wanted a break. I wanted Fall to go on forever. I was fine, functioning.
Of course, I wanted my job to go on forever back at MCC.
And I wanted high school to go on forever, before that.
I guess I want any good thing to go on forever.
I sure do hate change. Even change away from change.
In other news, I've been having trouble sleeping.
This is probably connected to everything else but I'm not in the mood for stopping anything so either I'll get used to it or eat my pillow some time around 2:00.
2:00 is an impressive time again because I have to get up at 8.
Maybe that does it. Maybe the drastic fluctuation between Break and Semester, between Place and Place and Place, between lifestyles, has simply thrown me for a loop.
Perhaps it is that simple.
For now I'm going to lie in the dark and stare vaguely towards the future, ears straining to catch errant and odd sounds from outside, wishing I could fall asleep but literally and utterly unable.
Did I mention that my dreams have started lying to me?
Helium. Latin. The hungry bird orbits the sun.
My friend stabs me with a pin to explain that he's started doing drugs.
My old chemistry classroom has moved four stories up. I can no longer escape out the window.
I see sounds. A car beep is a bright minty green spike in the upper left corner of my brain. A truck doppelering away is a colorless blob slowly getting smaller, off to the right.
These are the ones I remember.
I could sleep with a pen and paper and turn these experiences into memories into encoded words, but I'm content to leave them the way they are.
Experiences.
I'm no photographer. I've never been good at documenting. This only becomes a problem when I want to have something to show for myself, for profile pictures or christmas cards or ego boosting.
Except.
Helios. Greek for sun.
I understand why people get obsessive and intrigued about interpreting their dreams.
It is alluring. It promises hidden and secret knowledge with little effort since it's supposed to be things you already know. Revealing messages from your backbrain.
Alluring and incredibly dangerous.
Don't listen.
Listen to Radiohead.
I guess that is neither obscure or fresh and new. Oh well.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Pie-ate-us
I like the Olympics. Pretty much everyone does.
It's one of the last remaining available instances of (mostly) guilt free patriotism and earnest celebration.
It's also an occasion for some serious pomp. Which is sort of bad if you're like China and people are, you know, starving while you're building a big dumb structure, but it's also really cool. Remember Bjork in Sydney? Wearing a football-stadium sized dress of the world that unraveled? That was sweet as hell.
But that is nothing compared to the 1992 Barcelona Olympics (thatIjustlearnedabout).
Two things about the Olympic torch you should know.
One: It's initially lit in Greece. With the rays of the sun, using a parabolic reflector. That's all kinds of historically rad.
Two: Nothing will ever compete with Antonio Rebollo lighting the flame in '92.
Oh my goddddddddd (he is small because he happens to have polio in his legs by the way)
It's one of the last remaining available instances of (mostly) guilt free patriotism and earnest celebration.
It's also an occasion for some serious pomp. Which is sort of bad if you're like China and people are, you know, starving while you're building a big dumb structure, but it's also really cool. Remember Bjork in Sydney? Wearing a football-stadium sized dress of the world that unraveled? That was sweet as hell.
But that is nothing compared to the 1992 Barcelona Olympics (thatIjustlearnedabout).
Two things about the Olympic torch you should know.
One: It's initially lit in Greece. With the rays of the sun, using a parabolic reflector. That's all kinds of historically rad.
Two: Nothing will ever compete with Antonio Rebollo lighting the flame in '92.
Oh my goddddddddd (he is small because he happens to have polio in his legs by the way)
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