Move outside the tangle of fear-thinking. Live in silence.

What they're doing is making objects with their voices, singing structures into existence. They offer things to you, saying "Look at this! Look at this!" and as your attention goes towards these objects you realize that what you're being shown is impossible. It's not simply intricate, beautiful and hard to manufacture, it's impossible to make these things. The nearest analogy would be the Fabergé eggs but these things are like the toys that are scattered around the nursery inside a U.F.O., celestial toys, and the toys themselves appear to be somehow alive and can sing other objects into existence, so what's happening is this proliferation of gifts, which are moving around singing, and they are saying "Do what we are doing" and they are very insistent, and they say "Do it! Do it! Do it!" and you feel like a bubble inside your body beginning to move up toward your mouth, and when it comes out it isn't sound, it's vision. You discover that you can pump "stuff" out of your mouth by singing, and they're urging you to do this. They say "That's it! That's it! Keep doing it!".

There exists, I think, a shared inherent desire for unadulterated understanding and limitless communication. Probably because we know it's impossible and we've got a nasty tendency to want the impossible.

We respect the music makers, the writers, those who can express themselves properly and eloquently, not only because what they say has merit but because they are capable of saying it at all.
(That may be even more important, actually. Meaning may be more facile than we'd like to think.) This is a vague and difficult trait to put to words, but it's easily spotted in the wild.

The most important thing to realize is that the two are separate - the story and the telling, and the skills involved in both. You need both to be truly valuable, to have an impact that is far reaching and disruptive to other people.

Which is what we all want. To influence, to affect, to make a splash. No man is an island, and apparently that saying has something to do with our interconnectedness? I always forget what that quote actually means. I remember it has something to do with for whom the bell tolls. (Spoiler alert: It tolls for thee.)

People can have great experiences or thoughts and be right shit at communicating and they'll never successfully reach out and transmit. You see these people and feel sorry for them, for they are crippled and it is often evident that their failings are less their fault than the product of their larval surroundings. Can you imagine that concept? There are some people who fucking suck at communicating and either can't or don't realize it or care enough to change. Some people never had the desperate and driven need to fill the world with themselves. Some people never had to flex those muscles! Some people don't love language. Languages. Oral or visual. Audible or nonverbal or action-based. They will talk, or otherwise stumble through the existing avenues of information exchange, and you will notice a pervasive averageness to their output. A lack of lilt or imagination. A sort of verbal equivalent of that guy who uses 'lol' too damn much - near inappropriately. A tendency to rely on the preexisting stock communicative tools.

Here is the terrible truth: These people might hold completely valid, even valuable and insightful and invigorating ideas.
They just can't realize them. They are severely limited.

It is like trying to talk to someone who doesn't have a proper grasp of the language you're using.
They could be a rocket surgeon back in whatever country they come from but to you they're on par with a kid because their speech patterns are infantile. We immediately internalize and readjust our assigned statuses and it is ultimately a fucking tragedy.

The other half people are those of us who have the ability to communicate quite well but lack anything to communicate. It's probably less common, just because of the relative rarity of the necessary background components coming together. A developmental period steeped in different media, a desperate and driven need to express the boiling adolescent pressure. Probably a hunger for attention. All sorts of things.
Regardless, you get folks with big vocabularies wanting to emulate their influential masters, casting recklessly about for any scrap of depth or meaning to wax poetic about.
Literally. This is the source of hack poetry about love and the void and emotions and shit.
Do not be fooled: These people might not hold completely valid, even valuable and insightful and nourishing ideas.This is why those people with both attributes can say things five thousand odd years ago and still be remembered today. We ought to revere them because they are rare and valuable, because it required skill and effort to not only perceive the universal truths they uncovered but to capture them and preserve them in a format the general public can consume.

This is the heart of every cliché and bumper sticker saying's appeal - it is true, and we want to associate ourselves with its fidelity in the hopes that we may share some of its resonating trueness.
We want to be seen as people who can see and show and tell, who know and can show that we know in a way that proves that we know rightly.
We are shown things produced by others and it hits us. We go "oh that's it, that's it exactly". We appreciate manifested, proven mastery. We also covet it.

Of course we will forever look like insufferable pricks if we try to directly parrot the transcendent quotes of the past, and people will continually find it impossible to resist doing so even though they know that.

It's an opportunity for people to circumvent their disability - to use the words of somebody else, somebody who not only 'got it' but 'gave it' to the world. We shouldn't sneer. It is the frantic gesturing at nearby objects. It is the mime of charades. It is trying to get an important point across using the only means available.

From mixtapes to devotional prose to Hallmark cards. It's all the awkward appropriation of the words of somebody else, bending them to fit our own burning desire to turn ourselves inside out and finally show the world that we too carry this nova brilliance within, where it is utterly useless.

New In Town

"I said," said Ford, with an increasing air of urgency creeping into his voice, "have you got any gin?"

Mother of God

I don't....I don't even know where to put this.
This is so fucking good.
It's every single overplayed fucking song mixed together perfectly.
Every. Single. SHITTY. OVERPLAYED. SONG.
SO BAD SO GOOD I CANT STOP LAUGHING

(Nah I actually love DJ Ravine and you should too, that guy is tits)

Jam Tomorrow

shit. lets be pandas
Lets talk about the World of Warcraft. NO NO LOOK FUCK stick around, assholes.
I'm sure it will be rewarding.

They called me back, you know. Desperate for people to play again, they gave out some pretty fly rewards. A free few days, a free upgrade up till the last xpac available, and a free boost to 80 and transfer for a single character. That's a fairly phenomenal amount of free shit, all because they know there's a significant issue with this latest expansion:

The Mists of Pandaria. Exciting! Except.
What the fuck is Pandaria. Show me on the map where Pandaria has been this whole time. Whatever.

To be fair, the Pandaren race has existed before this point. To use WoWWiki's respectable prose, they've long been "a race regarded by fans - and used by Blizzard - as a 'joke race' but still with legitimacy within the lore."
See, the concept of the Pandarens can be traced back to one single dude at Blizzard - Sam 'Samwise' Didier, the current art director - who just liked drawing pandas so much that he put pictures of them in-game in little easter eggs going back all the way to 199-fucking-4 when Warcraft: Orcs and Humans came out.

I'm going to shed light on a dirty secret that we sort of gloss over now that we're firmly indoctrinated into the day-glo world of WoW, with all its fucking...worgen and gnomes and Thrall not being Warchief anymore and deciding to go hug trees the elements instead of ruling the New Horde omg liek dis if u cry everytim.

See, it turns out in 1994 most of the art concept was done by two guys - Chris Metzen and Sam Didier, who both look exactly like you expect people who draw the following pictures to look like. There are beards. Didier draws deathmetal album covers. Metzen very obviously slams the Dew.
 Back then, it was these two hairy dudes on the cusp of the RTS revolution drawing generic fantasy art in ballpoint pen like it belonged on their fucking Social Studies notebook.
The 'plot' for the first two Warcraft games was pretty sketchy compared to the elaborate, swollen lorebags of today that we accept as the new standard.
Basically, there was this sweet world all fantasy and shit with knights and clerics and dwarves, called Azeroth, and then some dark portals opened up and Orcs and Ogres came pouring out and they fought.
And so Blizzard found some dudes who drew some sweet orcs, and hired them.
Look.

Look at Chris Metzen's Nerzhul.

Tell me that isn't the sweetest fucking orc warchief you've ever seen.
He is literally sitting on skulls and scrolls. He's got a WWF belt with the Horde symbol on it. The rest of his outfit is apparently entirely composed of that 90's trademark of this style of art, pouches.
And then Sam Didier was like "bro thats rad as fuck check out my orc blademaster because it's goddamn 1999 and samurais are cool and shit but also orcs?"

And they looked, and it was good, and Warcrafts 1 through 3 were officially sweet as fuck.
(Honestly, Zul'jin being a wiry axe hurling deathmonster in WCII contributed significantly to my initial affinity to the trolls as like, my generic race in WoW. Look at this shit and tell me that, if you were in 5th grade, you wouldn't later make your first character a troll hunter)

And Warcraft 3 had a little joke of a panda included, because they could afford to dick around at this point.

Chen Stormstout, Brewmaster extraordinaire. He ran around and was a tremendously silly thing, all asian stereotypes and drunken boxing and who cares, he was a neutral hero who was explained by like "he came from a foreign land lol drunken boxing panda lol" and that was IT.

And in Vanilla WoW we could visit the area where he was encountered, him and whatshisname (Rexxar, ugh), and you could see his keg leftover and it gave you a moment of "aww yeeeaaah, treading in the footsteps of the previous generation of giants, how integrating and neat" that really made WoW so goddamn good in the beginning.

AND THEN WE DIDN'T HEAR FUCKING SHIT ABOUT PANDAS FOR EIGHT YEARS UNTIL NOW.
That's right. Pandas - sorry, Pandarens - are a fucking joke. They've always been a joke, they've never been srs, and now they're a playable race and the entire future of WoW for the next 1.5-2 years is going to be Panda focused.
WHY?

Because there's nothing left.
Oh, we learned so fucking much about the intricate lore of Azeroth and Kalimdor. We've killed Ragnaros. We've killed the Qiraji. We killed Ragnaros AGAIN. We've killed so many guys who were just made the fuck up within WoW.
And we had to kill them, because we had already killed all of the people from the entire Warcraft universe up to that point.
Illidan is dead. The Lich King is dead.
Kil'jaeden is dead. Hell, we went back in time and made sure Archimonde died too.
Malygos is dead.
DEATHWING IS DEAD.

Literally the only threat remaining against the world of Azeroth is the Titan Sargeras himself.
(Get me drunk sometime and ask me about the Aesir and Vanir titans.)

WHAT THE FUCK ARE WE GOING TO DO IN PANDARIA AND WHY SHOULD I CARE?

The problem, of course, is that I do care. For the same reason that I will play every single Pokemon game, until I'm in a retirement home, demented and calling people to brag about my Rattata.
It's in the top percentage of Rattata, you see.
I'm legitimately curious, nay, fascinated by the new mechanics being introduced.
A new class? The last time that happened was years ago!

It's the promise, the illusion of fun and progress, starting the cycle up again.

Whatever I end up doing, the only guarantee is that I'm going to continually shout about it until you're all sick.

Extended Hiatus

Like endospores, but with music. (my god, it's like chiptunes without chiptunes. it's what happens when you up the audio resolution of 8 bit tracks)

Hiatus

running dark

Oh man remember these

Behold.
Four straight, unedited minutes of what I do nightly.
This isn't really a production so much as an actual slice of me dicking around obviously?
Who cares also you should probably put some music on because I sure as hell had headphones on under all that Russia.


Man my face looks fat as fuck I promise I'm not actually a fat faced asshole. It's the hair I swear.