Saturday, November 29, 2003
Happy birthday to me!
I awoke this morning to discover that my room is again connected to the internet. Huzzah! Best present so far this year!
And by morning, I mean morning. I've been awake for about 2 hours now. And it's not because I did nothing and went to bed early last night. Oh no. Whatever I did, it was Most Refreshing. I seemed to have gotten the opposite of a partying-too-hard hangover. I think perhaps it's that I was able to sleep when I went to bed, instead of spending three hours trying and failing miserably at sleep.
I awoke this morning to discover that my room is again connected to the internet. Huzzah! Best present so far this year!
And by morning, I mean morning. I've been awake for about 2 hours now. And it's not because I did nothing and went to bed early last night. Oh no. Whatever I did, it was Most Refreshing. I seemed to have gotten the opposite of a partying-too-hard hangover. I think perhaps it's that I was able to sleep when I went to bed, instead of spending three hours trying and failing miserably at sleep.
- Unknown, 10:25 AM
Friday, November 28, 2003
The Big Two Three
At roughly 2:30 AM last night, I turned 23.
I spoke with my parents today, and they reminded me that my birthday being the day after Thanksgiving is the way I was born. My dad called it my"real birthday."
Having a birthday on Buy Nothing Day, or Black Friday, whichever you prefer, is occasionally amusing. For example, as I grew older, my parents would procrastinate more about getting me presents. It eventually got to the point where they would get them the morning of, as I usually slept in (not a problem, given that my birthday usually falls in the four-day weekend.) One year, it was Black Friday, and my intrepid family went out to get me gifts, and ran into The Mob. They said they'd plan ahead from then on. Heh. Well, that's not a problem this year, with them thousands of miles away.
At roughly 2:30 AM last night, I turned 23.
I spoke with my parents today, and they reminded me that my birthday being the day after Thanksgiving is the way I was born. My dad called it my"real birthday."
Having a birthday on Buy Nothing Day, or Black Friday, whichever you prefer, is occasionally amusing. For example, as I grew older, my parents would procrastinate more about getting me presents. It eventually got to the point where they would get them the morning of, as I usually slept in (not a problem, given that my birthday usually falls in the four-day weekend.) One year, it was Black Friday, and my intrepid family went out to get me gifts, and ran into The Mob. They said they'd plan ahead from then on. Heh. Well, that's not a problem this year, with them thousands of miles away.
- Unknown, 3:24 PM
Thursday, November 27, 2003
Thanks For Nothing
You remember those helpful natives who came and helped out the Pilgrims for the first Thanksgiving? You ever wonder what happened to them?
They were called the Wampanoag. About fifty years after the Mayflower landed, they got involved in the extraordinarily vicious King Philip's War.
As with most "Indian Wars," it was a case of the distrust on both sides rising as the white settlers expanded. It was triggered, as were most Indian Wars, by a fight over ownership of a cow. It was a brutal affair, with extremely high casualty rates for both civilians and soldiers on both sides. There were plenty of gruesome executions, on both sides. And it ended with the natives who survived being rounded up and sold into slavery in the West Indies.
Happy Turkey Day.
You remember those helpful natives who came and helped out the Pilgrims for the first Thanksgiving? You ever wonder what happened to them?
They were called the Wampanoag. About fifty years after the Mayflower landed, they got involved in the extraordinarily vicious King Philip's War.
As with most "Indian Wars," it was a case of the distrust on both sides rising as the white settlers expanded. It was triggered, as were most Indian Wars, by a fight over ownership of a cow. It was a brutal affair, with extremely high casualty rates for both civilians and soldiers on both sides. There were plenty of gruesome executions, on both sides. And it ended with the natives who survived being rounded up and sold into slavery in the West Indies.
Happy Turkey Day.
- Unknown, 2:15 PM
Wednesday, November 26, 2003
Anniversaries
Hey, it's holiday time! Tomorrow's Thanksgiving, and then the day after that, it's my birthday. Does it get much better than that? Well...not in my life. My culture is one that attaches very little significance to holidays and anniversaries. This will be the third straight year that I haven't had Thanksgiving/my birthday with my family. I'm okay with that. They're okay with that. In fact, I don't remember anything special involving my birthday, other than the occasional present, in the last several years. This seems normal to me, until I see my friend Dylan, for example, who stops everything for his birthday. He takes the day off no matter what, and, in the case of when he turned 21, the whole week off. Whoops.
My mom told me a story this past summer that illustrates where I'm coming from with anniversaries. The said she was having a bad day, tired, but having to go shopping. My sister was sick and whiny, only compounding her foul mood. So she's in the store with my dad, and they're paying, and she writes a check. As she writes down the date, she notices that it's their anniversary. Not just an anniversary. A supposedly big one. 25th. And if it hadn't been for the check, my parents would have forgotten it.
I kind of envy people who take great joy in doing the holiday thing. But the whole thing is so arbitrary. It's just another day. Or two days, in my case.
On the other hand, if I took great joy in doing the Thanksgiving thing, I'd be very depressed that I wasn't going home today or tomorrow. Win some, lose some.
Hey, it's holiday time! Tomorrow's Thanksgiving, and then the day after that, it's my birthday. Does it get much better than that? Well...not in my life. My culture is one that attaches very little significance to holidays and anniversaries. This will be the third straight year that I haven't had Thanksgiving/my birthday with my family. I'm okay with that. They're okay with that. In fact, I don't remember anything special involving my birthday, other than the occasional present, in the last several years. This seems normal to me, until I see my friend Dylan, for example, who stops everything for his birthday. He takes the day off no matter what, and, in the case of when he turned 21, the whole week off. Whoops.
My mom told me a story this past summer that illustrates where I'm coming from with anniversaries. The said she was having a bad day, tired, but having to go shopping. My sister was sick and whiny, only compounding her foul mood. So she's in the store with my dad, and they're paying, and she writes a check. As she writes down the date, she notices that it's their anniversary. Not just an anniversary. A supposedly big one. 25th. And if it hadn't been for the check, my parents would have forgotten it.
I kind of envy people who take great joy in doing the holiday thing. But the whole thing is so arbitrary. It's just another day. Or two days, in my case.
On the other hand, if I took great joy in doing the Thanksgiving thing, I'd be very depressed that I wasn't going home today or tomorrow. Win some, lose some.
- Unknown, 1:52 PM
Tuesday, November 25, 2003
Life=Pain
Last night, at about 8PM, the wireless connection to my room vanished. It just stopped. The little orange "connecting" light flashes occasionally, but the green "connected" light remains crushingly dim. So I've brought my laptop downstairs into my living room. This works, I guess, but has the dreadful potential side effect of forcing me to see my housemates when they walk in and possibly talk to them.
I do not know why this is dreadful. My housemates seem to be generally okay people. I have not had any problem with them, other than the time one of them passed out in the bathroom and the time my cheese disappeared. My candy-theft and staying up til early in the morning playing music is probably far more annoying than they are.
At any rate, shall now be endeavoring to reconnect my room to the magical wireless router. Since I don't know how I got cut off in the first place, this may be difficult.
Last night, at about 8PM, the wireless connection to my room vanished. It just stopped. The little orange "connecting" light flashes occasionally, but the green "connected" light remains crushingly dim. So I've brought my laptop downstairs into my living room. This works, I guess, but has the dreadful potential side effect of forcing me to see my housemates when they walk in and possibly talk to them.
I do not know why this is dreadful. My housemates seem to be generally okay people. I have not had any problem with them, other than the time one of them passed out in the bathroom and the time my cheese disappeared. My candy-theft and staying up til early in the morning playing music is probably far more annoying than they are.
At any rate, shall now be endeavoring to reconnect my room to the magical wireless router. Since I don't know how I got cut off in the first place, this may be difficult.
- Unknown, 1:42 PM
Saturday, November 22, 2003
Title
New catchphrase for my blog. I've been wanting to change this for a while, as I kept getting hits from people doing searches for Santa Claus drunk, or Santa Claus skits, or the definition of Santa Claus. I just didn't have anything really great to take its place. So I put up my superhero name.
New catchphrase for my blog. I've been wanting to change this for a while, as I kept getting hits from people doing searches for Santa Claus drunk, or Santa Claus skits, or the definition of Santa Claus. I just didn't have anything really great to take its place. So I put up my superhero name.
- Unknown, 4:07 PM
Friday, November 21, 2003
Fire Sign
Hey, you know what November 21st means, right? Saggitarius time. And you know what Saggitarius means, right? Means it's a week til my birthday!
I like being a Saggitarius. We've got all the cool stuff. We're the hunters, and I'm the intellectual form, hunting new ideas. And we're mad sexy. According to the Sex-Scopes book Carl stole, we get along sexually with more signs than anyone, except the equally mad sexy Libras. (not that I'm biased, with my Libra rising). So what if it's all bunk. It's bunk IN MY FAVOR.
Hey, you know what November 21st means, right? Saggitarius time. And you know what Saggitarius means, right? Means it's a week til my birthday!
I like being a Saggitarius. We've got all the cool stuff. We're the hunters, and I'm the intellectual form, hunting new ideas. And we're mad sexy. According to the Sex-Scopes book Carl stole, we get along sexually with more signs than anyone, except the equally mad sexy Libras. (not that I'm biased, with my Libra rising). So what if it's all bunk. It's bunk IN MY FAVOR.
- Unknown, 10:22 PM
Booty Song
Last night, Cyn and Carl and I went to a concert that consisted of cute lesbians. It was the most adorable thing ever.
First up was The Peche. Or maybe The Pesh. Or possibly The Phasche. Exactly what her name was was unclear, but she definitely had one. (EDIT: Cyn says it's the Pash, and seems to be correct) She was easily the most adorable of the adorable singers. She was Red-Hot Dork Hot. Her words and mode of speaking were shy, but her body language and dancing were not shy. She made the audience lie down for a song about "nap time" and then had the audience be her band, by clapping a rhythm and making "ch!-ch!" sounds for symbols. She ended her set with a "booty song," where she taught the audience to "booty dance" and then sang "If I wore my heart on my sleeve, would you take my shirt off and wash it?" At that point, I was not only ready to booty dance, but I was ready to volunteer to be in her band (she said she'd never managed to keep a band.)
Up next was Anna Oxygen, who was by far the most adorable of the adorable singers. Her set was based on her flights of fancy, a childlike science fiction universe of her creation. It included various superheroes, such as an old hamster of hers that had had to eat its babies (which made it a good feminist, according to Anna O.) She also had a huge, supremely ugly, early 80's keytar. She sang songs about a universe where one girl, named Pretty Psychadelic, had cones and rods in her eyes where everyone else only had rods (she could see colors and no one else could.) All of Anna Oxygen's songs took place in this bizarre internal universe that she put forth with great confidence, and they were all set to insanely catchy dance-synth-pop. One highlight was when she put a Playskool basketball hoop in the audience and started Soul Train Basketball, where the audience parted and various members had to dance down and score a basket. Sadly, the idea didn't take off too well, I think she tried it too early, and the audience was just that dorky. Then she did a song about a scientist who had test tube universes, and in one of those universes were three girls who went to the gym. So Anna, the Pash, and The Blow all changed into leotards and did two songs involving stretching and dancing together. None of them had shaved armpits, which amused me. I wonder if one of them shaved their armpits before they went on tour together, and the pressure of the other two made her cave in. It was, of course, insanely cute. The crowning achievement of her set, though, was another booty song, with the Pash up dancing with her and singing along, without a microphone, but with a big grin. It included a free-style that Anna did that was amusing for both it's amazing lack of flow, and its gratuitous rhymes with "orgy" and "in the butt."
Following that was the most adorable act, The Blow. The Blow was a band that was one person, but had a pluralized band name. Mad props for that. Where Anna Oxygen put out a show that was obviously flight of fancy, but did it confidently, The Blow's show was a subtle flight of fancy, done self-consciously and brilliantly. She started with a song she'd "only played for her boyfriend" which went "when I look at you, I see a rainbow." At that line, The Blow rolled her eyes. It was hilarious. I may have been the only person who saw that. At that point, her CD player, which we weren't supposed to know existed, stopped working, and there was a 15 minute wait while the techies and Anna Oxygen tried to fix it. According to Cyn, this technical incompetence happens at every K Records show. She invited Mirah and Anna Oxygen up to do a cappella songs while we waited, which broke the flow of her storytelling, but was insanely cute (duh). Her story of learning lesbianism, though she never said that's what it was about, it was obvious by the end, progressed eventually. Her storytelling stayed innocent and self-conscious, but her songs become more and more intensely sexual. The entire show was quite clever.
And finally Mirah came on. She was the reason that Cyn and Carl wanted to go, and obviously, was the most adorable. Her stuff isn't so interesting to talk about, though. She plays sweet, genuine songs, with no frills or backstory, just her guitar. She is also tiny. Cyn may or may not have put Mirah in her pocket and taken her home after the show. Stockholm Syndrome is the way to get people to love you, I hear.
After the show, Carl was talking about how he wanted to impregnate all of them due to their adorableness. I felt he was misinterpreting the emotion. I wanted to hang out with them and have long conversations and cuddle. If they felt like sex, I wouldn't turn them down, of course, but that wouldn't be the point. The point is the adorableness.
Last night, Cyn and Carl and I went to a concert that consisted of cute lesbians. It was the most adorable thing ever.
First up was The Peche. Or maybe The Pesh. Or possibly The Phasche. Exactly what her name was was unclear, but she definitely had one. (EDIT: Cyn says it's the Pash, and seems to be correct) She was easily the most adorable of the adorable singers. She was Red-Hot Dork Hot. Her words and mode of speaking were shy, but her body language and dancing were not shy. She made the audience lie down for a song about "nap time" and then had the audience be her band, by clapping a rhythm and making "ch!-ch!" sounds for symbols. She ended her set with a "booty song," where she taught the audience to "booty dance" and then sang "If I wore my heart on my sleeve, would you take my shirt off and wash it?" At that point, I was not only ready to booty dance, but I was ready to volunteer to be in her band (she said she'd never managed to keep a band.)
Up next was Anna Oxygen, who was by far the most adorable of the adorable singers. Her set was based on her flights of fancy, a childlike science fiction universe of her creation. It included various superheroes, such as an old hamster of hers that had had to eat its babies (which made it a good feminist, according to Anna O.) She also had a huge, supremely ugly, early 80's keytar. She sang songs about a universe where one girl, named Pretty Psychadelic, had cones and rods in her eyes where everyone else only had rods (she could see colors and no one else could.) All of Anna Oxygen's songs took place in this bizarre internal universe that she put forth with great confidence, and they were all set to insanely catchy dance-synth-pop. One highlight was when she put a Playskool basketball hoop in the audience and started Soul Train Basketball, where the audience parted and various members had to dance down and score a basket. Sadly, the idea didn't take off too well, I think she tried it too early, and the audience was just that dorky. Then she did a song about a scientist who had test tube universes, and in one of those universes were three girls who went to the gym. So Anna, the Pash, and The Blow all changed into leotards and did two songs involving stretching and dancing together. None of them had shaved armpits, which amused me. I wonder if one of them shaved their armpits before they went on tour together, and the pressure of the other two made her cave in. It was, of course, insanely cute. The crowning achievement of her set, though, was another booty song, with the Pash up dancing with her and singing along, without a microphone, but with a big grin. It included a free-style that Anna did that was amusing for both it's amazing lack of flow, and its gratuitous rhymes with "orgy" and "in the butt."
Following that was the most adorable act, The Blow. The Blow was a band that was one person, but had a pluralized band name. Mad props for that. Where Anna Oxygen put out a show that was obviously flight of fancy, but did it confidently, The Blow's show was a subtle flight of fancy, done self-consciously and brilliantly. She started with a song she'd "only played for her boyfriend" which went "when I look at you, I see a rainbow." At that line, The Blow rolled her eyes. It was hilarious. I may have been the only person who saw that. At that point, her CD player, which we weren't supposed to know existed, stopped working, and there was a 15 minute wait while the techies and Anna Oxygen tried to fix it. According to Cyn, this technical incompetence happens at every K Records show. She invited Mirah and Anna Oxygen up to do a cappella songs while we waited, which broke the flow of her storytelling, but was insanely cute (duh). Her story of learning lesbianism, though she never said that's what it was about, it was obvious by the end, progressed eventually. Her storytelling stayed innocent and self-conscious, but her songs become more and more intensely sexual. The entire show was quite clever.
And finally Mirah came on. She was the reason that Cyn and Carl wanted to go, and obviously, was the most adorable. Her stuff isn't so interesting to talk about, though. She plays sweet, genuine songs, with no frills or backstory, just her guitar. She is also tiny. Cyn may or may not have put Mirah in her pocket and taken her home after the show. Stockholm Syndrome is the way to get people to love you, I hear.
After the show, Carl was talking about how he wanted to impregnate all of them due to their adorableness. I felt he was misinterpreting the emotion. I wanted to hang out with them and have long conversations and cuddle. If they felt like sex, I wouldn't turn them down, of course, but that wouldn't be the point. The point is the adorableness.
- Unknown, 3:52 PM
Thursday, November 20, 2003
Nostalgia
I'm posting from work, just like old times. Awwwww. I'm volunteering for SEAC, which is the Student Environmental Action Coalition. They're a block and a half from where I live, and two other Antioch students work here.
I have edited a packet of theirs for their Tampaction campaign, which means I now know more about menstruation than I ever expected to know. Though I already knew the core, which was tampons=bad.
I have also spent too much time trying to make women/womyn/wimmin consistent throughout the piece. Difficult to do, especially when dealing with half-quotes.
I'm posting from work, just like old times. Awwwww. I'm volunteering for SEAC, which is the Student Environmental Action Coalition. They're a block and a half from where I live, and two other Antioch students work here.
I have edited a packet of theirs for their Tampaction campaign, which means I now know more about menstruation than I ever expected to know. Though I already knew the core, which was tampons=bad.
I have also spent too much time trying to make women/womyn/wimmin consistent throughout the piece. Difficult to do, especially when dealing with half-quotes.
- Unknown, 4:15 PM
Wednesday, November 19, 2003
Post In Which I Only Make Sense To Myself And The Ghost Of Robert Quine, If He's Dead. Is He Dead?
An Open Letter To The Person Who Came To My Webpage Looking For gavagai definition" On Google:
You're new at this, aren't you?
No, really. You want a definition for "gavagai?"
Sigh.
Lemme let you in on a secret. The point of "gavagai" is that there is no definition. Of anything. The gavagai example, of linguists finding a people who point at a rabbit and pronounce it "gavagai." The linguist assumes that means rabbit. But that is merely an assumption, the linguist does not and CANNOT EVER know whether that means "rabbit," or "grey rabbit," or "male rabbit," or "collection of rabbit parts gathered in this moment of time."
Quine called this "radical translation."
Words are judged by the context they're in. We don't know what people mean when they say things. We have to assume, based on the context that they say them in. The definition, in their head, may be different from the definition in your head, whether it's a fictitious foreign language or English.
Searching for a "gavagai definition?" You may as well search for a "married bachelor."
Okay. I'm done being pedantic for now. The search phrase amused me. I wrote about it. It's over.
Badger badger badger.
An Open Letter To The Person Who Came To My Webpage Looking For gavagai definition" On Google:
You're new at this, aren't you?
No, really. You want a definition for "gavagai?"
Sigh.
Lemme let you in on a secret. The point of "gavagai" is that there is no definition. Of anything. The gavagai example, of linguists finding a people who point at a rabbit and pronounce it "gavagai." The linguist assumes that means rabbit. But that is merely an assumption, the linguist does not and CANNOT EVER know whether that means "rabbit," or "grey rabbit," or "male rabbit," or "collection of rabbit parts gathered in this moment of time."
Quine called this "radical translation."
Words are judged by the context they're in. We don't know what people mean when they say things. We have to assume, based on the context that they say them in. The definition, in their head, may be different from the definition in your head, whether it's a fictitious foreign language or English.
Searching for a "gavagai definition?" You may as well search for a "married bachelor."
Okay. I'm done being pedantic for now. The search phrase amused me. I wrote about it. It's over.
Badger badger badger.
- Unknown, 3:46 PM
Because Every Army Must Have A Private Named Jenkins
I was thinking about military tactics before falling asleep last night. Not, like, the best way to kill someone. Bo-ring. The best way to capture someone. You know how the army/police, when they besiege someone they want to capture, will pull out massive speakers and blare out loud music to prevent the person from sleeping, and annoy them, etc? I believe that's what was used to capture Manuel Noriega under George Bush I. It's probably most familiar to you all as what Chief Wiggum attempted to do to capture Bart, Skinner and Krabapple when they hid in the school. That's what I was thinking about.
So anyway, it's a tactic our military uses. And militaries pride themselves at being ready for anything. I bet there's a battle plan for the invasion of any country in the world available in the Pentagon. Even France. Well. . . ESPECIALLY France. So, they probably want to take this music-capture-attack thing and refine it.
I envision a special elite unit of spies and mix CD creators. It's a little-known part of basic training, but every soldier gets the chance to create a mix CD for their drill sergeant. Those who display a knack for finding loud songs that manage to annoy the drill sergeant are considered for this unit.
Those who are selected for USMIX (that's United States Musical Interference......eXperience? eXclamation? Ehhh, fuck it) have two jobs. First, they must study music constantly, and be able to rail off a good music CD, that's between 73 and 74 minutes long, in a matter of moments. Then they must study the psychology of major world figures, to find the perfect style of song that will seriously piss off each individual. For example, and this may end up in my FBI file*, but I'll risk it, the Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy would probably be considered pleasant and soothing to most people. But to me, it's worse than Avril Lavigne's sk8er boi.
Excercises for this unit would go like this:
"Gentlemen, Danielle Steele has been discovered to be laundering money to support her puppy-sacrificing habit. We've sent agents to her home, but she's walled herself into her compound, and has been sighted carrying dual sawed-off shotguns. We need a mix CD in the next 10 minutes that will start her off. Then you have 60 minutes to plan the next 12 hours of her musical life. Get to work, gentlemen."
"Sir, I suggest we start her off with Lulu. Never fails."
"Excellent idea, Jenkins! That's yummy in my tummy!"
(obligatory forced laughter from the room)
"Sanchez, you're in charge of the 2AM to 5AM time slot. Her adrenaline will be down, her body will be demanding sleep. Break her."
"Heavy metal, sir. Starts off with a minute or so of slow acoustic melody. She thinks it's time for sleep, and bang! Drums, loud guitars. Her hopes rise, then are crushed beneath our metal wall."
"Get me CDs, Sanchez. It's up to you to make sure this novel doesn't have a contrived, happy ending - except for us!"
*According to rumour, simply attending Antioch College is enough to get an FBI file. At least, it was in the 70's, and that policy may continue today.
I was thinking about military tactics before falling asleep last night. Not, like, the best way to kill someone. Bo-ring. The best way to capture someone. You know how the army/police, when they besiege someone they want to capture, will pull out massive speakers and blare out loud music to prevent the person from sleeping, and annoy them, etc? I believe that's what was used to capture Manuel Noriega under George Bush I. It's probably most familiar to you all as what Chief Wiggum attempted to do to capture Bart, Skinner and Krabapple when they hid in the school. That's what I was thinking about.
So anyway, it's a tactic our military uses. And militaries pride themselves at being ready for anything. I bet there's a battle plan for the invasion of any country in the world available in the Pentagon. Even France. Well. . . ESPECIALLY France. So, they probably want to take this music-capture-attack thing and refine it.
I envision a special elite unit of spies and mix CD creators. It's a little-known part of basic training, but every soldier gets the chance to create a mix CD for their drill sergeant. Those who display a knack for finding loud songs that manage to annoy the drill sergeant are considered for this unit.
Those who are selected for USMIX (that's United States Musical Interference......eXperience? eXclamation? Ehhh, fuck it) have two jobs. First, they must study music constantly, and be able to rail off a good music CD, that's between 73 and 74 minutes long, in a matter of moments. Then they must study the psychology of major world figures, to find the perfect style of song that will seriously piss off each individual. For example, and this may end up in my FBI file*, but I'll risk it, the Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy would probably be considered pleasant and soothing to most people. But to me, it's worse than Avril Lavigne's sk8er boi.
Excercises for this unit would go like this:
"Gentlemen, Danielle Steele has been discovered to be laundering money to support her puppy-sacrificing habit. We've sent agents to her home, but she's walled herself into her compound, and has been sighted carrying dual sawed-off shotguns. We need a mix CD in the next 10 minutes that will start her off. Then you have 60 minutes to plan the next 12 hours of her musical life. Get to work, gentlemen."
"Sir, I suggest we start her off with Lulu. Never fails."
"Excellent idea, Jenkins! That's yummy in my tummy!"
(obligatory forced laughter from the room)
"Sanchez, you're in charge of the 2AM to 5AM time slot. Her adrenaline will be down, her body will be demanding sleep. Break her."
"Heavy metal, sir. Starts off with a minute or so of slow acoustic melody. She thinks it's time for sleep, and bang! Drums, loud guitars. Her hopes rise, then are crushed beneath our metal wall."
"Get me CDs, Sanchez. It's up to you to make sure this novel doesn't have a contrived, happy ending - except for us!"
*According to rumour, simply attending Antioch College is enough to get an FBI file. At least, it was in the 70's, and that policy may continue today.
- Unknown, 1:51 PM
Tuesday, November 18, 2003
squeak?
I went downstairs to get some food to discover that someone in my house had left a doubly successful glue trap in front of the refridgerator. At this sight, I was no longer hungry.
I went downstairs to get some food to discover that someone in my house had left a doubly successful glue trap in front of the refridgerator. At this sight, I was no longer hungry.
- Unknown, 4:35 PM
Monday, November 17, 2003
Anthropology of a Half-Elf
I've been playing a video game lately set in the archetype of fantasy worlds, the Forgotten Realms. It keeps reminding me of the failings of the fantasy genre, one of which is the it's lazy. Most fantasy worlds, especially in games, but litarature is hardly exempt, seem to be put together basically as an idealized view of medieval/Renaissance Europe, except with magic and monsters thrown in. I would love to see, or perhaps do, a fantasy world where the idea of magic is used to examine human behavior, and a society based on this is created.
A simple example: in this game, a bad guy goes into a crypt in the middle of a city, and starts turning all the corpses into zombies and skeletons. The undead seem to be problem in many fantasy settings. It would make sense for a taboo to be put into place of doing anything with a corpse except burning it. Successful societies, not wanting to have to deal with regular zombie attacks, would probably put a taboo into place against not burning corpses. Yet here's thousands of corpses, virtually unattended, just begging for someone wanting to sow chaos to start reanimating their skeleton army.
A deeper examination of the way human behavior might change would involve the philosophic implications of having certain people able to use magic in a society. Given how quickly people through history are to ascribe betterness to people in power, what would happen if there were people who actually were obviously able to do things that others in a society couldn't? Another question: medieval Europe and the Middle East were extremely faith-based and monotheistic, to the point where you cannot examine those societies without understanding the role of religion. Given this, why do people in these fantasy settings, which are pragmatically polytheistic (the gods exist cause they walk around, no faith is necessary) tend to act in the same form as the idealized Catholics of Europe?
The question I find most interesting, however, has to do with perception and thought. Examining the way those work and change is my favorite intellectual activity, so this is no surprise. Anyway, given the idea of real miracles, of magic, how would people's thoughts change? It seems to me that the very idea of rational thought would not have developed. Or, if it had, it would not be given anywhere the level of importance that it is given in today's society, and in the fictitious fantasy worlds that spring up.
Fantasy's bigger brother, science fiction is at its best when it examines its form of these questions. "Given technology, what is humanity?" Philip K. Dick, for example, made his living off of this. Hyperion is a fantastically sweeping epic, but with this question at its core, maintains its relevance as being something other than a nifty story. Unless fantasy starts examining these questions, it will continue to be looked down upon in terms of intellectual worth.
I've been playing a video game lately set in the archetype of fantasy worlds, the Forgotten Realms. It keeps reminding me of the failings of the fantasy genre, one of which is the it's lazy. Most fantasy worlds, especially in games, but litarature is hardly exempt, seem to be put together basically as an idealized view of medieval/Renaissance Europe, except with magic and monsters thrown in. I would love to see, or perhaps do, a fantasy world where the idea of magic is used to examine human behavior, and a society based on this is created.
A simple example: in this game, a bad guy goes into a crypt in the middle of a city, and starts turning all the corpses into zombies and skeletons. The undead seem to be problem in many fantasy settings. It would make sense for a taboo to be put into place of doing anything with a corpse except burning it. Successful societies, not wanting to have to deal with regular zombie attacks, would probably put a taboo into place against not burning corpses. Yet here's thousands of corpses, virtually unattended, just begging for someone wanting to sow chaos to start reanimating their skeleton army.
A deeper examination of the way human behavior might change would involve the philosophic implications of having certain people able to use magic in a society. Given how quickly people through history are to ascribe betterness to people in power, what would happen if there were people who actually were obviously able to do things that others in a society couldn't? Another question: medieval Europe and the Middle East were extremely faith-based and monotheistic, to the point where you cannot examine those societies without understanding the role of religion. Given this, why do people in these fantasy settings, which are pragmatically polytheistic (the gods exist cause they walk around, no faith is necessary) tend to act in the same form as the idealized Catholics of Europe?
The question I find most interesting, however, has to do with perception and thought. Examining the way those work and change is my favorite intellectual activity, so this is no surprise. Anyway, given the idea of real miracles, of magic, how would people's thoughts change? It seems to me that the very idea of rational thought would not have developed. Or, if it had, it would not be given anywhere the level of importance that it is given in today's society, and in the fictitious fantasy worlds that spring up.
Fantasy's bigger brother, science fiction is at its best when it examines its form of these questions. "Given technology, what is humanity?" Philip K. Dick, for example, made his living off of this. Hyperion is a fantastically sweeping epic, but with this question at its core, maintains its relevance as being something other than a nifty story. Unless fantasy starts examining these questions, it will continue to be looked down upon in terms of intellectual worth.
- Unknown, 3:26 PM
Sunday, November 16, 2003
What the pain away?
I took a painkiller this morning. For most people, this is not news. For me, it is. I cannot remember taking a painkiller in roughly a year, when my root canal/ankle injury were acting up. But, for the third staight day, my throat felt inflammed and painful, so I thought "maybe one of them pill thingies could make it feel less inflamed!" So I took one tiny pill and MAN! There's a reason I don't take these things!
The reason I don't take them is that I prefer to let my body have natural defenses. If I take a painkiller every time I am in pain, then my body will grow to expect painkillers, and more and more of them, as I build up a tolerance. By having no tolerance, when I feel I could REALLY USE a painkiller, as I did this morning, I make certain that they REALLY WORK. And oh, how it did. I slept blissfully. No, seriously. Instead of having cracked out violent dreams, I dreamt that I was cuddling one of my cats from home. I had a cuddling dream, how awesome is that? And my throat doesn't hurt. And it's all because I didn't take painkillers for those stupid headaches this past year. I rock.
The cat's name is Terry. And he is an orange tiger, with a Siamese meow. MRRRAAAAAAOOOOOWWWWW. Like that. And everybody loves him.
I took a painkiller this morning. For most people, this is not news. For me, it is. I cannot remember taking a painkiller in roughly a year, when my root canal/ankle injury were acting up. But, for the third staight day, my throat felt inflammed and painful, so I thought "maybe one of them pill thingies could make it feel less inflamed!" So I took one tiny pill and MAN! There's a reason I don't take these things!
The reason I don't take them is that I prefer to let my body have natural defenses. If I take a painkiller every time I am in pain, then my body will grow to expect painkillers, and more and more of them, as I build up a tolerance. By having no tolerance, when I feel I could REALLY USE a painkiller, as I did this morning, I make certain that they REALLY WORK. And oh, how it did. I slept blissfully. No, seriously. Instead of having cracked out violent dreams, I dreamt that I was cuddling one of my cats from home. I had a cuddling dream, how awesome is that? And my throat doesn't hurt. And it's all because I didn't take painkillers for those stupid headaches this past year. I rock.
The cat's name is Terry. And he is an orange tiger, with a Siamese meow. MRRRAAAAAAOOOOOWWWWW. Like that. And everybody loves him.
- Unknown, 3:18 PM
Friday, November 14, 2003
The Dream's Dream
I am currently sick. Slight fever, aching joints, painful throat, it's a flu, through and through. Of course, the best part about being sick are the fever dreams!
I got hired by the New York Yankees. I am not certain why. But the first part of my dream was all new job anxiety. What do I wear? I ended up going with my black Space Ghost t-shirt. Let me tell you, the amount of times I've done that for my first day of work is stunning. But, it wasn't long before I was recruited by the Resistance forces within the Yankees building. In this case, the Resistance happened to be led by, uh, small generally considered disgusting animals. The emotional climax of the dream came when an Evil Yankees Henchman found my small blue snake friend and threw him onto the floor and stompted on him.
At that point, it was On. So the dream turned into a Dream-Action version of Time Crisis 2. Now, Carl and I had visited an arcade earlier in the night, and Carl really likes these shooting games, so we played it a bit. And then I dreamed it. I was a lot better at shooting the evil Yankees employees than I was at the game in real life. I never once had to put in another quarter in the dream.
Anyway, after at least three different levels of shooting, I woke up. Let me tell you, waking up with the feeling of a long gunfight, as a pacifist, is distinctly creepy.
I am currently sick. Slight fever, aching joints, painful throat, it's a flu, through and through. Of course, the best part about being sick are the fever dreams!
I got hired by the New York Yankees. I am not certain why. But the first part of my dream was all new job anxiety. What do I wear? I ended up going with my black Space Ghost t-shirt. Let me tell you, the amount of times I've done that for my first day of work is stunning. But, it wasn't long before I was recruited by the Resistance forces within the Yankees building. In this case, the Resistance happened to be led by, uh, small generally considered disgusting animals. The emotional climax of the dream came when an Evil Yankees Henchman found my small blue snake friend and threw him onto the floor and stompted on him.
At that point, it was On. So the dream turned into a Dream-Action version of Time Crisis 2. Now, Carl and I had visited an arcade earlier in the night, and Carl really likes these shooting games, so we played it a bit. And then I dreamed it. I was a lot better at shooting the evil Yankees employees than I was at the game in real life. I never once had to put in another quarter in the dream.
Anyway, after at least three different levels of shooting, I woke up. Let me tell you, waking up with the feeling of a long gunfight, as a pacifist, is distinctly creepy.
- Unknown, 3:02 PM
Thursday, November 13, 2003
Captain
I have decided to change my superhero name. I shall no longer be Captain Oblivious. I am now the Pacifist of Justice.
Please update your address books accordingly.
I have decided to change my superhero name. I shall no longer be Captain Oblivious. I am now the Pacifist of Justice.
Please update your address books accordingly.
- Unknown, 5:27 PM
Wednesday, November 12, 2003
Housecleaning
Updated my links. If you've been deleted, then you probably need to update your blog more often, yo.
Updated my links. If you've been deleted, then you probably need to update your blog more often, yo.
- Unknown, 4:38 PM
Tuesday, November 11, 2003
Happy Armistice Day
75 years ago, the treaty that ended The Great War, the war to end all wars, was signed.
75 years ago, the treaty that ended The Great War, the war to end all wars, was signed.
- Unknown, 5:00 PM
Annoying Me Zero to Sixty in Seconds Flat
I get the New York Times digest every morning in my e-mail. Usually I just skim it, as thanks to reading certain blogs like I have OCD, I know most of what I'm interested in. But today, they were doing a Big Question sort of thing with their science section. The second Big Question was "Is War Our Biological Destiny?" (registration required, but free) The author seemed to have fun with it, writing very, hmm, poetically, and in a way that annoyed me in a hurry.
The second paragraph goes like this:
"Was Plato right that "Only the dead have seen the end of war"?
In the heartening if admittedly provisional opinion of a number of researchers who study warfare, aggression, and the evolutionary roots of conflict, the great philosopher was, for once, whistling in a cave."
For once? FOR ONCE? Maybe it's my level of Plato-dislike getting to me, but wrong once? Even Plato wrote a dialogue where he admitted he might be wrong about, well, everything. And virtually every philosopher since has debunked Plato. As I said in my friendster testimonial of Plato, as Lao Tzu, "He did western philosophy a favor it's still recovering from."
And speaking of only paying attention to westerners...a few paragraphs down, we get this gem:
"Admittedly, war making will be a hard habit to shake. "There have been very few times in the history of civilization when there hasn't been a war going on somewhere," said Victor Davis Hanson, a military historian and classicist at California State University in Fresno. He cites a brief period between A.D. 100 and A.D. 200 as perhaps the only time of world peace, the result of the Roman Empire's having everyone, fleetingly, in its thrall. "
Hi, my name is Victor Davis Hanson and I'm a racist. Rome possessed half of Europe, the Middle East, and northern Africa. This is "the world?" Nevermind northern and eastern Europe. Never mind sub-Saharan Africa. Never mind almost all of Asia. Never mind all of north America. And South America. Cause those places have brown people, and everyone knows they don't count. This, kids, is what the textbook calls Eurocentrism.
Maybe I'm overreacting. Maybe the author of the article was misinterpreting this guy, who had disclaimers about other areas, and perhaps said all evidence indicates that there wasn't any war in any other part of the world, and it got dumbed down by the media. Right?
In 184 AD, a group of peasants rebelled in China, setting off 96 years of civil war, documented in their famous (Romance of the) Three Kingdoms. But I guess they don't count, cause they're not white, huh?
(note the use of pro-union Powell's instead of anti-union Amazon).
I'd tell you more about how bad the article was, except that was the point that I clicked it off. Stupid NYT.
EDIT: No sooner do I praise Powell's pro-union stance than I randomly come across a petition from their union asking for a boycott of Powell's until their negotiations get back on track. This is what I get for trying to be socially responsible.
I get the New York Times digest every morning in my e-mail. Usually I just skim it, as thanks to reading certain blogs like I have OCD, I know most of what I'm interested in. But today, they were doing a Big Question sort of thing with their science section. The second Big Question was "Is War Our Biological Destiny?" (registration required, but free) The author seemed to have fun with it, writing very, hmm, poetically, and in a way that annoyed me in a hurry.
The second paragraph goes like this:
"Was Plato right that "Only the dead have seen the end of war"?
In the heartening if admittedly provisional opinion of a number of researchers who study warfare, aggression, and the evolutionary roots of conflict, the great philosopher was, for once, whistling in a cave."
For once? FOR ONCE? Maybe it's my level of Plato-dislike getting to me, but wrong once? Even Plato wrote a dialogue where he admitted he might be wrong about, well, everything. And virtually every philosopher since has debunked Plato. As I said in my friendster testimonial of Plato, as Lao Tzu, "He did western philosophy a favor it's still recovering from."
And speaking of only paying attention to westerners...a few paragraphs down, we get this gem:
"Admittedly, war making will be a hard habit to shake. "There have been very few times in the history of civilization when there hasn't been a war going on somewhere," said Victor Davis Hanson, a military historian and classicist at California State University in Fresno. He cites a brief period between A.D. 100 and A.D. 200 as perhaps the only time of world peace, the result of the Roman Empire's having everyone, fleetingly, in its thrall. "
Hi, my name is Victor Davis Hanson and I'm a racist. Rome possessed half of Europe, the Middle East, and northern Africa. This is "the world?" Nevermind northern and eastern Europe. Never mind sub-Saharan Africa. Never mind almost all of Asia. Never mind all of north America. And South America. Cause those places have brown people, and everyone knows they don't count. This, kids, is what the textbook calls Eurocentrism.
Maybe I'm overreacting. Maybe the author of the article was misinterpreting this guy, who had disclaimers about other areas, and perhaps said all evidence indicates that there wasn't any war in any other part of the world, and it got dumbed down by the media. Right?
In 184 AD, a group of peasants rebelled in China, setting off 96 years of civil war, documented in their famous (Romance of the) Three Kingdoms. But I guess they don't count, cause they're not white, huh?
(note the use of pro-union Powell's instead of anti-union Amazon).
I'd tell you more about how bad the article was, except that was the point that I clicked it off. Stupid NYT.
EDIT: No sooner do I praise Powell's pro-union stance than I randomly come across a petition from their union asking for a boycott of Powell's until their negotiations get back on track. This is what I get for trying to be socially responsible.
- Unknown, 2:59 PM
Sunday, November 09, 2003
Of Eclipses and Too Damn Much Post-Modernism
A friend of mine clued me into the lunar eclipse tonight as it was happening. When I found the moon outside, it was about 3/4s gone. Fortunately, I could see it out one of my windows, so I was able to stay inside.
I am not entirely certain why, the whole process struck me as intensely sexual. Not sexy, but sexual. The general aura I got from my thoughts was similar to sex. The process was a slow torture. I would look out the window, seeing the moon slowly being enveloped by the shadow. I knew what was happening, what was going to happen. The release would come eventually, and it was what the whole thing was all about, but the anticipation was what made the release special. I can't explain why this is sexual, when it could describe pretty much anything.
When I mentioned the sexualness to the friend who brought the eclipse to my attention, she said she could feel a sexual vibe in the air as well. So even if I described it poorly, it was there, dammit. I'm not crazy.
I would post pictures, but I lack a digicam. I bring this up to keep reminding myself that it is what I will ask for for my birthday/christmas.
A friend of mine clued me into the lunar eclipse tonight as it was happening. When I found the moon outside, it was about 3/4s gone. Fortunately, I could see it out one of my windows, so I was able to stay inside.
I am not entirely certain why, the whole process struck me as intensely sexual. Not sexy, but sexual. The general aura I got from my thoughts was similar to sex. The process was a slow torture. I would look out the window, seeing the moon slowly being enveloped by the shadow. I knew what was happening, what was going to happen. The release would come eventually, and it was what the whole thing was all about, but the anticipation was what made the release special. I can't explain why this is sexual, when it could describe pretty much anything.
When I mentioned the sexualness to the friend who brought the eclipse to my attention, she said she could feel a sexual vibe in the air as well. So even if I described it poorly, it was there, dammit. I'm not crazy.
I would post pictures, but I lack a digicam. I bring this up to keep reminding myself that it is what I will ask for for my birthday/christmas.
- Unknown, 2:12 AM
Saturday, November 08, 2003
I Belong To The Blank Generation, 26 Years Too Late
I am not a man who has many heroes, either from real-life historical figures or from fiction. I am attracted to the human, the conflicts within a person, or between people, than conflicts of good and evil, where Heroes reign tall. Historically, these sorts of things get overlooked, and historical figures turn into cartoons. The same goes in literature, only the characters often start as cartoons, then progress. To use an archetypical nerdy example, my favorite character in Lord of the Rings has always been Boromir, not because I like him, but because he is the most human. (for the non-nerds among us, Boromir wanted to attempt use the ultimate power for good, where the namby-pamby heroes just wanted to destroy it. For the semi-nerds, Boromir was the hottie in The Fellowship of the Ring with the sandy-blonde hair and goatee, as opposed to the dark brown hair and goatee)
Therefore, only someone who managed to understand and transcend this cartoonishness, while remaining human, and also managing to be special, could fall into this category. Roughly the only person I can call a hero of mine, at any level, is Richard Hell. Richard Hell was one of the most influential people in the American punk movement, not just because of his fantastic music, but because he practically invented the punk image. Image, to him, was something to be manipulated, because you could. "Celebrity is the new art form" he once said. So he ripped up his shirts, and wore sunglasses all the time. And so on. Because he wanted to become the cartoon, but his cartoon.
I mention this all because I got to see Richard Hell tonight. Sadly, it wasn't a concert, though who knows how much he could rock, 30 years later. No, I ran across him in the Philly Weekly's A-List, introducing a punk-rock film with no punk rock.
His introduction for the film was everything it could have been. It was the only way it could have been. He came on, and flat-out sucked. When he wasn't rambing, he was stuttering. It was usually some combination of the two. He obviously had no speech prepared. He realized this after about five minutes, said "Hold on a minute" and took a swig of water. Then he said "I always wanted to have a nervous breakdown on stage" and launched into a story about how people would go to see this performer in the 50's because they didn't know if he would just break down into tears or what he would do. Or, when he played in the Heartbreakers, how people would go to see Johnny Thunders to see if he would, well, die. From there, he managed to string together a reasonably coherent speech about why he was introducing a film that did not involve punk rock actually.
The film, The Devil, Probably was . . . I cannot describe it. It was kind of terrible. It was kind of brilliant. It ended fantastically. Hell described it as "gruesome" and it was, even though there wasn't a drop of "gore." The main thing I remember was the footsteps. I think there were more footsteps than dialogue.
I could, perhaps, have walked up to Richard Hell after the film and shook his hand. But I didn't. That is not punk rock.
I am not a man who has many heroes, either from real-life historical figures or from fiction. I am attracted to the human, the conflicts within a person, or between people, than conflicts of good and evil, where Heroes reign tall. Historically, these sorts of things get overlooked, and historical figures turn into cartoons. The same goes in literature, only the characters often start as cartoons, then progress. To use an archetypical nerdy example, my favorite character in Lord of the Rings has always been Boromir, not because I like him, but because he is the most human. (for the non-nerds among us, Boromir wanted to attempt use the ultimate power for good, where the namby-pamby heroes just wanted to destroy it. For the semi-nerds, Boromir was the hottie in The Fellowship of the Ring with the sandy-blonde hair and goatee, as opposed to the dark brown hair and goatee)
Therefore, only someone who managed to understand and transcend this cartoonishness, while remaining human, and also managing to be special, could fall into this category. Roughly the only person I can call a hero of mine, at any level, is Richard Hell. Richard Hell was one of the most influential people in the American punk movement, not just because of his fantastic music, but because he practically invented the punk image. Image, to him, was something to be manipulated, because you could. "Celebrity is the new art form" he once said. So he ripped up his shirts, and wore sunglasses all the time. And so on. Because he wanted to become the cartoon, but his cartoon.
I mention this all because I got to see Richard Hell tonight. Sadly, it wasn't a concert, though who knows how much he could rock, 30 years later. No, I ran across him in the Philly Weekly's A-List, introducing a punk-rock film with no punk rock.
His introduction for the film was everything it could have been. It was the only way it could have been. He came on, and flat-out sucked. When he wasn't rambing, he was stuttering. It was usually some combination of the two. He obviously had no speech prepared. He realized this after about five minutes, said "Hold on a minute" and took a swig of water. Then he said "I always wanted to have a nervous breakdown on stage" and launched into a story about how people would go to see this performer in the 50's because they didn't know if he would just break down into tears or what he would do. Or, when he played in the Heartbreakers, how people would go to see Johnny Thunders to see if he would, well, die. From there, he managed to string together a reasonably coherent speech about why he was introducing a film that did not involve punk rock actually.
The film, The Devil, Probably was . . . I cannot describe it. It was kind of terrible. It was kind of brilliant. It ended fantastically. Hell described it as "gruesome" and it was, even though there wasn't a drop of "gore." The main thing I remember was the footsteps. I think there were more footsteps than dialogue.
I could, perhaps, have walked up to Richard Hell after the film and shook his hand. But I didn't. That is not punk rock.
- Unknown, 1:17 AM
Thursday, November 06, 2003
Hah! Capitalism trumps you!
I was in a play-argument with someone who brought up capitalism to beat my point, and had me whipped. Capitalism totally trumped my argument, I said. It's the big trump card. Then I realized: hey, a card game based on an intellectual argument. Brilliant! You could have the Bad Analogy card, the Noam Chomsky Reference card, the Derisive Laughter, the False Dichotomy, the Called Bluff, and of course, the Hitler/Reagan card. The last would earn either an instant victory or an instant defeat, as in all arguments.
Obviously, I would have to carry a set in my pocket, so I could be Meta-Rowan-Argumentron.
I was in a play-argument with someone who brought up capitalism to beat my point, and had me whipped. Capitalism totally trumped my argument, I said. It's the big trump card. Then I realized: hey, a card game based on an intellectual argument. Brilliant! You could have the Bad Analogy card, the Noam Chomsky Reference card, the Derisive Laughter, the False Dichotomy, the Called Bluff, and of course, the Hitler/Reagan card. The last would earn either an instant victory or an instant defeat, as in all arguments.
Obviously, I would have to carry a set in my pocket, so I could be Meta-Rowan-Argumentron.
- Unknown, 2:48 AM
Love hata! Hater of love
I find myself laughing at people who call themselves "in love." I'm like "ha-ha. suckers!"
I find myself laughing at people who call themselves "in love." I'm like "ha-ha. suckers!"
- Unknown, 1:09 AM
Wednesday, November 05, 2003
Square Hole, Round Peg
I've been ripping my cds lately. It's a lot of work, but I guess I have time to do it. Haha. I'm using RealPlayer, which downloads album information so I don't have to. I am continuously amused by the genre classifications it has.
For example, it has an "Art Rock" category, into which slide Stephen Malkmus, Tom Waits, and The Faint. Take a listen to the electronic dance-punk of The Faint, followed by the insane-blues-pirate music of Tom Waits, and see if you think they would fit into the same subgenre. They do, if your subgenre is "Art Rock" and it means "We don't know what the fuck to call this stuff." Which is actually a fairly useful description. It would be perfect for Radiohead, for example, except the RealPlayer has decided that Radiohead is Brit Pop. No, really. Kid A is pop music now.
Also amusing to me was Beck, who got put in "Post-Modern Pop." Now there's a winner of a description: no description at all! Another good one is that the Dead Kennedys are "Old School Punk" while Gang of Four, who came out earlier, are classified as "Post-Punk." Richard Hell's Destiny Street, which was released in 1982, after Gang of Four's "Post-Punk," is classified as "Pre-Punk." If punk died in 1978, it died like a bad guy in a horror franchise, apparently.
Analyzing the way that genres work is one of my pastimes. I was going to say "favorite" pastimes, but while I enjoy it, most other people don't like to do it with me. This is possibly because I am annoying, or possibly because I have a very difficult time explaining how I feel about them. But while my CDs rip, I'm gonna give it a try.
At a certain level, genres obviously don't exist. All you have to do to see this is to point out bands that straddle genres, or times when genres got created. Kid A is a fantastic example of this. It gets put into a Rock/Pop category in stores, but go on. Find a "rock" song on it. The other easy way to demonstrate this is to attempt to get a definition of a genre. Sometimes, this is possible - for example, I have a superb working definition of what makes a Console/Computer RPG, and will test any game against this. But I do not think this is possible to do with music. By "working definition" for a genre I mean a description that
a) includes most/all of the music widely considered to be in that genre
b) excludes most/all of the music widely considered not to be in that genre
c) deals effectively with most/all of the music that is sometimes included in the genre
d) it can't be self-referential (use the terms of the genre itself) or exclusionarily referential (clumsy phrase, but I mean things like "music with guitars that isn't country is rock music")
A definition that manages to do this will sound sterile next to a natural definition. For example, when I run my CRPG definition* by hardcore CRPG fans, they tend to reject it out of hand. Too sterile! It doesn't fit what they think a CRPG is.
But here I am, with a definition of a genre that doesn't fit what people think the genre is, but I'm willing to argue it, even though I don't think genres "exist." This is because genres obviously do exist, at some level. I could not be writing this and expecting that everyone who reads it (both of you) if genres weren't a meaningful term. I like to look at existence in two respects, physically real and conceptually real. For example, a unicorn is physically not real, but it is conceptually real. I am amused to think that genres aren't conceptually real, but are physically real. By this, I mean that if I walk into a music store, the music will be physically divided into genres. I will find the Rolling Stones in Pop/Rock and the Roots in Rap/R&B whether I consider these distinct categories or not.
Therefore, genres do not exist as a distinct category as generally percieved or defined, but genres do exist in a pragmatic sense, as they help facilitate discussion and use of the things that they define.
Why am I spending so much time discussing genres? (money shot, here it comes . . . . )
Because words are "genres." All of 'em. When I talk about "hip-hop" I'm talking about something as meaningful and meaningless as the word "rabbit," or "freedom," or "is," or "gavagai." Because words are attempts to take something unclassifiable, human thoughts, and put it into a classifiable, but inherently crippled form.
*My definition of a CRPG is: A game in which the player controls a single unit or small group of units, small being up to roughly 10. The units encounter a series of obstacles, and the methods by which the player overcomes the obstacles affects the player's ability to overcome future obstacles. The game makes calculations for dealing with the obstacles using random numbers.
I've been ripping my cds lately. It's a lot of work, but I guess I have time to do it. Haha. I'm using RealPlayer, which downloads album information so I don't have to. I am continuously amused by the genre classifications it has.
For example, it has an "Art Rock" category, into which slide Stephen Malkmus, Tom Waits, and The Faint. Take a listen to the electronic dance-punk of The Faint, followed by the insane-blues-pirate music of Tom Waits, and see if you think they would fit into the same subgenre. They do, if your subgenre is "Art Rock" and it means "We don't know what the fuck to call this stuff." Which is actually a fairly useful description. It would be perfect for Radiohead, for example, except the RealPlayer has decided that Radiohead is Brit Pop. No, really. Kid A is pop music now.
Also amusing to me was Beck, who got put in "Post-Modern Pop." Now there's a winner of a description: no description at all! Another good one is that the Dead Kennedys are "Old School Punk" while Gang of Four, who came out earlier, are classified as "Post-Punk." Richard Hell's Destiny Street, which was released in 1982, after Gang of Four's "Post-Punk," is classified as "Pre-Punk." If punk died in 1978, it died like a bad guy in a horror franchise, apparently.
Analyzing the way that genres work is one of my pastimes. I was going to say "favorite" pastimes, but while I enjoy it, most other people don't like to do it with me. This is possibly because I am annoying, or possibly because I have a very difficult time explaining how I feel about them. But while my CDs rip, I'm gonna give it a try.
At a certain level, genres obviously don't exist. All you have to do to see this is to point out bands that straddle genres, or times when genres got created. Kid A is a fantastic example of this. It gets put into a Rock/Pop category in stores, but go on. Find a "rock" song on it. The other easy way to demonstrate this is to attempt to get a definition of a genre. Sometimes, this is possible - for example, I have a superb working definition of what makes a Console/Computer RPG, and will test any game against this. But I do not think this is possible to do with music. By "working definition" for a genre I mean a description that
a) includes most/all of the music widely considered to be in that genre
b) excludes most/all of the music widely considered not to be in that genre
c) deals effectively with most/all of the music that is sometimes included in the genre
d) it can't be self-referential (use the terms of the genre itself) or exclusionarily referential (clumsy phrase, but I mean things like "music with guitars that isn't country is rock music")
A definition that manages to do this will sound sterile next to a natural definition. For example, when I run my CRPG definition* by hardcore CRPG fans, they tend to reject it out of hand. Too sterile! It doesn't fit what they think a CRPG is.
But here I am, with a definition of a genre that doesn't fit what people think the genre is, but I'm willing to argue it, even though I don't think genres "exist." This is because genres obviously do exist, at some level. I could not be writing this and expecting that everyone who reads it (both of you) if genres weren't a meaningful term. I like to look at existence in two respects, physically real and conceptually real. For example, a unicorn is physically not real, but it is conceptually real. I am amused to think that genres aren't conceptually real, but are physically real. By this, I mean that if I walk into a music store, the music will be physically divided into genres. I will find the Rolling Stones in Pop/Rock and the Roots in Rap/R&B whether I consider these distinct categories or not.
Therefore, genres do not exist as a distinct category as generally percieved or defined, but genres do exist in a pragmatic sense, as they help facilitate discussion and use of the things that they define.
Why am I spending so much time discussing genres? (money shot, here it comes . . . . )
Because words are "genres." All of 'em. When I talk about "hip-hop" I'm talking about something as meaningful and meaningless as the word "rabbit," or "freedom," or "is," or "gavagai." Because words are attempts to take something unclassifiable, human thoughts, and put it into a classifiable, but inherently crippled form.
*My definition of a CRPG is: A game in which the player controls a single unit or small group of units, small being up to roughly 10. The units encounter a series of obstacles, and the methods by which the player overcomes the obstacles affects the player's ability to overcome future obstacles. The game makes calculations for dealing with the obstacles using random numbers.
- Unknown, 2:26 AM
Tuesday, November 04, 2003
Oh oh do me baby
When I woke up today, I decided the first song I would listen to would be The Humpty Dance. Because that is how the day should be started. Just grab 'em in the biscuits.
When I woke up today, I decided the first song I would listen to would be The Humpty Dance. Because that is how the day should be started. Just grab 'em in the biscuits.
- Unknown, 1:10 PM
Monday, November 03, 2003
The Stalking
I just got another call on my phone from the Restricted number. This time, I decided to try a new strategy. I picked up, and then didn't say anything. The idea was to get them to say something first. It failed; they hung up after 15 seconds. I keep trying to think of ideas of what to do. Last night, I got calls from a number that showed up on my phone, instead of being "Restricted." If that happens again, I may call that number. Or I could answer the phone with "Don't hang up." Or I could change my voice mail to say "Hi, this is Rowan. If you aren't calling for Rowan, then stop calling this number!"
Any suggestions?
I just got another call on my phone from the Restricted number. This time, I decided to try a new strategy. I picked up, and then didn't say anything. The idea was to get them to say something first. It failed; they hung up after 15 seconds. I keep trying to think of ideas of what to do. Last night, I got calls from a number that showed up on my phone, instead of being "Restricted." If that happens again, I may call that number. Or I could answer the phone with "Don't hang up." Or I could change my voice mail to say "Hi, this is Rowan. If you aren't calling for Rowan, then stop calling this number!"
Any suggestions?
- Unknown, 6:19 PM
Sunday, November 02, 2003
Long-Term Planning
No, seriously. I may have failed at getting my co-op for this term, but next summer? Already got plans. My goal is to go overseas, and there are two jobs which have caught my eye. One is in London, working in a school. The other is in Paris, working in a hostel.
How could I possibly choose? Struggling with it myself produces no results. There is only one scientifically sound way to make these decisions: an online poll!
No, seriously. I may have failed at getting my co-op for this term, but next summer? Already got plans. My goal is to go overseas, and there are two jobs which have caught my eye. One is in London, working in a school. The other is in Paris, working in a hostel.
How could I possibly choose? Struggling with it myself produces no results. There is only one scientifically sound way to make these decisions: an online poll!
- Unknown, 11:47 PM
Saturday, November 01, 2003
The Stupid Shall Inherit My Foot In Their Ass
I've recieved about six calls today from someone with a Restricted number. The first two times, I picked up, and the person on the other end said "Wrong number" and hung up. The third time, I responded with an instant "It appears that you do have the right number." Instant hang up. One other time, I silenced it so she would go to my voice mail. And yet she called again once more, where I said "Hello" and she hung up right away.
How fucking stupid do you have to be to keep doing this? You've called several times over the past 5 hours, and gotten the same person. You've heard this person's voice mail, to indicate that yes, it is his phone. But you keep calling! I mean, you could at least ask what the number is, tell how you got it, and try to figure out what's wrong. But no. You're too stupid to even do that.
I've recieved about six calls today from someone with a Restricted number. The first two times, I picked up, and the person on the other end said "Wrong number" and hung up. The third time, I responded with an instant "It appears that you do have the right number." Instant hang up. One other time, I silenced it so she would go to my voice mail. And yet she called again once more, where I said "Hello" and she hung up right away.
How fucking stupid do you have to be to keep doing this? You've called several times over the past 5 hours, and gotten the same person. You've heard this person's voice mail, to indicate that yes, it is his phone. But you keep calling! I mean, you could at least ask what the number is, tell how you got it, and try to figure out what's wrong. But no. You're too stupid to even do that.