We Love You, P5

I forgot how much i used to listen to Shibuya-Kei in college.

Pretty Bird.

i drilled two holes in my parrot's beak a few weeks ago to shut him up. held Chirpy Boy down and power drilled those holes right in.

but it didn't shut him up (quite the opposite in fact).

i figured he'd be rendered silent on account of lack of air pressure or some such other miracle of modern birdery. that was not the case (though i'd be the first to admit that my foggy reasoning was inspired, largely, by the former liquid tenants of all of these empty cans).

so the beak holes didn't work at first.

but then, after a couple of days, infection (mother nature's enduring back-up plan) set in and shut up ol' Chirpy Boy for good.

whoever decided that a teaching an animal with a brain the size of a cocktail onion to talk was a good idea hadn't ever spent more than five minutes next to one of the the shrill motherfuckers while it rambles incessantly about an unending proclivity towards crackers.

i should have killed the bastard at the pet store too. here all i really wanted was a quiet goldfish under whose rocks i could hide any number of things including (but not limited to) stolen eastern bloc diamonds, a skate key and a tiny waterproof envelope with my super secret ideas for new dried foods.

but this sick petstore employee fucker railroads me into buying a high maintenance bullhorn that says "Pretty Bird" over and over again like a broken record. you'd think they'd at least teach the fucking thing a joke or something... but no, I get the bird who constantly begs for crackers and boasts about itself.

Chirpy Boy really was *DELICIOUS* and well worth every cent I paid for him. looking back, he was like a mouth-watering best friend.

Pi pi pi pi pi

They're honored to be melted into your mayonnaise pizza.

Anchorman

On September 1, 1986, Dan Rather, inexplicably, began signing off his nightly CBS news broadcast by saying simply "courage". America was mystified. Walter Cronkite used to sign off the news by saying "and that's the way it is".

That made sense.

Linda Ellerbee stole from Kurt Vonnegut and used to sign off her broadcasts with "And so it goes". That still made some sense.

But "courage"?

Ted Baxter would sign off "Good night and good news". Jane Curtin would sign off "Good night and have a pleasant tomorrow". Tomorrow was Sunday. That's your day off. It would be pleasant.

But "courage"?

Dennis Miller used to say "That's the news and I am out of here." That was the last thing Dennis Miller said that America generally understood. Charles Rocket said "Good night and watch out" when he hosted SNL news. The last thing he ever said on live TV was "fuck". He got fired. Maybe that took courage. Or stupidity. What's Charles Rocket done lately?

No one fired Dan Rather for saying "courage" and failing to offer America an explanation. America is owed an explanation. "Elvis has left the building" explained why Elvis wasn't coming back on stage. That was an explanation if there ever was one. People understood that. People didn't seem to understand why the house lights were on and roadies in white tshirts and jeans were pulling down speaker towers.

Jimmy Durante used to sign off his TV show with "Good night Mrs. Calabash, wherever you are". No one really cared who Mrs. Calabash was. Would you? Carol Burnett crooned "I'm so glad we had this time together." If I grew up watching her I would have cried when she sang it for the last time.


It takes courage for me to admit that.

Only one thing ever made sense on TV. "Book 'em, Danno. Murder One." Jack Lord had style.

Kids these days

i know i'm getting older when the media doesn't talk to me anymore. instead of exciting and inciting me, i'm often appalled and disgusted by images and [mis]representations streaming through the cathode tube. bright colors, pounding soundtracks and strobe light graphics annoy me rather than woo me. i view those tactics as cheap and lazy. is this a sign of maturity?

"child at heart" and "immaturity" are two very different concepts. one has the ability to turn off foolishness when needed whereas the other has trouble grasping the concept of responsibility.

reminiscing on my own childhood behaviors, it's amazing to see how far i've come. granted, it's not all that amazing at first glance, but when compared to peers (both familiar and societal) the maturity gap can be quite large. learning right from wrong, making your own choices and sticking with them. actually listening to that/those little voice/s inside your head and working with them.

with each passing day, i become more and more disconnected with prime youth culture...the sort that fuels MTV and major advertising campaigns. the formula is as it's always been: sex, drugs and rock & roll, but in this world of exxxtreme, the elements are increased. i wouldn't be able to go back to my high school without being completely baffled by what i see. i want to throw my hands up in frustration and scream "WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?"

and i fear that all this attention toward teenagers, since they are the most profitable group out there, acts as a pump to inflate egos. media culture and ultimately, society, sells to teens, talks to teens, which in turns sends the message that they are important and an integral part of in maintaining order. good and bad. recognition is good. acknowledgment is good. but one has to wonder if we are inadvertently sending the message that America's youth is in control.

a friend of mine brought up this point with sitcoms. sitcoms i grew up with, as cheesy as they were, almost always portrayed the parents as right and the children as wrong. but the tables have turned within a decade of economic fluctuations as well as changing social standards as we see less and less parenting available due to two income households and single parent families. (not to say that the preexisting parenting isn't good, mind you. there is nothing wrong with these arrangements, because i'm sure there are alternative methods of parenting. but hanging on to 1950s ideals isn't going to work anymore.) the image we see on television are bumbling parents who act less like parents and more like children. and poised children who are more often than not running the show.

we forget that these are kids, and how much do they really know? sure, they are smart, but the best intelligence is shaped over time from life experiences. maturation.

stories in the news, a slice of america. remember the 2003 hazing incident in a chicago suburb. the wild teen three day house party which resulted in thousands of orgasms in damages. when did violence and an utter disgard for other people become okay?

everyone was arguing about how these teens should be punished, whether or not the school should be responsible etc, etc, etc. it's all just red tape. caught up in the logistics, we've lost sight of the fact that these human beings have a very fucked up perception of social behavior when they believe there is nothing wrong with their actions. in situations like these, everyone leaps to inspect the details and overlooks the basics.

teenagers misbehaving. using violence. without recognizing it's wrong.

when and how did the abuse (in all forms) of another human being get the green light?

amidst the bullshit, i remember only hearing one good point. if these incidences were committed by inner city kids, their asses would be in through the legal system and in jail so fast their heads would spin. this mere fact, as much as we don't want to believe it's true, frustrates me even more. fuck silver spoons and privileges. but that's a whole other topic to gripe about.

granted, those incidences are extreme examples, but it's not to say that "immaturity" doesn't take on more familiar forms. better luck tomorrow syndrome. boredom in suburbia. disposable incomes (mommy and daddy's boners at that). it's a dangerous combination. sex, drugs, and rock & roll behind white picket fences. and i'll be the first to admit i've felt it (and participated) too. isn't it true that the majority of shoplifters are middle class suburban teenagers? hell, i used to do it. a good amount. but thank god, i had enough sense to stop after almost getting caught.

what makes one person's (as cliche as it is) "wake-up call" more effective than the next? is it the drugs, is it the parenting, or is it society that turns off consciences and wills repeat offenses? or even more horrifying, has the "conscience" disappeared through constant youth affirmations? or perhaps, not disappeared but merely evolved into a form foreign to cultural common sense ideals.

i don't really know where i'm going with this. i guess working with children in the past has caused me to think about these topics. observing their behavior and realizing one error now could affect their whole life down the road can be quite daunting at times. it's the ultimate form of creation.

and the funny thing is, at 31, i'm old enough to be the parent of the people i'm ranting about, although i can be damn immature too. but i know that i still have a hell of a lot of growing to do as a person and i'm welcoming it with open arms.

peter pan's fucked up.

The White Album

what's worse than the sinking feeling of hearing the first chords of "Dead Leaves And The Dirty Ground" on the White Stripes "White Blood Cells" when you're expecting "Exactly Where I'm At" from Ween's "White Pepper"?

plain white cds anger me greatly.

Protein.

Once, back when I used to do tai chi on the beach before school (when I lived in Costa del Mar), I was holding out my right leg to a perfect 90 degree angle from my torso in the "Descending Pendulum" position and I was so serene and motionless that a pair of lesser sand pipers took a break from their morning of flight and perched on my leg.

I found the moment so beautiful that a single slow tear trickled down my face as I ate them, feathers and all.

If you ever wanted to see what I look like at a free vodka promo . . .

Philadelphia | Picture - Cavanaugh's Rittenhouse- Photos by Marie Rodriguez | Philly2night.com

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I. Am. Red. Cyclone.

I decided to do some studying out of sheer boredom.

In various instruction manuals released with the various versions of Street Fighter II that have been released since 1991, it was stated somewhere that Zangief learned his signature Spinning Piledriver Attack on accident.

According to the legend, he was sucked inside a tornado while out in the Russian wilderness while he was in the process of piledriving a bear, as he always has done previously.

Zangief's stats say that he is 7 feet tall and weighs 350 LBS. To give you an idea how large that is, his closest real life counterpart in terms of height and weight would be Paul Wight, also known as The Giant and The Big Show in various professional wrestling circles. The current stats have him listed as 7 feet tall and weighing in at 485 LBS. Anyone who has seen him perform (including myself) can testify that his size is almost unreal.

Now, the most common species of bear in the Soviet Union/Russian Federation would be the Eurasian Brown Bear. A full-grown male usually comes in at 460 LBS at most and 8 feet tall standing on it's hind legs. Assuming that Zangief would be facing off against a bear of that size, their combined weight would be 810 LBS.

Zangief has been shown in every single game that he has ever been in that he is able to piledrive his opponents far beyond his own height. Since it's extremely hard to calculate exactly how much, we'll say just for the sake of argument that he usually piledrives his opponent up to 17.5 feet. That's two and a half times his own height.

Now, here comes the part I need help on. I don't know what formula to use to determine how much force it would take to launch 810 LBS up to 17.5 feet in the air. Math has never been my forté.

Can The Internet solve this?

All-star.

My mom just let out an audible groan when Obama spoke at the game. It's amazing that she has so much venom for the guy when she can't even recall any of his talking points she directly opposes.

Vivid.

I just had a dream where i was captured and about to be electrocuted, car-battery style by some mafia guy for breaking into his base and taking out several of his men. I got into his base using a "cloaking watch" like The Spy in TF2. I stabbed a whole bunch of people in the back. I could also change disguises. One of them resembled Chris Eccelston and that was what eventually lead to my capture. I was blackmailed into doing it. I was supposed to get some kind of information about an experiment. I was captured by "The Rock" although he feigned knocking me out. Apparently my former co-worker Lo'An was going to bust me out. I woke up right after the criminal mastermind guy asked about growing up in Langhorne and then telling me "this is going to be painful." He already shocked me twice and asked me which part of me I'd rather have amputated first.

Here's a paper I recently wrote about Biz Markie

The way in which a piece of information technology, such as a computer, works, limits, and opens new possibilities in the way we makes sense of our culture; is by no means neutral. There are glaring philosophical and political issues, which are at stakes as a result of copyright use in an age of reproductive technologies.

Musicologist John Shepherd once proposed that music could be analyzed with the use of semiotics as a form of communication, which for purposes of abbreviation can be designated as 'text' [Shepherd, 1991]. You could regard a modern electronic music track as a text, which is created on a sequencing device. Using a program like Cubase or ACID Pro is equivalent to writing text with Microsoft Word. The sequenced results can be likened to a montage of other texts. This occurs because other texts within a particular piece are a source of “inspiration”, leaving traces in the structures of the new text. Since a text is written in a particular tradition of communication, it follows that no text can be entirely original as a text always refers to other texts, otherwise it could not be understood. The use of a sampler has made this intertextuality more apparent since a song can be created from the sequencing of snippets of a sound as well as from recognizable fragments from other recordings. This practice has led to accusations of theft. [Lawrence, 2009]

The kind of definition of an origin of meaning and therefore of authorship may indicate some of the problems concerning the definition of copyright. Cultural critics such as Michel Foucault have an interest in the empowerment of an audience and ultimately the masses. Modern electronic music is a good example of the kind of music that could achieve this. On the other hand, current copyright law is informed by an ideology that ultimately keeps hierarchical structures, which are based on ownership, intact. Institutions which traditionally capitalize on musical products such as record companies and publishing houses, have an interest in the current status of copyright law which protect the rights of ownership or intellectual property by institutions and of individuals. The “moral right” of the individual author was first recognized in the U.K. with the Copyright Designs and Patents Act of 1988. However, the right of this type of author is a rather fragile one and seems to be defined in terms of capital power rather than in terms of origin or “authenticity” [S. Jones, 1999]. Even so, with the widening and shifting of the definition of the author, one may doubt the practicality of the implementation of current copyright law under the Orphan Act. Either more needs to be included, which may ultimately stifle creativity, or otherwise concepts such as plagiarism need to be reconsidered [“Matt”, 2009].

In regards to music there are essentially two types of copyright: the copyright of the sound recording, which is usually owned by the record company, and the copyright of the composition that is owned by the composer and writer but often shared with a publisher. Compositions are usually defined in terms of notation in the tradition of Western European classical music, even though one does not need to register the copyright with physical notation sheet paper. [Wardzinski, 2009] Musical forms which are based on a genre that stresses textures and rhythms, or what can be referred to as a “groove” or “beats” do not have the same level of copyright protection as those that are based on genres, which stress lyrics and melody. A lot of music produced under the umbrella name of “club music” can be described as “groove based.” This means that the genre is financially vulnerable. Important parts of these tracks are unprotected while being endangered by lawsuits concerning the use of samples [Lawrence, 2009]. In addition, copyright law is biased towards those who can afford to file lawsuits rather than those who may need more protection. Ironically, copyright law has economically affected composers more favorably than performers and therefore recording studio technologies over performing technologies. By not fully recognizing the creative performing qualities of the use of affordable studio technologies such as samplers or the use of record deck, an entire section of artistic endeavor is ignored and perhaps even endangered. Perhaps if users of these technologies had a greater access to capital investment, entirely “new” and “original” works could be created, using “real” instruments and “real” performers. Yet, although DJ and hip-hop culture may have their roots in economic resourcefulness, they have resulted in the creation of culturally valid texts, within the context of a popular cultural tradition. It seems clear that developments in digital technology, as well as in the production and consumption of music are outdating copyright law at a fast pace. [Ahern, 2009]

Less than twenty years ago, copyright law had no specific provisions to deal with the act of sampling. In 1991, a case concerning the use of sampling technologies in hip-hop is what set the mood for future proceedings. A precedent was set on the use or rather “misuse” of samplers, when Gilbert O’Sullivan took Biz Markie to court in New York [Baran, 2002]. Biz Markie, a rap artist and therefore steeped in DJ culture of hip-hop, had “lifted” eight bars of the introduction of the song Alone Again (Naturally), by Gilbert O’Sullivan (MAM, 1972). Using this riff as the basis for his song, he also used some of the lyrics (a samples of three words) and adapted the title, calling it Alone Again. Biz Markie’s argument was that he had meant it to be a “parody”. In other words, this is a type of comment on another text, which is quite legitimate within the limits of current copyright law. Nevertheless, the label of the artist, Cold Chillin’, as a subsidiary of Warner Bros., should have had the legal expertise to recognize the dangers should a substantial part of a song be used without copy clearance in advance. The case appeared when 250,000 copies of the album I need a haircut, which contained the song, were already available on the market. Since the song was not a “straight” cover, Gilbert O’ Sullivan did not give his consent. As a result, Judge Kevin Duffy, Federal Judge of the United States Court for the Southern district of New York, who, it is alleged, has no experience in these kind of cases, ruled that Biz Markie’s album should be taken off the shelves by the following Monday. The case ended in an out of court settlement although a criminal prosecution was considered [Schumacher, 1995]. In Britain the Copyright Designs and Patents Act of 1988 section 107, which is a section used to tackle piracy, could also be used to put sampling under criminal proceedings. Since 1956 in Britain the copyright owner has to give permission in advance for the use of a substantial part of a work.
This case had set the mood in the US for a precedent on what can be considered to be a “substantial part”; the criminal offence of “theft” is now defined as the use of a sample of a part of a song as the basis of a “new” piece of work, whilst adapting the title and the lyrics for one’s own purposes. Although producers are more careful now in clearing the material they use, often the beginning and the underground artists have not got the capital or the knowledge to do so. [Wardzinsky, 2009] In addition, there seems to be unwillingness amongst club producers to give into the whims or the major record industry:

There’s always an anti-sampling feeling going through the record
industry and it’s not the artists but the record companies and
publishing houses. Even if the original artists say (sic) go
ahead use my record, their record company can just turn
around and say no or charge you ridiculous amounts of money
for it. It’s ridiculous because there’s 10,000 reasons why you
should be allowed to sample and only about two why you
shouldn’t. [Ahern, 2009]

From an artistic point of view, Foucault’s taunting question: “What difference does it make who is speaking?” [Foucault, 1984], makes sense when one accepts culture as a common good. However, in the context of a capitalist political economy of music, copyright of ideas is given a higher priority. The difference in who is speaking is determined by who has the money, knowledge and willingness to assert the exploitation of a cultural product.
As the concept such as the author is redefined, so is the issue of authenticity. The authentic is tied to ideas of original of a work of art as a fixed point, a “presence in time and place” [Benjamin, 2005]. In Foucault’s notion of the author, coherence is found within the realm of a discourse, its procedures legitimizing only certain acts of “Truth” and therefore authenticity. However, in being aware of these procedures, one has to doubt forever an absolutely true reference point to which the notion of authenticity has been tied. As Foucault points out: “The political question, to sum up, is not error, illusion, alienated consciousness or ideology; it is truth itself.” [Foucault, 1988]

Therefore, it would only be when an alternative discourse, as with this example DJ and hip-hop culture, becomes accepted amongst “mainstream” culture that it becomes possible to argue for a different type of copyright legislation as the Orphan Act.













Works Cited
Ahern http://www.1217Design.com, Sean C. "Interview with Sean Ahern, multimedia designer." Telephone interview. 02 Feb. 2009.
Baran, Madeleine. "Copyright and Music: A History Told in MP3's." Illegal-art.org :: a project of Stay Free! magazine. 2002. 31 Jan. 2009 .
Benjamin, Walter. "The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction." Marxists Internet Archive. Ed. Andy Blunden. Feb. 2005. 30 Jan. 2009 .
"Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 (c. 48)." Office of Public Sector Information. 28 Jan. 2009 .
Foucault, Michel. Power/Knowledge : Selected Interviews and Other Writings, 1972-1977. New York: Pantheon, 1980. p. 133

Foucault, Michel. The Foucault Reader. Ed. Paul Rabinow. New York: Pantheon, 1984. p. 120

Lawrence gregaudio@gmail.com, Greg. "Interview with Greg Lawrence; professional Sound Engineer." Telephone interview. 1 Feb. 09.
Markie, Biz. "Alone Again." I Need a Haircut. By Biz Markie. MP3. Biz Markie, 1991.
"Matt" "Stop the U.S. Orphan Works Act." Webmaster-Source | Blogging Tips, Webmaster Resources, Tutorials, and More. 14 Jan. 2009. 01 Feb. 2009 .
"Matt" "Stop the U.S. Orphan Works Act." Webmaster-Source | Blogging Tips, Webmaster Resources, Tutorials, and More. 28 Jan. 2009 .
"Orphan Works." U.S. Copyright Office. 01 Feb. 2009 .
O'Sullivan, Gilbert. "Alone Again (Naturally)." Alone Again (Naturally). By Gilbert O'Sullivan. MP3. Gordon Mills, 1972.
Schumacher, Thomas G. "`This is a sampling sport':1 digital sampling, rap music and the law in cultural production -- Schumacher 17 (2): 253 --." Media, Culture & Society. 1995. Sage Journals Online. 31 Jan. 2009 .
"Seeing Sound, Hearing Image." M/C Journal. June 1999. 26 Jan. 2009 .
Shepherd, John. Music as Social Text. Oxford: Polity P, 1991.
Wardzinsky, Geoff. "Interview with Geoff Wardzinski, lawyer." Online interview. 31 Jan. 2009.

Eras.

[I found this in one of my old sketchbooks yesterday. It was something I wrote when Ed was housesitting for his aunt and uncle in this after watching Conan the Barbarian on DVD with my friends Ed, Andy, Joe, and Ginny. It was originally published on the now defunct www.astyle.com where it was totally ignored because it had nothing to do with cars, sex, or Aaron Kwok.]

Okay, so everyone at one time or another I think everyone has this
feeling like they belong in a different era. It's not like I feel like a
total outcast or something, like, say, Emily Dickinson or Gloria Estefan,
but sometimes I wish I grew up and lived in a different time. I don't
think it makes me crazy to assume that others feel like me. Just tell me
I'm not crazy. Please. No. I am not alone.

Anyway, I went to a Cheap Trick concert over the summer thinking that
for a few hours I could suddenly become a high school burnout in 1978 who
would steal 4 warm Strohs from the garage, drink in the woods, make out
with chicks, and maybe get my hands on some firearms. Its kinda a "Dazed
and Confused"/ "Over the Edge" / every movie about summer camp made in
the late 70s dream world I'm talking about here. So i put on my Kiss
shirt and drove to some isolated bar off a strip-club strewn highway in
Old Bridge, N.J. Instantly, everyone asked me if I saw the Kiss show. I
didn't, the shows sold out. But it didn't matter. Nothing mattered.
Just rock.

The most fascinating thing of the show was the audience. Mostly in
their late 30s, these blue-collar, Bud drinking proletariats grew up with
Cheap Trick, and 20 years later, they're gonna try to make things right,
for an evening. By the way, right now I'm watching "The Breakfast Club"
with my roommate and the Molly Ringwald character lamented, "When you
grow up, your heart dies." I think that really rings true, y'know? It's
like a.....motif.

The musical orgasm of the night came when during the song "Surrender,"
Robin Zander got a little chant going in which everyone yelled, "We're
all alright!! We're all alright!!!" And for those two minutes, no matter
if the guy to the right of me was fired as a cable installator, or if
that girl in front of me got shafted waitressing today, we were all
alright. Everyone told us (well, them) their whole life they were not
all right; their parents, their teachers, the cops. They were burnouts,
they smoked pot and listened to early Aerosmith. But they were wrong.
(The parents and teachers, that is.) Cheap Trick elevated the haves and
have-nots alike to ecstatic proportions. I think the song "Cry Cry" (I
think) says it best: "Jump in my love car/ We don't hafta go far."

The guitarist threw picks at the crowd and I got one, but it fell in my
dresser at home so I had a good thing and I just blew it.

Wait. Now as I watch "The Breakfast Club," I think I wanna grow up in
the 80s.

It really doesn't matter to me. Growing up in the 50s would be cool, as
well as the 60s, for obvious reasons (i.e. Little Richard and the
Monkees. In that order) Growing up in the Depression would probably be
kinda bad. My friend's grandfather did and he "broke rocks all day."
But now that grandfather owns a Country Club. I work there. It's an
O.K. job, I guess. Once I stole a couple beers from there. But they're
long gone, man.

The Rock Star

[originally on my Livejournal from 12-10-2001]
Digital Desire
The rock star, upon stage, bathed in light,
inaccessible, is an outdated image from a defunct
society. In a world where information plus
technology equals power, those who control the
editing rooms run the show.

Computer writing institutes a factory of
postmodern subjectivity, a machine for
constituting non-identical subjects, an
inscription of another of Wesern culture into its
most cherished manifested. Some call it a
monstrosity.

Those kinds of people think Creed is a really
good band.

untitled

[originally written some time between 1996-1997]

i recently spit off this balcony. i was at my friend's dorm in the city and we were about to go out bar hopping or to get tackled and while he was in the bathroom, shaving, defecating, whatever, i strolled out onto his little balcony, and it reminded me of our family vacation to hawaii, while overlooking the smoking sewers and rush hour and unpublished pestilence of downtown honolulu that remains unseen in the brochures of mr. travel agent u.s.a.

like, the day we got honolulu, i ran into the ocean and the ocean floor was all rocky and my dad said, "the natives get used to it."

later on that week we met my cousin and her boyfriend who was coincidentally named after my favorite color and who wrote this amazing song. it's really a small world.

anyway, i strolled onto my friend's balcony and i spit and the spit got smaller and smaller till it was illegible, like the bristles of a car wash, and it hit the pavement below. i kinda spit in secret, it wasn't really obvious.

it was inconspicuous spit.

no one on the ground seemed to notice, may be most new yorkers have this saliva shield, this impenetrable wall. which reminds me, one morning i got out of the shower and was watching a cartoon and the cartoon characters said, "point our rings into the water. let our powers combine."

"let our powers combine," that's so cool. i thought that was such a cool line. at the time i was still wet, in a robe, yet i wrote it down somewhere. wetness and robes don't hinder me.

anyway, after i spit, i thought i was free from guilt that would be associated with someone seeing me, yet, to my dismay, a black guy saw me, which was the last thing i wanted, because please, believe me, i'm not racist. i just randomly spit, i have no control over the factors that dictate spit destination, such as wind, gravity, etc.

i heard this interview with a beatnik who went to every diner in new york eating jello. but he couldn't have more than two servings in any two places because he felt the waitresses would start to get suspicious and call the cops. he was a really paranoid fella, and i suddenly empathized with him, for as the sun-dried saliva sizzled on the summer sidewalk below, i couldn't help imagining that guy, in twisted rage, marching up the stairs of the apartment, into my room, and beating me severely.

like, if he was having a bad day, like if the towel-holder-upper in his bathroom collapsed beneath the weight of early morning heaven, my little slip of the gum would be the perfect catalyst for him to exhume his boiling anger. he'd come into the room, pound on me, and my friend would be in the bathroom, hearing lamps smashing, and he'd put down his magazine and say, "hey, are you okay?"

and i'll reply, "no, i am not okay, i am getting beaten up by some man. the man whom i inadvertently spit on." but of course, i won't be able to yell this, because his spacious hands will be choking me, closing in on my esophagus, like the garbage disposal scene from star wars.

meanwhile, while all these horrific visions flashed in my mind's eye's mind, an old lady walked by below. she probably stepped on my spit six seconds after i spit it. she didn't seem to notice, though. she seemed kinda out of it.

there were no cops in sight, although i saw a guy who could've played a cop on t.v.

while my friend was still in the bathroom, i decided to make the carpet walk. this old friend of mine, joey neuman, taught me how to do it at summer camp a few years back.

it was a humid, sticky, august evening, and we all sat up, in our pathetic pubescent glory, explaining our nonexistent sexual exploits. then suddenly, outta nowhere, joey neuman, the quietest kid you've ever seen, goes, "hey fellas, wanna see a carpet walk?" and seriously, at the young age of twelve, we were all cynical whippersnappers, but he showed us good. ah yes, like pilate at the cumberland county foozball championship, he made believers out of all of us.

i approached the carpet with tenacity, rolling up my sleeves, when suddenly i saw an ambulance speed by. i ran out to the balcony again. i once had a dream i was the i.v. bag in an ambulance and were trying to save charles bronson's life. he was shot by some scumbag drug dealer and he was staggering.

it was all me, charle's life was in my hands. of course, being an i.v. bag, i didn't have any hands, just transparent plastic walls, which when compared to real hands, isn't that big of a deal.

the ambulance drove by, its siren screeching. i heard another one in the distance too, probably uptown. it's really amazing, the ambulances, speaking in their siren language, telling jokes with their high-pitched ambulance roars, mocking the silly nine-to-five fools, winking at each other with their siren caps on the ambulance heads; playing tag with the frisky traffic lights, humming nat king cole songs to the street signs, noble and stoic. ah yes, city life indeed.

the whole beauty of the oneness and homeostasis of the urban environment made me want to spit again. i thought about it, but i realized who i'd spit on. this poor guy. he looked so sad. he looked like he had a hard day and it would only get worse, 'cause the mortgage is swelling, his wife is disintegrating, and the remote is just plain gone, man.

i could just imagine, him unknowingly climbing into a cab, then spit hits, then the cruel cab driver (most likely armenian) laughs maniacally. that's just plain wrong, man. i don't want that. i'm not sure if you're familiar with them, but armenian cab drivers can be really wicked people if something gets them worked up, like spit on some guy's head, i assumed.

My Robot Hands

[originally written & published some time in 1997]

I have this delusion that whenever things go bad, my android hands will take over. Like, we'll get to the Super Bowl, and I'll realize I forgot the tickets on the kitchen table. I'll step in and say, "Don't worry my android hands will take over," and boom-no problem.

I remember the seventh grade dance and how my android hands saved me. Whether it was putting in the corsage or doing the jitterbug, they came through.

Now, I have always wanted to be a pilot. I always wanted to soar in the air, in the stratosphere, like Jonathan Livingston Seagull. I'd be a friendly pilot too. I'd bring all the little kids in and let them sit in the cockpit. I'd teach them about all the levers, the clouds would be beautiful and puffy, and they'd act like a soft floor where the plane's belly would rest, ever so gently, while it's silver nose kissed the sun. Yet, when an engine goes out and the plane starts to nose-dive, I will take the controls. The little kids will cry and the stewardesses will try their best to mask their horror while keeping order in the cabin. Then I will valiantly sit back in the cockpit and calmly let my android hands take over.

Yet, to my grief, my android hands, for once in my worthless life will not suffice. I'm not gonna lie to you, at this point I'll start to panic, but I'll remember the automatic pilot-and I'll turn it on, but it won't work. At 20,000 feet the plane will be plummeting towards the Earth, when suddenly; the automatic pilot's android hands will take over, ease the plane back into place, and save the day. And then, just like always, all the stewardesses will want to score with the automatic pilot and have his clanky hands caress their beautiful, proportioned bodies. And the automatic pilot will want their soft, gentle hands play with his noisy, rusty, and oily android ribs.

My earliest TV memories

I was pretty much only allowed to watch PBS and UHF channels when I was younger.
So i'd leave it on.

The Uncle Floyd Show






I'd sing this (or my 3 year old approximation of it) without the knowledge of who Muggsy is making fun of:




My dad took me to see a broadcast in 1984. I met Oogie and did my "Oogie voice" for Floyd Vivino.

I'd also watch "Alive From Off Center" often.
It was a PBS showcase of avant garde television and performance art.
I'd see "Hey! Cartoons! PBS has cartoons! This is Sesame Street!"











I enjoy how Tim & Eric Awesome Show pretty much lampoon this, taking transitional new-wave aesthetic and juxtapose it with mundane early 90's optimistic materialism . . . the result is this techno-phelliac's pathos.

Life 2.0

Even before all this Web 2.0 business kicked into gear, I found myself consistently overwhelmed by the myriad topics I had interest in, the plethora of information I had gathered, the expanse of links I had attempted to track by straight, old-school bookmarking... Even my own offline writings have always frustrated me by being random and un-arranged, without clear relations to one-another or location within the non-existent map of my mind.

I knew some rudimentary HTML back in the '90s, but when useful web improvements like XML and CSS and RSS came along, I took no notice. I still don't really know exactly what a podcast is. But lately I've been learning a lot, trying to bring myself up to speed, and I'm just stunned by the enormous amount of quality web applications for blogging, bookmarking, tagging, notetaking, screencasting, etc. etc. I don't know how to even begin to make it useful for, you know, organizing and sharing my life.

And while I agree that a lot of those social sites aren't appealing, but the idea that unites all of them is, and every so often you come across one that is extremely cool. I think, at some point, the gimmicky quality of individual sites will pass, because before long the participatory paradigm will have seeped into every aspect of the net. For me, all of that Web 2.0 stuff is wrapped up in my recent discoveries of enormous amounts of awesome software and reading about programming and stuff, so I'm on this high where the internet and personal computing in general looks positively utopic. The present looks like the future to me -- especially on the Mac, which is the platform for most of the beautiful software I've found recently. I've got to spend the next year or so learning and purchasing and creating and ultimately refashioning myself as one of those Apple snob writers/designers/coders/philosophers/developers/neohippies. Here's some stuff that I've either found lately or just think is cool (or pretty) as an application. It may seem random, I guess. Programs like those various web browsers are there because I have never really looked into alternatives to FireFox (2.0 is bangin', by the way). In general, you'll notice that a lot of it involves organizing information and such. Oh; if you had the Shiira browser, you could open all the links on this page with one click and quickly skim each one.

Web Services:

Mozy
Todoist
Stikkit
Notefish
Avanoo
Screencast-O-Matic
WordPress
Zoho Notebook
del.icio.us
Blue Dot
Google Notebook
Chipmark
CrossEngine
Hiveminder
Digg
Stage6

Software:

Scrivener
Ulysses
Papers
Yep
Yojimbo
Tinderbox
Zulupad
Mori
Coda
Stattoo
Unison
Notae
Transmit
Curio
Nisus Writer
StorySpace
TextMate
SuperNotecard
PageFour
Inform 7
Gambit
Quicksilver
Cyberduck
CSS Edit
MacJournal
CopyWrite
viJournal
WriteRoom
SideNote
Journler
DeskTopia
Mellel
TimeLine
Temporis
TimeFlyer
OmniOutliner
DevonThink
Boswell
iGTD
Midnight Inbox
Ghost Action
iCal
OmniFocus
Skim
Bean
TextSoap
ThinkingRock
Glass Writer
Avenir
Z-Write
LaTeX
iText Express
Sente
EndNote
BookEnds
Zotero
FileMaker
IdeaMason
iClip
Opera
Camino
Shiira
OmniWeb
Tofu
StyleWriter
Grammarian
Slife
Think
Deep Notes
PDF Pen
Smultron
AppZapper
Make Notes
Storyist
Delicious Monster
RapidWeaver
NewsFire
NetNewsWire
Vienna
File Buddy
Shadow Clipboard
FoxTrot
Bookpedia
iSale
Ergonis Software
ProVoc
Ebbinghaus
iFlash
Back Track
Eagle Filer
NovaMind
Papyrus
Stories & Sources
Zotero

9/11

[Originally written on . . . that's right: 9/11/01]

I finally got home from work near 5ish today and thought I'd sit with the events of today for awhile before I shared. I wanted to write a long post on the presumptuousness of America, the nature of ideology and patriotism, and a number of other things. Frankly though, I am having trouble formulating my thoughts into a flowing disertation and don't think I could do justice to such things with a stream of consciousness post, so I will just share a few thoughts from the day.



Yesterday I brought home a sheet describing the provisions of the fire policy from my current work. The lengths they were going to to cover their asses seemed hillarious as hell. It reads as follows:

This Company shall not be liable for loss by fire or other perils insured against in this policy caused, directly or indirectly, by: (a) enemy attack by armed forces... (b) invasion; (c) insurrection; (d) rebellion; (e) revolution; (f) civil war; (g) usurped power...

It doesn't seem quite so humorous now.



The power of icons has never really struck me until today. In the midst of all the human loss and the implications of such an event, one of the thoughts that has stayed with me since seeing that building collapse is still "The Trade Center is GONE. It's just not there any more." The power of association and symbols humbles me now.




WE are the victims. Those public out pourings of sympathy are now pointed at US from around the world. Even when we were the victims, it was never like this. Home has been struck and we finally see what the other side is like. It's about time.



Speaking of home and the like, I am a quite a cynic, especially when it comes to government and particularly thoughts of localized patriotism in myself. I always thought/hoped we needed to become part of the larger world community, yet when this happened, I felt such emotions welling up. We WERE hit at HOME. It struck on quite a personal level that took me off guard.



Despite what the news and other have been saying, I do not see this attack as "sophisticated." Thought out yes. (one plane could be dismissed as an accident) But it was really quite simple when one thinks about it. Not really that difficult at all. I think that we're just trying to comfort ourself given the situation.



I fear that we will just push this to the back of our minds and forget this after a short while.



I fear the upswelling of expressions of senseless racial hatred that is springing from this.



I fear the testosterone laden knee jerk reactions of revenge egged on by such people.



I fear the feelings of revenge within myself.



And finally for now, I fear our government. The way it was attempting to assuage the public in the aftermath. I speak specificly here of Bush's assistants anouncement from Omaha. Assuring us that the economy WOULD still be in tact. That the infrastructure WOULD still be here for the nation. That the government IS still working in this country. It seemed to me more of what would be said in the aftermath of a massive wide scale destruction such as a multiple domestic nuclear strike that would in fact upset the balance in this country rather that an isolated, albeit tragic incident.



Will we finally start to rethink our place in this world? Unfortunately I doubt it.

Will we finally rethink our defensive position in relation to it? Hopefully, but will it help?

Will this be the end? I highly doubt it. And I'm afraid that while the next attacks may not have the massive physical devistation that this one did, the one that does top it will be much more silent and deadly.

To the guy at the other urinal (Restroom at work)

Ok. Let's be honest. I came into the restroom, you were already midstream, and it sounded like a fucking firehouse was being deployed into the porcelain receptacle. This greatly enhanced my perception of your manhood. Your urethra is wide like the Mississippi, and could probably accommodate Huckleberry Finn, Jim, and several steamboats. I get it. Congratulations.

I entered the restroom, unzipped, and began the evacuation of a meager portion of urine. It trickled, nay, dripped, into the urinal. You know it. I know it. I was finished long before your manly stream was done, and you cast a sympathetic look my way. Possibly, you were worried that my prostate was enlarged by cancer or some other disease, and that it couldn't adequately squeeze my bladder. You probably pictured my dong as being a feeble man-gina, that dribbled urine the way a new mother's over-engorged breast dribbles milk. A dipple.

Well listen to me you self-satisfied prick. I can piss with the best of them. I can let loose a flood of a magnitude that might require God to come down from on high and warn some motherfucker to build a boat and grab some fucking animals. Forty days, forty nights. What happened is, I had a meeting. I was going to be leading a call with something like 30 clients on the line. I would have no chance to get off the line. So I just did a little top off. Just emptied the tank, even though I didn't REALLY need to go. I didn't count on Mr. Firehose Dong being right next to me. I didn't expect that someone with a urethra the size of my thumb would be punishing the porcelain one urinal over. So don't feel like you're superior to me, man. In fact, count this as an invitation. Meet me in the restroom on the west side of the building At 1:30 pm on Monday and I will UNLEASH HELL on the urinal. I will expel a stream of urine that will cause barn animals in the next county to flip out. Bring me a terrorist and I will water board that motherfucker with my pee. You will see rainbows in the geyser that flows from my pee hole. Let's do this.