That Instant

the air conditioner is blowing on the heat sink of your laptop and you haven't burned your knee for the eighty third time.

Time Rides Again... Again, Tabloid Culture, Apologies, and Fresh to Death

Well, I'm 32 today. Fast approaching my midlife crisis. Trying to celebrate. Is it weird to be anxious about having an iterative midlife crisis? Probably, yes. Definitely yes. We'll see how it goes. I'll let you know if I buy a yacht and a roadster and get a prescription for penis enhancing drugs and hair plugs. Time keeps on running.

What's new, what's new? Well the things I have yet to do aren't really new. Still have to piece together the redesign, don't I? It's still coming (that's what she said) and I swear to that up and down. Stand up act 5 is still on the way, but I can't really swear by that up, down, left, or right as I'm still trying to get back to a place mentally where I won't sound like Orny Adams in that movie with Jerry Seinfeld. You know the one. The one where Jerry Seinfeld was funny, but fifty percent of the screen time, maybe sixty pushing seventy, was dedicated to that bastard Orny and his bugged out eyeballs and all he did was piss and moan over the whole thing and made it practically unwatchable except for the saving grace of getting to see Seinfeld do his thing. The whole movie was like getting a chance to see Cosby with new material, but the caveat was that for every minute you saw you had to sit through five minutes of Chris Rock screaming into the microphone (because everything's funnier when it's louder). I'm not going to do that. Still working on the gift. I know! It's been forever. Pushing a year by now. I don't want to stop working on it. Then what'll I do with my spare time? Read? Fat chance! No, I'll probably read more. Reading is important. It's the non-readers with too much power that basically flipped this country inside out. And I'm not going to do that either, or at least, not on purpose.

I apologize for not staying up on it. Things have been pretty rapid fire lately. Bang bang, you shot me down. Bang bang, I hit the ground. Lots of thought bubbles and thought bubbles being burst with thought bullets. I rediscovered that I love Led Zepplin while listening to What Is and What Should Never Be. I've been trying to stay fresh to death, but mostly I've just been hanging out in bad neighborhoods doing not so good things to my body which butts heads directly with fresherating it. Trying to be big enough to take a stand against hard wiring. Eat the entropy and pass order out the other side of my head. Not easy. Sleeping at night will help. Getting on a normal schedule will help immensely. I think that's the main problem. Continuous change has basically blown away my flux capacitor. It stood all it could stand and it can't stands no more and my flying DeLorean is grounded and instead of fixing it I've just been kicking the tires and cussing.

What does it mean when you file for a job transfer and the email ticket says case:new the following hour and then case:closed the hour after that yet no one has passed you any good news or bad news? No idea. Suddenly is sooner than anyone ever thinks. So I suppose we'll see and wait, not always in that order. Depends on how I'm feeling. Sometimes I'm feeling more wait and see and sometimes I'm feeling less wait and more see and sometimes I'm all wait and unseeing. Time just crawls sometimes and the best thing I can do for myself is close my eyes or stare at the pavement going by beneath my feet and my runner's high because the distance is never closing fast enough until you hit that point and it's closing too fast and you realize you haven't given yourself enough to cool off and warm down (warm down?) so you're going to have to jog right past your door and go around the block again and by the time you get back you feel like you could go another mile or two and so you do, and then you regret it halfway through and turn back, but this time looking up so you know when to say when. I rarely do.

I do things like develop hobbies out of things like answering very simple questions of distance and position in hyper extensive detail. Yes, the thing you are looking for is here. Oh no, that's not good enough. It's kind of like a game, well it is a game. I try to fix the positions of things with so much accuracy that you could find it blindfolded. It helps me remember where things are. Mostly it helps me combat the gremlins and elves that keep touching my stuff at home and moving things around when I'm not there to keep an eye on the joint. Bastards. Small handed thieving little... well, we've all been there more or less. Time keeps on slipping.

So I'm sure everyone with half an instinct for detection tries not to read tabloids. You can feel them sucking the brain fibers right through your eye sockets. Soul sucking camera lenses except their powers were bestowed on the tree pulp they were printed on and now work in reverse. No wait. And now work in forwards except the concept works in reverse. Instead of sucking out peoples souls for your consumption the printed matter sucks out your soul for their consumption. So they can put more cameras and phone operators and hotlines out there like bait to suck on more souls and make more print. It's a loop. Everything's a loop that is a conspiracy, but not every conspiracy is a loop? Anyway, back on target, tabloids!

I try not to read them, but eventually with enough unfortunate glances I end up ingesting a story incidentally, like sawing chemically pressure treated wood without a mask, you get that junk in you and you can't help noticing (also don't ever ingest that stuff as it will get you higher than you've ever been and then you'll sleep for like 20 hours with complete memory loss). I came across this ridiculous story of Tom Cruise and Kate Holmes (was that her last name? I don't remember since her absorption into the Cruise persona. I think it was, well anyway) horrible warped world. A world in which their children are experiencing horrible things like flying on airplanes and staying up late and ice cream all day or something and all I could think was: really? Horribly warped world? Is that what we're going with here? Is that really what we're boiling down to now? You've got to be kidding me.

How is it that their world is horribly warped and the land of the micro-united nations adoption agency cat fighter's opium den union is not warped at all (I walk by a lot of tabloid stands at my job, a lot of bits and pieces of the running Angelina/Jen/Pitt crapfest have been inhaled)? And then it struck me. The reason why people don't read tabloids and think wow, what b.s. and instead plunk down whatever or however much it costs to get a copy. People want to be distracted and not everyone can afford to pay for television and the unending rot that pours down the chute at MTV and BET and Oxygen and company. It's basically a tv show. That's what tabloid culture is. It is a tv show for everyone so they can lose themselves in familiar characters and worry about them at night and talk about them during the day because (whether they know it or not) it's like a serial novel. Like Pride and Prejudice published a little bit at a time each week and it engages them where they are and allows them to, for a while at least, leave the world behind and immerse themselves in something richer.

I could have gone the way of "people read it because they hate their lives", but I honestly don't know that. If anything that would or at least should read to you "people read it because they hate their lives, and I am assuming the base state of most people is hating their life because that is my base state." Which isn't really true. Well I do get at odds with myself sometimes all the time, it's unfair to assume that everything anyone else ever does is based on escapism. And that was just way too technical. Two steps back off that academic cliff.

It's good that people read. People that read tabloids read more than me. No, wait a minute. That is definitely not true. Not because I wouldn't want a tabloid digester to be more well read than me, but because of all the time I spend crawling the internet. It's not all pictures. Not yet anyway. Remember when everyone went crazy about protecting their content and every page of text was embedded into flash and gifs and other picture formats so you couldn't copy and paste it and everyone had cutesy alert messages that would pop up (some of them infinitely looped so that you had to restart your crashed browser) if you ever right clicked on their page to bring up the copy/paste dialog? Ridiculous times. But anyway, yeah. I read a lot, is what I'm saying and I guess that people read at all is always a good thing. Just have to convince the tabbies to raise the language level from like third grade to highschool and easy as cake you'll raise the education level of the United States, one soap opera at a time. That is my plan for education reform if I am ever elected president. Or education Czar. Or Don of learning. Whatever they're calling it these days. Pretty sure it's Czar. Chair? I have no idea and no desire to go read about it. See ya!


///Mono - "High Life ... everybody wants it and sometimes I do too. Though I never really know when I'll have the time to really chase after it. I think by and large I've got better things to do. Maybe not better, necessarily, but other things to chase after. Other distances to sew up.

Skyline, Story Telling and How It's Put

Been watching movies. Just saw Skyline and I didn't not like it. As far as alien invasion films go it's nice to see the aliens win sometimes because, honestly, a star faring species would in all likelihood own man kind pretty hard. There were a couple of things that stood out though as I started fast forwarding to the end to see where it was all going.

The story telling struck me as pretty flat. When the guy from Scrubs died I didn't really feel one way or the other about it. I know I was supposed to feel "aw no, the main character's best friend just got eaten and now he's all alone in the world with his pregnant girl friend who seems to get randomly upset about things people are supposed to be upset about when they're pregnant." However, all I could really think about was how he probably could have made it to safety had his friend not body checked him with a bro hug in a weird attempt to pull him to safety that would, had they been playing basketball, have been an offensive foul. Rescue fail. If someone is running from a giant brain eating semi-sentient mech warrior thingy you probably shouldn't run directly into their only path of egress, whatever your intention.

Ultimately, what it came down to, I decided, was that no one in the film had any real motive to do anything they did beyond the fact that they were supposed to. Which sounds like a reasonable reason to do anything at all, but in terms of telling a story it is the worst thing in the world. You could almost see the writer pulling the strings of the puppets and animating the actions and progressions by sheer harm of will. Not unacceptable, but noticeable. I think that is one of the chief challenges of story telling and writing. Making the strings invisible. Growing motives. Building back story and momentum so that actions are not knee jerk responses to chisels and hammers on a blank canvas.

It was an interesting film. The other thing that stood out pretty starkly by the film's close was that the aliens could have been replaced by just about anything. It could have been a movie about tornadoes. Or a tsunami. Or any natural disaster. Or any sort of invasion. Absent the plot device of them needing brains for whatever reason and you basically have an empty template of two dimensional good looking twenty and thirty somethings trying to survive a blank social upheaval. What sets something like Colossus: The Forbin Project or District 9 apart from Skyline is the construction and development of the nemesis and the invader as a character unto itself. If the voiced actors in Skyline are by and large two dimensional, the invaders are one dimensional and that sort of held it back, though the action was interesting. The film could probably have greatly benefited from thirty more minutes of plot development and enrichment of the hero's foil. If the deaths of the characters are to hold weight as lynch pins in the plot, their lives have to hold weight too and if their lives do not then the executioners must.

Which is what I strive to learn how to do. Craft that balance. And I do not believe I succeed often enough. And so I keep working at it, because it is important to me and the stories I want to tell. Too much of the action and dialog in the film was foreseeable from miles away and though interesting and visually entertaining, it was not much more than that. The other thing that sort of stung me a little bit was some of the final scenes. Why do the brains glow at all? Is that really the best way to extract brains from things? Why not harvest animals instead or in addition? Given the difficulty of the operation, why not find somewhere else less developed? If stars can be crossed, why inferior human stock at all? What about when the brain supply runs out, as it seems the brains burn out so quickly with the difficulty and energy required to procure them in the first place? And I think what really annoyed me was that with all of their technology and apparent ability to regenerate themselves, why were they not just synthesizing brain matter in massive orbital laboratories or something? In the end I was sort of hoping for a larger theme to solidify, but it never did and to end the review I think that is what sent me looking for why I felt a little off after watching it in the first place. Plus, I'm pretty sure if, say Donald Trump, wanted to harvest human brains, he could probably find a better way to do it then creating a giant pile and brute force searching each for brain matter. Just gotta put your mind to it.

Story telling isn't easy. It was an okay movie, but I wouldn't watch it twice. So that's part of why I work on writing so much. I want people to want to read my stories twice.

While I was wrapping this up I noticed the tag still on the blinds I put up recently. The warning tag about the cords. "young children can STRANGLE in cord and bead chain loops," it reads. And I thought, yeah they can, but if you wanted it to really hit home it should probably say "young children can be STRANGLED with." But then I thought about it some more. That's probably not what you should say. People are strange. People like suggestions. People sometimes take suggestions they shouldn't. People sometimes file law suits they shouldn't. How weird would it be to have someone murder their children because a dangling tag on a cord gave them the idea. How much stranger would it be to have the family members of the accused sue the company for giving the perpetrator the idea. I'm sure stranger and more ridiculous things have happened. Like movies where everyone does what they do because if they didn't there wouldn't be anything to show and tell. Silly times. A fine diversion.



///Five Deez - "Sexual for Elizabeth" sometimes the best stories are told in sounds that don't make words. It's all in how it's put.

Stand Up Act 1

Hi,

This is all improvised. I'll probably never get up in front of a mic because I am an impossibly shy guy, unlike the actual shyguys from the Mario universe. They were pretty in your face and aggressive. Actually I'm kind of like that too. So never mind that whole thing. I guess I'm just self conscious like everyone else who doesn't have enough money to ignore the rest of the world from the second they get pushed out of the womb like that little donut hole that pops out of a whole puncher. Who knew that those things grew up to be people. Or maybe people are just loose leaf paper. Waiting to be hole punched or something. How fun was using that thing. I must have ruined at least three acres of forests punching holes in paper. But I guess it wasn't really my fault. The teacher's were the ones who wouldn't accept paper with holes punched in the middle of it and around the corners and across the sides like St. Valentines day. Stick figures aren't going to shoot themselves. That's what meth and coke is for. Or something. Well anyway, I should probably explain a little more:

I've listened to a lot of stand up on the radio, well, on my computer. Which is the radio of my generation. Or I suppose, just my segment of my generation. The poorer people who got birthday cards with ten dollars in them from their parents. The kind of thing you'd expect from a grandparent who still believed ten cents could get you a sucker and copy of the latest Action comics in color and a trolley ride to the carnival next to the board walk made of gold and pixie dust and where the hell is that dish of Werther's I left to keep my copy of the TV Guide cross word I tore out of that magazine at the doctor's office, because I may be old and out of touch, but I'm still sharp enough to know when to steal shit instead of buying it. Thrifty. Like listening to radio on your computer instead of going to the club and seeing it live, because your poor and, shit, with that much money you could buy a whole mess of bacon and the good orange juice with the pulp in it instead of the food coloring.

Listening to all of this has basically made me as a largely failed occupational, but still pathological, writer want to express things that are funny to me too and hope that maybe like two other people will also think so. I say two, because I always like my stuff and my friend who doesn't really exist, the person who is basically holding down a time share in my head sometimes likes my stuff too so we need at least one more person in on this before it'll get good. Kind of like having sex with that person in the office that everyone has already had sex with, or actually no, it's more like picking up a copy of the latest nude mag, whatever they call, Juggs, or Juggs for black guys who apparently can only be aroused by large jewelry and x and y and z that we already featured in this magazine, but now it's earth toned and somehow more street, well whatever they call it, it's like picking that up and then you realize that "yeah, it's still just glossy paper and your left hand, dumbass. We coulda bought booze with that money you ass. Then, we could have at least forgotten that we were horny in the first place and also apparently do not have internet access." So at least me and two other people. Because one of you is imaginary.

So I'm gonna take some stabs at being funny until the acts kind of peter out, wherever that is. Maybe it'll be a continuing thing to go with my art. The problem with the world today, one of the many problems with the world today, possibly the largest problem with the world today is that there is so much to do and keep up with and pay for that there simply is not enough time to use these two hands, this one mouth, and these two eyes to generate everything that well's up inside. Which is why massive population extinction will be swell. Less stuff to do. More time to spend drawing on caves. Or at least exploring caves. How fun would that be? Screw this fucking phone bill. Who the hell am I going to call? Dave? He's ten states away for fucks sake. And the only other person alive on the east coast. My geography sucks by the way so if there are less than ten states on the east coast, I don't want to know, because I'll forget and be a forgetful jerk, but really it's your fault for giving me that information to hang on to with the expectation that I would actually commit it to essential memory where I put things like "how to breath" and "do not sleep underwater because that shit will drown you". Well I'm not calling Dave, because last time I schlepped up there it turned out he hadn't found the last post apocalyptic brewery still functioning. It was a fat rendering plant. So fuck this phone, fuck this phone bill, I'm gonna go draw on walls for the next month and get really good at growing shit." And so I figured I would take a stab at it. I mean what could it hurt.

I had this joke actually already in mind on my way home this morning. It was a fictional conversation. Happened in my head. Not fictional. Fictional to you. But this actually happened: "you smell like dog farts again."

"shut up"

"dude you smell like dog farts."

"well, shit. I have been slinging bags of dog food around for the last two hours to feed you"

"dog farts, dude. You better shower when you get home. I don't want you in my bed fartin up the sheets."

"well, shit on a stick, I'm tired as hell."

"have you been fisting dogs all night?"

"no, but that's kind of funny."

"I know, right?"

"Yes, I have been fisting dogs for the last eight hours and that is why I smell like Alpo gas. It's tough, but if I don't fist these dogs, who will? Who will fist these dogs for $7.75 an hour? Do I like it? Frankly that's none of your business. Other job skills? No. Just the fisting. Yes we do get a half hour to eat lunch. Alright then, thanks for your time. Should I wait for a follow up call for that second interview? Alright then, you take care too. Bitch. Click."

That last part was the joke. It was this thing that just struck me as hilarious. How would I explain to someone, because sometimes I am very much compelled to defend my various conditions of dress and stench and dishevelry to people I have to share public transportation with. And that's part of why I hate the bus. It's not like the subway where you can just look outside once in a while and know where you are or count the stops, unless you ride a particular bus line all the time. Your head has to always be on the gopher swivel trying to assess how much longer you can press your luck. Is this the stop I need to get off at or can I save myself another hundred yards, but if there is no stop in the next hundred yards I risk riding this thing all the way to the stop right before the depot because for some reason no one lives or works anywhere near this road for the next two and a half miles, but if I do get off here I'll have pit stains by the time I hit that meeting and I think there was a bridge with no sidewalks after this stop light, oh shit, I should have gotten off. So you're always looking around and making dodgy eye contact and in those few seconds you can read a lot once you've done it enough times.

Yeah I reek of cheap beer, but hey, at least it's not puke. And yes I did sleep somewhere without toiletries so my pits stink, but hey, at least it's not puke. I'm sorry, do I smell like I've just taken a bath in coffee creamer and fisted dogs for the last six hours? Well, guess what? I did. Boys gotta eat lady and quite frankly I'd rather smell like I just did something than like I just crawled out of a vase at the funeral parlor. I don't know where they get that scent, but they all have it. Probably from failed Mary Kay pyramid scheming or is it Amway still? Aren't those the same thing? I bet they were both founded by the same married couple. Rich wives. Pyramid schemes. Started by the richest wife who needed something to do that would still stroke her ego. God, that's depressing. And now part of the cando American fabric. Along with dog fisting for near minimum wage and listening to the radio on your computer. Which is actually not listening to the radio at all. When it's pre-recorded. But what's the difference. The difference is the radio is live. Sort of. What the hell is the difference?

Beautiful Image and Music Launch (@ Factory Lube)

Hai,

I've got something special for you today :D "The Music that Makes the Living" is the music chronicling blog. I tried to make a feed of last.fm and it didn't track it over time. So this will. That's it. the background was more difficult to make than I thought it would be and then it took another hour to set up the colors to play nice with it, but easy isn't worth wasting time on. Had to hit the dimmer switch. The original was like a unicorn came on an automated welding machine. Which was awesome, but unreadable. And easy isn't worth doing unless it's video games. Hard video games make me want to kill other people. Next up is suicide diary. Productivity is sometimes it's own reward. Spoken like a truly conceited fuck. I definitely take that back. Sometimes distraction is it's own reward. And that reward is only as good as the alternative is potentially bad. That is what I meant to say. Suiterate.

///Four Tet - "Love Cry"

Worst Song Ever, Part 2:

Worst song ever # PKHM8989JJ3QK5 Oliver Lieb - Subraumstimulation:

Imagine, if you will, a computer. On this computer is a sentient piece of software. This software has access to a library of drum sounds. The software's only reason for existence, is to increase the size of the library by recombining the drum sounds playing those sounds, recording the sounds played as new drum sounds, and then recombining them on and on into infinity. Now imagine that the computer on which this software is running has the utterly massive storage capacity of a single floppy disk. Are you seeing where I'm going with this?


Now imagine also that, by sentience, we are only talking about amoebic sentience; something maybe 8 bits more complicated than on and off. But majestic things have been done with tiny processors and tiny storage, you retort. Now imagine that the software has to learn more complex things by doing them. By the time it can even begin to create anything more complex than what is already in the drum sound library its down to its last handful of free space to make anything compelling. You leave it alone to run for a while, much longer than necessary, but who knows, maybe the ghost in the machine might pull something incredible and unforeseen out of its binary ass.

You come back and play what the program made, but the computer itself is so ancient that there was no space in it's memory to code a cue slider, so you have to listen to everything the software made to get to the interesting part. Several minutes later the moment of truth arrives after listening to numbing variations of the stock drum sounds and then in the last 20 seconds of the longest 5 minutes of your life it does it!! One single extra asynchronous beat mashed in.

And then it's over.



The only thing missing from the whole experience was a nice bucket of wind chimes and some vaguely sensual vocals ripped from the Turner library. If the Hal 9000 ever decided to host a dance party, this is what he would have come up with. BPM should not be mistaken for quality. The two aren't mutually exclusive, but they're more often than not pretty damn close to being so.

Cherish and Nurture Your Wanderlust

I read an interesting article through one of a bunch of second hand feeds that I sometimes peek through now and then and it talked about the value of boredom and the value of having space to let your mind wander. Technology can be great because it can allow you to do things you otherwise may never be able to try or even imagine possible. At the same time, filling every second of your waking life with it also reduces opportunities to reflect meaningfully, beyond the data points of entertainment and facts you digested or manipulated through technology, and imagine new things.

When you open up a box and read the manual you get ideas for what the thing is capable of and what you can now do with it and while you did not have those ideas before or did not know how to implement those ideas you didn't really imagine them as much as they were fed to you in parts and pieces, and sometimes in their entirety.



Imagination still takes practice and effort and time and while technology can make us all more capable and flexible people it can also limit the ability to imagine by replacing the time and resources spent imagining with technological tinkering and scripted production.

The thing that struck me the most though was the author's approach to children. It struck me as touching and I also felt an acute pain that was the feeling of never really experiencing that growing up, and now that I'm grown up moments like that can't really be fully enjoyed for a long list of reasons. At least not enjoyed yet. Maybe if I ever get married or something. Even then situations like that will probably be more of an ego shaded, priority differentiated, tug of war than anything else.

"We have a new ritual now, and it really has become my favorite part of the day. I put her to bed 15 minutes earlier than before. She crawls into bed and, instead of shushing her, I lie next to her and we just talk. She talks about things that happened that day, things she's worried about, things she's curious or thinking about. I listen and ask her questions. We laugh together. And our minds just wander."

I think, more than many things in life, I want that though I know I can't have it. Can you blame me for trying?

I firmly believe that my imaginative abilities have come primarily from the, sometimes, desperate desire to be someone, anyone, and anywhere in the world, but where I was growing up. I'm not going to retread it, but suffice to say I probably would have had a better childhood as a foster kid with no parents or homeless. Think of it as growing up from birth blind instead of going blind years after birth. Hopefully I'll get some sight back eventually and my dreams about the emerald city and the yellow brick road will be based on optimism instead of a desire to escape a prison of circumstance, history, and context.



In other news, I am creating the theme for the wordpress fiction site as we speak! Yes, I have two sets of hands.

///Ulrich Schnauss - "Wherever You Are" Wherever you are, whatever you're in, wherever you were, and everywhere you're not, Ulrich has composed a moment for you. This is my moment to take a breath before I'm pushed under again.

remember, kids... 11/24/05

Subject : remember kids... always turn off the lights

Posted Date: : Nov 24, 2005 8:48 PM

yesterday i came within a hairs breadth of killing myself by christmas lights.

i made a very nice ball of christmas lights and hung them for romantic effect over the center of my room. the set up was a little ghetto. I used a wire from my collapsable hamper to make a nicely sprung spherical shape then wrapped the lights around the wire and then wrapped the wire in a corse clothe sheet often used to cover hospital beds, then draped the whole ball of nonsense from the actual light bulbs in the fixture at the center of my cieling.

genius, no? no.

it wasnt bright enough in the room so i turned on the actual light fixture that came with the place. I left and came back to my building 20 minutes later and as soon as I got out of the staircase on my floor it smelled something like someone left a space heater on all day. hot metal. I walk around the corner and come into my room and see that the smell is in here too.

A few hours later im poking around my room because im bored and i see that a piece of the christmas lights leading from the central ball is out. I look closer and see that the entire ring where the ball is tied up to the light fixture is kind of brown.

I untied the ball from the light fixture and on the inside it is charred black. All of the wires have melted and are crossing eachother and shorting eachother out. The paint was beginning to peel and cinder. Had I just gone to bed My cieling probably would have caught fire while I was sleeping... or if i'd stayed out any longer my building couldve burned down.

now i havent had any epiphanies because of this and i will continue to stay out late and do irrational fun things... ill just make sure i turn off the lights before i go. remember kids... before you do anything, be it bang a woman as large as your bed, masterbate to thoughts of your neighbor while at your window, have a naked dance off with your invisible friend, or leave your room because you just ripped ass and it smells like someone died... always always always turn off the lights first!