I'm a hip guy. Can you smell the hipness? I say things, in my best hick voice, like, "Awww yeah, I like that experimental music. You know...Merzbow...Sonic Youth." But truth be told, I've always had a soft spot for melody. Blame my mom for playing all that Neil Diamond/Carpenters/ABBA 70's schlock. Blame my dad for having a soft spot for Paul Simon. Blame the radio, my truest and deepest friend from ages 10-17. Anyway, there's great experimental stuff all over the cyber-diaspora of the Houdini Mansions label. They're based out of Easley, South Carolina (Easley is easily the closest decent-sized town to Greenville, which is home to the closest minor league baseball affiliate of my beloved Boston Red Sox, G'ville being a 1 1/2 hour drive from my driveway).
House of Cake is as much a collage as a compilation. It bleeps and bloops and drones in all the right places, and in all the wrong places which also happen to be right--don't you know how the universe is chaos and yummy in your (quan)tummy?
But the emotional high point for me is the sweet simple three-note descending bass-tone on track four, which I'm 99.4% sure is titled "Sugar Boys." The vocal melody goes up as the bass melody goes down, and the result is one of those weightless free-floating moments that isn't a million miles away from Dancing Queen. Because the universe also knows how to repeat, and coalesce, and spin slowly enough for you to observe its beauty with wonder and awe.
Wednesday, December 18, 2019
Artist Of The Decade
Nobody asked me, and I didn't ask anybody, but here's my favorite song from this just-about-over decade. Or maybe my favorite video. Or maybe the video that best embodies the decade, our simultaneous numbness and desperation, horror and entertainment, laughter and death. I'd say Danny Brown is the Artist Of The Decade if I had any confidence in those kinds of proclamations (and Kanye is probably more emblematic, straight-down to his mental illness and lack of critical thinking).
I don't have the authority to give out awards, nor do I have the ability to believe in them. But Danny Brown, in this and other songs throughout the decade (he just put out an album in October! it's got a metacritic score of 83!), embodied the thrill of chasing one's contradictions all over the room. The attempt to confront your traumas and to avoid confronting your traumas, and how it's more fun to believe in nothing, except believing in nothing is a big part of why you can't stop bleeding. The fact that his music makes you want to move your body is just an added bonus. The numbed-out cool in other people feels like a pose; Danny Brown's freaked-out screaming is real*, and sounds like a natural response from anyone who's paying attention to anything.
I don't have the authority to give out awards, nor do I have the ability to believe in them. But Danny Brown, in this and other songs throughout the decade (he just put out an album in October! it's got a metacritic score of 83!), embodied the thrill of chasing one's contradictions all over the room. The attempt to confront your traumas and to avoid confronting your traumas, and how it's more fun to believe in nothing, except believing in nothing is a big part of why you can't stop bleeding. The fact that his music makes you want to move your body is just an added bonus. The numbed-out cool in other people feels like a pose; Danny Brown's freaked-out screaming is real*, and sounds like a natural response from anyone who's paying attention to anything.
* - Real as in it-feels-real-to-me, as in it connects on a visceral level that causes me to feel actual feelings that are felt in the places still able to feel. And I can't believe that the debate around "authenticity" (more of a top-down hectoring than a debate, a way to shut up any criticisms of the spoiled-brat private-schooled child-star artistes that are positioned as vital, necessary music makers) has devolved to the point where "realness" that invites scorn. If it doesn't matter whether an artist has anything to say, or makes music that moves you emotionally, then an artist who comes along with those qualities has no reason to be valued. What is valued?, you might ask. I hoped you would. Let's just assume that you did. An artist with something to sell. Which isn't always bad, but just, uh, note who gets excluded. And remember that when sellers (or art, or anything) try to imagine what the public wants to buy, they always envision more-of-the-same, easy-to-digest, and unlikely-to-offend. That goes for prose vendors as well.
An Update For The Dozens
...Of people who follow this blog. Turned in the manuscript a month ago, and it looks like a book will appear in 2020 on an academic press with my name on it. A well-researched, co-written bio of a well-known band. The writing filled every non-working, non-parental moment since July, and after my Domestic Partner lost her job in August, meant that I had to both up my hours at work and write a (rough draft) chapter a week. Then edit, etc.
Thankfully, my DP started a new job in November that will pay enough for us to get out from under the debt we accumulated Aug-Oct. We are lucky beyond belief.
Anyway, I may go back to doing this blog again as a place to anonymously experiment with some stuff, though less anonymously, it turns out, than I had initially hoped.
Never tell anyone a secret if you want it to remain a secret. Lalalala.
Thankfully, my DP started a new job in November that will pay enough for us to get out from under the debt we accumulated Aug-Oct. We are lucky beyond belief.
Anyway, I may go back to doing this blog again as a place to anonymously experiment with some stuff, though less anonymously, it turns out, than I had initially hoped.
Never tell anyone a secret if you want it to remain a secret. Lalalala.
A poem for today
The Future
The future is a joke
My idea of a joke
That is to say, dark and filthy
Riddled with corruption
And corrupted by riddles
The future is murder
Same as the past
Only now more indirect
Less culpable
Easier than ever to follow
Someone else’s order
The future is hope
Felt for fleeting moments
Surely the potential exists
Even by the fluke of random occurrence
For something humane
A collective ascent
But no
But know
The future is distraction
Words and identity
Disappearing into a void
Plummeting through a bottomless well
A shared dream
We experience separately
Wednesday, September 18, 2019
Answering Guardian Headlines #1
Here's a feature that will be (possibly) mutually fulfilling, and easily attainable in spite of the looming contractual writing deadline which, coupled with my actual income-producing gig, has consumed nearly every free minute for the last several months.
We will answer (without reading, b/c that's the way we do things in the 21st century) headlines in that day's Guardian that are, for traffic-driving reasons, framed as questions, some more rhetorical than others. We'll also include our favorite hot-take Op-Ed headline at the end as a bonus.
(worth mentioning that it's cool The Guardian isn't hidden behind a paywall. They do some great journalism, and deserve our gratitude and, depending on the balance in your bank account, our financial support).
US healthcare is booming. So why do one in five workers live in poverty?
Because US healthcare is, like most US things, driven by profits. And underpaying your workers is a (simple, stupid) way to make more money.
'Like a sunburn on your lungs': how does the climate crisis impact health?
It makes it worse.
Toy stories: can a woke makeover win Barbie and Monopoly new fans?
Anyone who seriously gives a fuck one way or another should be ashamed of themselves. Note: this isn't an article, it's a free commercial for a multinational conglomerate.
Hollow boom: why black Americans feel left out of US’s robust economy
Not technically a question, but we'll answer it anyway. Because the US is a white supremacist police state is built on the exploitation of all manual labor.
Saved by the Bell: Will the revival be 2020's Most Depressing Show?
No. That will be the election night broadcast. Also pretty sure this is also an ad.
And here's the hot-take Op-Ed of the day that makes us fear for the future of humanity:
Why Ivanka Trump's new haircut should make us very afraid
(Honorable mention goes to To decarbonize we must decomputerize: why we need a Luddite revolution)
We will answer (without reading, b/c that's the way we do things in the 21st century) headlines in that day's Guardian that are, for traffic-driving reasons, framed as questions, some more rhetorical than others. We'll also include our favorite hot-take Op-Ed headline at the end as a bonus.
(worth mentioning that it's cool The Guardian isn't hidden behind a paywall. They do some great journalism, and deserve our gratitude and, depending on the balance in your bank account, our financial support).
US healthcare is booming. So why do one in five workers live in poverty?
Because US healthcare is, like most US things, driven by profits. And underpaying your workers is a (simple, stupid) way to make more money.
'Like a sunburn on your lungs': how does the climate crisis impact health?
It makes it worse.
Toy stories: can a woke makeover win Barbie and Monopoly new fans?
Anyone who seriously gives a fuck one way or another should be ashamed of themselves. Note: this isn't an article, it's a free commercial for a multinational conglomerate.
Hollow boom: why black Americans feel left out of US’s robust economy
Not technically a question, but we'll answer it anyway. Because the US is a white supremacist police state is built on the exploitation of all manual labor.
Saved by the Bell: Will the revival be 2020's Most Depressing Show?
No. That will be the election night broadcast. Also pretty sure this is also an ad.
And here's the hot-take Op-Ed of the day that makes us fear for the future of humanity:
Why Ivanka Trump's new haircut should make us very afraid
(Honorable mention goes to To decarbonize we must decomputerize: why we need a Luddite revolution)
Sunday, August 18, 2019
Don't Eat The Rich, Tax Them
The rich aren't like you and I. They're stupid, self-absorbed, petty, and desperately looking for meaning in their otherwise empty lives.
Okay, they're a little like you and I. But you get the point.
I'm reading today, courtesy of a hijacked NYTimes digital subscription, the story of Cordelia Scaife May. A Pittsburgh-born heiress to a massive fortune, Ms. May was, shall we say, quite the fucking piece of work. Here's a link. It's worth using one of your six free monthly articles or whatever it is to read it (plus it's really long, which makes it a bargain).
The point of this post isn't how Ms. May's dedication to reproductive rights slid ever so gradually into a hatred of immigrants, especially the dark immigrants. It's not the story of her miserable-ass empty life either. Though the part where her new husband, a Pittsburgh DA facing corruption charges, killed himself on the day he was formally indicted, and May blamed her brother for turning on the DA guy, and severed their relationship, losing in one quick swoop the only two people she was close to on the planet, and then secluded herself in an Arizona cabin where a year or two later she emerged as a full-blown bigot dedicated to giving her fortune to hate groups, I mean anti-immigration groups--that part was pretty incredible, as a kind of 19th century novel kind of thing.
No, the point of all this is talking about the cycle of grifting and suck that warps our society. The other NYT article that caught my eye was the story of Stephen Miller, trump advisor and full-blown anti-immigration con man. Miller was born into a SoCal life of private school privilege, but his wealth wasn't anything compared to Cordelia Scaife May (Miller only had two names, for example). But he did figure out the quickest way to an adult life of leisure and comfort--embracing an extremist ideology under the cloak of patriotism or whatever, and getting people to give him money for it.
Because what we call the right-wing information complex, or the Fox News company picnic, or the extremist propaganda punditocracy, isn't anything more than a way to fleece rich people from their money. So much so that it doesn't matter whether Hannity, Carlson, Miller, Jones, whoever, believe the shit they're selling. They found the shortest, quickest way to a life of power for an underachieving dipshit--good enough to get into any Ivy League caliber college, but not nearly good enough to excel once they get there--is to stake out a wealth-friendly ideological position that is in opposition to the dominant (informed, humane, liberal) position that pervades on campus. Rich people will throw fucking yacht-loads of money at you. Set yourself up a non-profit and watch those tax-deductible dollars flow in. Call it Turning Point USA or the Leadership Institute.You'll never have to worry about money ever again.
Because wealthy people--and we're talking REAL wealthy, like generational billions--hate two things in this world: paying taxes, and their empty aimless drift through their 80-ish years on the planet. They are naive, stupid, and looking for something to spend their money on. They are easy marks for hustlers and con artists (or con content providers, if you prefer). The whole thing would be funny and adorable if it didn't result in the unconscionable suffering of millions. Stephen Miller couldn't run a fucking Burger King morning shift if you gave him three years to try, but he knew how to suck up to the powerfully-stupid powerful (his first D.C. job was working for Michele Bachmann, whose first three auto-fill suggestions on my google are, in order: corn dog, bikini, and young--should we all kill ourselves together or take turns?). And that's why I type transcriptions of notes called in by financial advisors and insurance agents for $10 an hour while Stephen Miller lives a life of financial comfort and figures out how to profit from his ugly ideologies. But at least I don't look like a semi-sentient bowl of pudding that hasn't slept in a week, and whose ejaculate is made up of (I imagine) a hastily thrown-together mix of saliva, mosquitos and paste.
One solution, what we in the rich-guillotine business call a good start, would involve a Wealth Tax.
Okay, they're a little like you and I. But you get the point.
I'm reading today, courtesy of a hijacked NYTimes digital subscription, the story of Cordelia Scaife May. A Pittsburgh-born heiress to a massive fortune, Ms. May was, shall we say, quite the fucking piece of work. Here's a link. It's worth using one of your six free monthly articles or whatever it is to read it (plus it's really long, which makes it a bargain).
The point of this post isn't how Ms. May's dedication to reproductive rights slid ever so gradually into a hatred of immigrants, especially the dark immigrants. It's not the story of her miserable-ass empty life either. Though the part where her new husband, a Pittsburgh DA facing corruption charges, killed himself on the day he was formally indicted, and May blamed her brother for turning on the DA guy, and severed their relationship, losing in one quick swoop the only two people she was close to on the planet, and then secluded herself in an Arizona cabin where a year or two later she emerged as a full-blown bigot dedicated to giving her fortune to hate groups, I mean anti-immigration groups--that part was pretty incredible, as a kind of 19th century novel kind of thing.
No, the point of all this is talking about the cycle of grifting and suck that warps our society. The other NYT article that caught my eye was the story of Stephen Miller, trump advisor and full-blown anti-immigration con man. Miller was born into a SoCal life of private school privilege, but his wealth wasn't anything compared to Cordelia Scaife May (Miller only had two names, for example). But he did figure out the quickest way to an adult life of leisure and comfort--embracing an extremist ideology under the cloak of patriotism or whatever, and getting people to give him money for it.
Because what we call the right-wing information complex, or the Fox News company picnic, or the extremist propaganda punditocracy, isn't anything more than a way to fleece rich people from their money. So much so that it doesn't matter whether Hannity, Carlson, Miller, Jones, whoever, believe the shit they're selling. They found the shortest, quickest way to a life of power for an underachieving dipshit--good enough to get into any Ivy League caliber college, but not nearly good enough to excel once they get there--is to stake out a wealth-friendly ideological position that is in opposition to the dominant (informed, humane, liberal) position that pervades on campus. Rich people will throw fucking yacht-loads of money at you. Set yourself up a non-profit and watch those tax-deductible dollars flow in. Call it Turning Point USA or the Leadership Institute.You'll never have to worry about money ever again.
Because wealthy people--and we're talking REAL wealthy, like generational billions--hate two things in this world: paying taxes, and their empty aimless drift through their 80-ish years on the planet. They are naive, stupid, and looking for something to spend their money on. They are easy marks for hustlers and con artists (or con content providers, if you prefer). The whole thing would be funny and adorable if it didn't result in the unconscionable suffering of millions. Stephen Miller couldn't run a fucking Burger King morning shift if you gave him three years to try, but he knew how to suck up to the powerfully-stupid powerful (his first D.C. job was working for Michele Bachmann, whose first three auto-fill suggestions on my google are, in order: corn dog, bikini, and young--should we all kill ourselves together or take turns?). And that's why I type transcriptions of notes called in by financial advisors and insurance agents for $10 an hour while Stephen Miller lives a life of financial comfort and figures out how to profit from his ugly ideologies. But at least I don't look like a semi-sentient bowl of pudding that hasn't slept in a week, and whose ejaculate is made up of (I imagine) a hastily thrown-together mix of saliva, mosquitos and paste.
One solution, what we in the rich-guillotine business call a good start, would involve a Wealth Tax.
Thursday, August 8, 2019
Cantos For David Berman: Part None
Excerpt from a poem in D. Berman's Actual Air, a book I've owned since 1999:
There were long days of bad ideas
when he felt his book was ineffective
like a watercolor of a fire engine
or a statue of the fastest man alive,
when he felt his book was ineffective
like a watercolor of a fire engine
or a statue of the fastest man alive,
and he would go to the window
and watch the fireflies
criss cross wihout insight,
then turning around
sometimes notice his wife Asterisk
lifting dinner to the table.
and watch the fireflies
criss cross wihout insight,
then turning around
sometimes notice his wife Asterisk
lifting dinner to the table.
One night, up considering dead realms,
he heard the sustained woof of a dog.
It drew him up and propelled him outside
to walk cowed under the fierce starlight.
he heard the sustained woof of a dog.
It drew him up and propelled him outside
to walk cowed under the fierce starlight.
Some brief, stray unconnected thoughts:
It is not easy to live a life so deeply; it's not easy to live any kind of life, really.
I processed his death with a grimace, a sigh, and a "well what else would you expecting" shrug. That's part coping mechanism (defense mechanism?), part tragedy fatigue, and part a calloused something or other inside of me which may or may not be a good thing. Perspective can be healthy, but it's worth keeping in mind that distance facilitates that perspective. And distance is a thing that is lonely and cold.
A person in pain who exits this world (and I am aware that there are all kinds of way to exit the world--shove that needle far enough in, and you are no longer here) may no longer be in pain, but that pain is then diffused out among the living to take up residence in their hearts.
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