I have a policy where i do not walk to campus if it is below 20 degrees outside, with a one degree handicap for every inch (rounded up) of snow there is on the ground. As such, i plan to rate 500 songs today rather than making money or doing my Senior project. What’s your excuse?
Archives for January 2004
And, in case you were unaware of how fucking cool the internet is:
On one hand, we have SongFight, where computer-recorders such as (but not yet including) myself vie every week to write the best song to match titles like “Tomorrow’s Almost Over,” “Soft Orange Glow,” and “What We Need More Of Is Science.” Everyone discusses the merits of the tunes, but the audience is the ultimate arbiter of the winner. I need to find the time to participate, as i always have some catchy idea when i see the titles. If the idea sounds intriguing but you’re afraid you will be eaten alive (ahem), Sharing Machine might be more your speed — their winners are crowned by a panel of constructive judges rather than the whims of the democratic process.
On yet another hand, which might just be the first hand wearing a glove to disguise itself (or maybe not giving the finger), there is Some Songs, where anyone can submit a song for rating (and occasional praise or drubbing) by an audience of their peers. While the singing is sometimes slightly under my par of expectations, the mixing is often far, far above. With nearly thirteen hundred songs in their archive you could easily find a new favorite song once every week.
Between the three hands, it’s enough to keep you busy for weeks!
Not shockingly, i play Sims much like i play life: I’m out the door for work at the last possible minute, i eat just enough to subsist (which occasionally leads to some large meals to make up for the difference), i indulge in any practicing activity too much (guitar, sit ups, playing sims ect), i maintain my friendships only as much as i have to, and i never get enough sleep unless i miss the proverbial car pool.
Of course, my sim always turns out happy and successful, so, go figure.
I cribbed the A-Z game from Largehearted Boy, but originally it’s from here via a Guided By Voices mailing list. The concept seemed like it would be an overwhelmingly easy exercise, but it definitelty wasn’t. Aside from the obvious S dilemma, i don’t own any artists whose name start with Qs, Xs, Ys, or Zs, so a combination of cheating and omission was in order.
Well, okay, i have some Ys, but i hate Pete Yorn.
You see that i’ve gone out on a limb to select a few worthies with only a single album out, and have similarly selected more than a couple whose catalogues i cherish despite giving up on their present endeavors. Unfortunately, due to our unkindly tiny alphabet, i was forced to leave off such luminaries of my collection as Garrison Starr, Lauryn Hill, No Doubt, Sheryl Crow, Sarah Shannon, Guster, Elastica, Juliana Hatfield, Elliott Smith, Mike Kovacs, Tracy Bonham, Sleater Kinney, Ben Folds Five, & Michael Jackson. Otherwise, this just about covers it.
Maybe one night i’ll get bored and link to good resources for all of those artists. Until then, feel free to bash my taste in music and create your own lists in the comments section.
Elise is a Photography major, with all sorts of practical and historical knowledge to bring to bear, whereas i have never used a manual camera and still describe pictures as pretty and nice. To rectify the gap in our knowledge, i occasionally endeavor to make myself learnèd about photographers and their craft. To that end, i think i stole this fashion photography slide-show from Kottke; i liked it, and subsequently narrated it to Elise, who proclaimed something about Nan Goldin ruining everything and how gorgeous Lisa Fonssagrives looked.
The second slide in the show is by David LaChapelle who does some wonderful things with light and motion in his pictures though, we both decided after looking through his portrait collection, they are mostly souless (though i have a few favorites). And, to round out the trio of links, i love this portfolio of digital retouching, complete with before and after pictures and photoshop layers (cribbed from Metafilter, but again originally from Kottke).
I’m never introducing this Kottke guy to my girlfriend ;)
I’m not even going to touch this whole hilariously disgusting Margaret Cho thing because it’s on, like, every blog on the planet. The comments mailed to Ms. Cho churned my stomach, which seems to be a fairly standard reaction, but Mykeru made me feel a little better about it. I especially like the bit about the “witless ditto monkeys;” i often feel like there are no stark raving crazy liberal politico bloggers out there because i spent so much time last year in shock and awe of all the pro-war-hawks and their Uruk-Hai like ditto-monkey followers. That’s what so many people are these days. I could take a whole year just to talk about politics and the media and how mislead we are on a daily basis, but that’s not why i’m here. I just wish people understood the choices they were making, and could diversify a little bit as to not just follow the same thing all of the time.
Anyhow, just as soon as you print out a State of the Union scorecard you can consider me mum on the matter. I don’t even find the meta making fun of the people who make fun of the people who make fun of G.W. thing at all hilarious. Not even a touch.
When i was younger TGI Fridays was a fun restaurant to go to; it was a slice of Americana, with red and white striped server shirts and electric blue drinks. It was a restaurant nice enough to consider “eating out” but cheap enough to go to with high school friends.
Tonight we were looking for that sort of bargain eating, and so the bunch of us attractive twenty-somethings drove to a Fridays in the city. In a nod to the TGIF uniform of my youth i was in the red striped shirt i had coveted for months, and upon arrival i had a fishbowl sized Sunset Strip in hand. Feeling attractive and pleasantly tipsy, we were seated.
You need to understand something about me and restaurants: i can’t focus on anything written on the menu. It’s a sort of site-specific ADD … too many people, too much movement, too much smoke and clinking glasses. Though i may peruse, i either have a specific favorite in mind or i just flip through and choose the most verbose description.
Here i should mention that Fridays, inexplicably, has joined forces with 7-11 to become part of the low-carb Atkins revolution. The way Atkins re-entered the zeitgest has left me bewildered, especially as i watch people throwing away the buns to eat twice the hamburger.
Does anyone see where this is headed? In my quick perusal i chose the most colorful picture, a chicken dish, and when it was (finally) brought to the table the waitress bellowed “Atkins Diet Chicken!” I laughed, heartily, that she had mistakenly brought this diet dish to our table. When she proffered it to me i joked, “Do i look like i would order the diet dish? Look at me?” The description had made mention that i could “save five carbs by leaving off the peppers,” i calmly explained, but i did not opt in. I had opted out of the Diet Chicken
I was sober now, steely and serious, as if the drink had never existed. I wasn’t on a diet, i told her. This was the third annoyance of the night, i stated coolly, on top of the pineapple in the drink and the slow service. I’d really just like to mention it to the manager. I don’t mean to be rude, it’s just that i’m not fat. I will explain it to your manager; i didn’t order a diet dish.
Or, well, maybe i did. I thought i had ordered the tasty looking chicken with cheese and broccoli. Instead, i inadvertently turned to the page, the one where we are all in on the hip trend, and we are all on the hip and trendy diet. It’s been around for years; South Beach was so mid-2003. I’m not really fat, it’s just these pants.
I delivered a brief but ultimately trite complaint to the manager, who offered to replace my broccoli with carb-rich mashed potatoes, and then silently choked down the food, ignoring my friends. I could hardly taste it, could not feel it in my mouth. Instead, i was feeling it sinking inside me, bloating my stomach, rising in my throat as soon as it left the back of my tongue. The room was suddenly contracted; too small, too loud, my side of broccoli shrub-like in it’s massiveness on the plate, my chicken the cardboard cover of a lean-cuisine box.
The conversation from the table across from me suddenly rose, punching through our table’s idle chatter. I heard the man speaking to the waitress (“Oh, make sure that i get the diet version of that beer. Make sure you take your time with it, i want you to bring it slow.”) and to the inexplicable pimply balloon-sculptor (“Can you make me a light balloon? It’s got to be thin. And can you give it red on the shirt? A really gay red.”)
From there it is a blur, screaming something over Lindsay’s head to the man across from me and his rambling reply floating back at me as i stood and pushed Ross out of the side of the booth, pausing only to throw down all of the large bills from my wallet. I was not gay. I wanted to leave. I was not fat. I wanted my non-descript flannel clothes back, and the underweight body from beneath them. I wanted my fingers flirting seductively with my epiglottis, head resting on the side of the bowl. I wanted to escape.
I walked around and around in the slowly drifting snow, 17th, Chestnut, Walnut, helping the small woman hail her cab, 16th, Chestnut, smiling at the strangers walking to and from the pricey bars, Market, calling Ross to ask him to get change for my big bills, lying easily, “No, no, the bus is only two blocks away,” 16th, 15th, Waiting to let the gorge slip solidly to the bottom of my stomach, the rage lie still.
I take my life for granted sometimes. I live, have lived for five years, in a calm bubble, where the only one judging me is myself. I have allowed my figure to fill out, supressed my irascible nature, embraced the wispy charm of my character, and just made sure to stay calm. Now i have a dozen dozen days of that left until my bubble is burst, one hundred and forty four days from here until i step off that stage into the real world. Everybody judges. Everybody hurts. Sometimes i need to open my mouth. I need to make myself happy a little more often.
I know that wasn’t especially interesting, but it’s what happened to me tonight. I’m always told not to apologize for my art, but it didn’t feel that artful. Thanks for reading. To cheer up, you should check out the bit about S&M in the last post.
Well, okay, not randomly; i had just spent thirty minutes fixing that Largehearted post, and i randomly checked to see if i was coming up on the recently updated list. However, the clicking was not random, and i won’t have you think i clicked through just because i saw a C. It was more like: Cock Under Lock? I wonder if it’s a blog about a pet rooster or a chastity belt?
And, well, the latter was the better guess. The premise is laid out by locked cock D in the introduction, the cock locks are occasionally displayed, and the cock locker E alternately contributes her side of the story. The page is a guilty pleasure, net-porn dirty but completely hilarious because it’s by real people, complete with photos of the toys being used and videos of D&E’s handiwork.
Not for the easily offended, sexually squeamish, or those disinclined to S&M. Oh, and please, please, oh please, do not read this one at work.