spacematic.net

People have been giving me a particular and peculiarly consistent nugget of advice for a long time now. They say “Go out and see a thing or two! You’re all cooped-up in that damned schoolhouse, and the world’s pretty big. And no, it doesn’t really matter where you go, as long as you’ve never been there before. For Godsakes, get out there!”

So when a friend of mine called me about a month and a half ago with the unique proposition of seeing Porcupine Tree in Los Angeles, I quickly said yes. For those of you who don’t know, snappy acceptance of such an offer is of late, at least, uncharacteristic of me. I used to be far more adventurous than I am now. I don’t know exactly what triggered the shift, but somewhere around the thirty-year mark, I stopped seeking “newness.”

It’s not that I didn’t want to have any fun – quite the contrary. My decision to move to Little Five Points was one  based on the idea of having a base of operations for the entertainment of my closest friends. After all, L5P had been a favorite haunt of mine since the Mid-Nineties, when my band, The Well Drinkers, practiced in a warehouse called “The Black Box” off Krog Street. We used to pay a couple hundred dollars per month for the pleasure of having a stuffy little room to shatter our eardrums in. That very same warehouse now houses “Kevin Rathbun Steak,” and you’ll be lucky if you get out of there for the same couple hundred dollars in a single night. I must admit, however, that Rathbun serves up a damned spectacular steak. If you’re in the neighborhood and have the appropriate carnivorous cravings, it’s the place to go. I recommend that you dip your chosen cow in truffle butter. It’s like sin drenched in extravagance. Sure, the guilt’s there. But what delicious guilt it is.

In 2004, I moved back from Destin, Florida and set up my base of operations atop the hill across from Variety Playhouse – old Bass High School. Dad’s high school football team used to play these guys back in the day, and I was now living in their auditorium. Strange days, indeed! Stranger, still, that my friends who I so wished to entertain in this little party district were rapidly (not to mention, prematurely) slowing down. They just didn’t want to leave the house anymore. When I invited the old band and other friends down this way, they greeted the proposition with the same anxiety one would a visit to the dentist. This , of course, made me sad. Such friendships became remarkably one-sided, with me trekking always into the ‘burbs to visit the people I knew and loved. Whenever I did, all they wanted to do is drink until closing time and cab it back to the house, where it was recommended that I stay the night. This was the point at which I realized I had less and less in common with those who I once considered my best friends. Without the music to hold things together, old bonds wore thin and eventually broke.

I dedicated the next couple of years to making new friends in the neighborhood I now called Home. Item number one on the agenda was to procure a critter. I found Allie, a Cairn Terrier, and it was through her that I was introduced to a neighborhood of like-minded dog people and others who were either dog-tolerant or at least ambivalent. Regardless, the dog got me outside and on the street, and this was a boon to the recovery of my social life. But as time moved on, I found myself driving less, and I was content with the conveniences only city living could afford. The trouble with such contentment is that you risk drawing ever tighter boundary lines around your world, until you exist almost entirely within a ten block radius. God forbid you find gainful employment within the same damned building… if such a thing happens, as it happened with me, it’s nearly all over.

So when Steve called me, I quickly accepted. Yet,  I had to fight my instincts not to go. There were a million reasons to stay at home, including work. But hell, it had been two years since I had even been to the beach. Aside from that, I had only taken a couple sick days, and then another couple to attend my grandmother’s funeral. It was time I took some kind of vacation.

And what a vacation it turned out to be! Steve introduced me to some great friends, we got to hang out in recording studio houses and eat 7-11 breakfast sandwiches in Beverly Hills. His friend got us after-show passes at Porcupine Tree, where I caught glimpses of people I admired, and even got to wave and give sheepish hellos to a couple of honest-to-God legends. It all sounds silly, I know, but it was a blast. I got to walk down Hollywood Boulevard, eat at the In & Out Burger,  find myself up to no good in Tijuana, stick my toes in the Pacific in Malibu and take pictures of the wildlife on the Santa Monica Pier. All of this (and much, much more) happened in only four days.

It all made me hungry to… I don’t know… DO SOMETHING. I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. I have a great life, I have even better friends, and I have an interesting tech job where I’m constantly challenged to develop creative solutions to complex problems. But something about this little trip woke me up, made me ambitious and got me working on this crazy web site again. Is it hubris? Perhaps megalomania? A little too much love of  watching myself tap-tap-tap on a keyboard? I’ll admit to at least some symptoms of all those maladies. But what’s wrong with wanting to express yourself? And what’s wrong with hoping that someone might actually want to read it? I’ve been down on myself for far too long.

For now, I find myself two Chimay Blues deep into a rambling blog entry at Corner Tavern, with less than ten minutes to go for September 28th, 2009. Is it time well spent? I’m not sure it even matters. What I do know is that I took some time to do something I enjoy. That’s what this site is for – all the stuff I like. So I might hint at putting up entries of music and short stories, as I used to do here, but something tells me that I might be a little more serious about such things going forward. Time to think a little more about that, and then do something about it. Good God, I salute you if you made it this far. Thanks for listening.  –mike

I write this post at the risk of sounding old, out-of-touch and a tad back-asswards. But things are moving fast, ladies and gentlemen. The times are a-changin’, and it took a new cellphone to wake me up out of the Stone Age of 2002 and come to the realization that in four years, I missed the tiny steps in-between. These tiny steps are like small towns on a road trip – if you nod off for a nap, you’ll miss the scenery and arrive at your destination with a start. Woah! Here already? Such a thing just recently happened to me, and it led to a benign but annoying case of technological and cultural alienation.
Last weekend, my cellular provider left a cryptic text message on my phone. It stated quite simply, “Your voicemail is changing. Please contact Cingular. “ I did not comply. This cellphone, a Nokia candy bar, has been reliable. It has put up with my abuse for four years and I’ve been very happy with it. I’ve dropped it, I’ve forgotten to charge it, I’ve cursed at it, I’ve carved into its face, I’ve drawn on it, painted it and I’ve thrown it at (okay, toward) a cat. It still works perfectly. Then the weekend came and went – and so did my voicemail.
I hopped in the car and went to the Cingular store to see what the problem was. It seems that the problem wasn’t my phone, it was my account. Even though I’ve been living in Atlanta since 2004, my phone still had a Florida (850) area code. The rep couldn’t help me with my problem. He suggested that I modify my account to reflect local customs and conventions. While I was at it, I decided to get a new phone. This time, I opted for the Motorola Razr V3c. It’s a nifty device. It takes pictures, it plays video, it supports mp3 ringtones… and if you want, you can use it as a phone!
I don’t consider myself technologically naive. In fact, I try to keep an eye on advancement simply out of interest. After all, I grew up with computers. I’ve been smitten with gadgets ever since I first got a TI-99/4A computer and learned to make it say nasty words. That was back in 1983. Since then, I’ve watched the advent of the hard drive, the 3.5″ floppy, optical media, wireless networking and the rapid spread of Dippin’Dots: Ice Cream of the Future. So I’m not naive, but I can’t help myself wanting to say “Scotty, how long until we have the warp engines back online?” when I flip my Razr open. This thing comes straight out of Star Trek. It’s a Star Trek phone, for Godsakes, and it came to us two centuries before its time! But this futuristic gadget even has a leg up on Kirk’s communicator. Kirk couldn’t snap a shot of the rubber-suited monster he was fighting in the California desert. Back in the Sixties, visions of the future were still a somewhat practical, even if unbelievable. Phones were phones, cameras were cameras and never the twain would meet. It seems that the future turned out even stranger than the wild and optimistic visions of our previous generations’ speculative mind-trips. In all their attempts to predict the advancement of technology, the writers of sci-fi never thought of combining devices into bizarre and improbable combinations. They must have thought that in the 23rd Century, man would had evolved beyond entertainment through novelty. Obviously, in the 21st Century, this trait is still hard-wired and going strong.
Not long after I got this new chunk of technological candy, my “harrumphs!” about having a phone that is also a camera were quieted. This little all-in-one device can be a lot of fun – hell, it can even be practical! How many times have I wanted to get even a low-res snapshot of a funny situation, only to remember that I left my camera at home?
I hopped on the Web and started looking for articles that detailed how to get images from the phone to my Mac. It was then that I stumbled upon a review that stated, “The RAZR V3c has a lot of features that please, although to save both battery life and space, this phone has no flash.” I read it again. “This phone has no flash.” I think I pulled a ligament in my brain. What the hell? This is the future? You have to take one star off an otherwise great review because the TELEPHONE you are reviewing doesn’t have an integrated FLASH BULB? I was confused. I was tickled. I started thinking.
What surprises are in store for us in the next four years? I imagined reviews of appliances from the year 2010.

“The Maytag QuietCycle 4400 is a superb front-loading washer, but to maintain its Energy Star rating, the manufacturer opted to produce this particular model in two-wheel drive only. Therefore, Road And Garment has to rate this otherwise spectacular washer a 3.5, a star and a half below the BMW Z-13 Terrain Tumbler.”

In 2010, will BMW also be the Ultimate Washing Machine? –mike

Not too long ago, I said that TiVo makes it possible to enjoy better programming in the same space of time one would normally be watching crap TV. That remains true, but if you haven’t gotten one of these things yet, let me warn you about an illness I’ve encountered: Two-Week TiVo Overdose.
Don’t get me wrong, you need a DVR. But making the adjustment to the new device’s many features and capabilities will turn you into a fool for about two weeks. When I got mine, I dove into the relatively trouble-free setup, spent an hour or two watching TV and promptly went about my business. The first few days, TiVo was just another component in my entertainment system. But then the silly little bugger started finding things for me to watch, and I was unprepared for such altruism. Each time I went to the TiVo Suggestions menu, I was intrigued by the offerings. Shows I never even knew existed were magically waiting for me! I had to watch.
Before I knew it, my normal viewing habits were out the window and I spiraled into an ungodly television binge over a two-week period. I couldn’t move, my eyes were bloodshot, I felt the need to snack almost constantly. Roughly thirty hours a week were spent in this state. TiVo – Damn You! You weaseled your way into my home and hijacked my spare time with countless episodes of “South Park,” “King Of The Hill,” “Flavor Of Love” and “Mail Call.” And those were just a few of the Season Passes I had set up.
What makes the little beast completely irresistible is its ability to seek out new things to record based on your interests. TiVo quickly learned that I like documentaries, so while I caught up on R. Lee Ermey’s hyper-enthusiastic demonstrations of military technology, TiVo simultaneously recorded nature shows, disaster scenarios and biographies. My favorite doc title by far was “When Beaches Attack!” Who could resist a show so fetchingly titled? I simply had to learn about beaches that lurk in the shadows, waiting axiously for the chance to strike out at unsuspecting tourists. In all of my years of visiting beaches, not once have I worried about turning my back on one. The last thing you expect is a beach sneaking up on you, deftly slicing through your achilles tendon, pummelling you into submission and taking your wallet. But wait a second – I have had a beach steal my sunglasses. And my money. But homicide? Not the beaches I know. They’ve always seemed so calm and quiet. Just kinda keep to themselves, ya know? Now I know better.
Toward the middle of my two-weeks of television mayhem, my dog started to whine whenever I picked up the remote control. She was my savior. If not for her constant attempts to pry me away from the idiot box, I probably would have remained there, basking in the warm, lobotomizing cathode-rays. I would have been overcome with the mysterious urge to lean on random watercoolers and recapitulate the latest happenings on “24.” As she helped me recover from my addiction, I realized that there really is a Dog… and she loves me very much.
Now things seem like they’re back to normal, and I’ve been able to temper my viewing habits. I’m back to my old schedule of three hours a day. When used judiciously, TiVo is a brilliant tool. But as is the case with all technology, it must be treated with respect, and maybe even a little suspicion. Dare I continue using the TiVo? Of course I should! The cute little thing would get lonely if I just left it there.
Truly, the marketing of a component as an anthropomorphized “TV friend” who is eager to please was a brilliant move.  As if television weren’t addictive enough already, TiVo has incorporated a Tamagochi-esque animated mascot who magically learns what you like to watch, seeking out programming tailored to your interests and input. Aww, simpwy puh-wesshious! But Allie’s got things under control. She’s ever vigilant, and she’ll be damned if a silver box replaces her as man’s new best friend. –mike

If you’re familiar with spacematic.net’s previous entries, you’ll notice that this is a holdover from the old site. I thought that I’d re-introduce the archives a little bit at a time, only adding the entries that I like best. All such entries will be filed under appropriate ‘current’ categories, but they will also be classified under “Pre-2006 Archives”so you’ll know they’re re-runs.

What happened to the great stadium acts of Rock & Roll? I can count on one hand the bands who still draw a crowd large enough to sell out a bona fide stadium, and do it two days in a row! Let’s see here- The Rolling Stones, Rush, Pink Floyd- I’m sure I’m missing a few somewhere in the woodwork. U2 has the power to fill a stadium-sized crowd, but for some reason or another they’ve opted for a limited arena tour this time around. That’s fine by me, since there’s a better chance of actually being able to see the band when you’re in an arena as opposed to a mammoth outdoor sports venue. The sound is usually a lot better, too.

Unfortunately, one of the bands on my list will probably never reunite for another tour. Pink Floyd was a great act who knew how to entertain the masses. Many fans argue that the light show was always the focus and not the players. I agree to the extent that mere human beings are much smaller than giant inflatable pigs, and they’re slightly less luminous than humongous flowering mirrorballs. The only way a puny mortal could approximate the grandeur of a Floyd show would be if they covered themselves in hyper-reflective ballon mylar, taped lasers to their body, added a gallon of gasoline and struck a match. Then they would have to shoot themselves out of a cannon while being tracked with those giant police searchlights. Still, for the effect to even come close, the whole thing would have to be viewed on the Times Square Jumbotron. That’s the only way one person could ever hope to measure up.
If you were up close to the Floyd and weren’t a musician, you’d probably be disappointed since you wouldn’t be able to see all the pretty pretty lights. Fans claim that the show is best appreciated from a considerable distance. But I was (and still am) a musician and David Gilmour has been one of my idols since childhood. So when my time came to see the Pink Floyd, I tried to get as close as possible. I cared much more about the players than the spectacle. That’s what concert videos are for.
I was lucky enough to attend the Atlanta performance at Bobby Dodd Stadium, The Division Bell tour, 1994. I succeeded in getting eight tickets in the fifth row. God bless Turtle’s Records and Tapes. Their people knew how to freak the Ticketmaster computers right. My girlfriend, six giddy high school seniors and myself were wedged between Georgia Tech students and aging hippies, and we were all having the time of our lives. Throughout the crowd, there was a general consensus that it was quite possibly the last time we would ever see this band perform. Little did anyone know that Gilmour, Waters, Wright and Mason would decide to do a one-time-only reunion for “Live” in 2005. The 2005 London show was pretty cool, but the show I attended in 1994 was everything I hoped it would be and more. They played two sets of both new and classic material, followed by three encores. The second encore, “Wish You Were Here”was probably the largest sing-along I have ever taken part in.
If you put on the right music and drop me in the right situation, I’ll cry like a baby. We all held our lighters aloft, swayed back and forth and sang at the top of our lungs like we were in the world’s biggest pub – a pub with lasers and fog and weed. My girlfriend turned to me and saw tears streaming down my face. Her glee turned to concern. I simply smiled back at her and said “It’s okay.”Still, she was weirded out to see me openly weeping, since I’m usually not a “Kleenex Moment”kinda guy. Just to point out how silly she thought I was, she yelled into my ear, “I’m sorry. Did I miss something? Did he just propose to you?”
I havent’ done anything like that since. At all other rock shows that followed, I simply rocked. I didn’t cry at the KISS show in 1997, nor did I shed a tear over the Smashing Pumpkins. I’ve come pretty close whenever U2 play songs like “Bad”or “Walk On.”
I’m waiting for the next wave of great stadium bands. I fear they’re going extinct. I still like club shows and I appreciate the intimacy of a small venue, but there’s something really special about a stadium crowd enjoying a really big show. It’s little wonder that people who see their favorite band playing to a sold-out crowd often compare the experience to religious ecstacy. We’re social animals, and in the brief span of two hours we get to live the otherwise unattainable social dream in which everyone is gathered in common purpose and agree on at least one thing- the band we’re watching totally rawks. –mike

Just so I don’t look like a total ass for yesterday’s post, I have chosen to post some WORD FOR WORD excerpts from the iTunes Music Store’s customer review section. These nuggets of wisdom were written for David Gilmour’s newest album, “On An Island.” Enjoy yourselves as I exonerate myself from suspected hyperbole! I do this all in the name of linguistic integrity:

“all of the qualities we love about Gilmours musical genious.”

“A thoughtfull and pasion filled body of work.”

“This is now way a good album defently the worse music of pink sense Umaguma I can definataly see why this is bad because waters isn’t writting the music You’ll probably gana have too beg him after this”

“i deffinatly recomend “On an Island’”

“What would expect from David Gilmour?”

“Wow, this album sounds like David Gilmore or something.”

“David Gilmour is truely one of the greatest artisits”

“A ture master”

It is now clear to me that “definitely” is the single most-misspelled word in all the Web. If all these low-wattage keyboard cretins got together and wrote a Rolling Stone review, it would come out looking something like this:

David Gilmore is in now danger of falling out of favor with his fans, nor is he apt to fade from contemtpoary relevance any time soon. His trademark style and flare for enhanting mellodies comes through on his lastest offering, “On An Island.”
Fans of staight-up Gilmour our bound to hail this album as a ture work of genious, but there is a vocal cramp of Pink Floyd fans who will say that this is defently worse sense Waters had no hand in writting the music.
Gilmour doesn’t just dish out melodies this time. Instead, he exspearmints with them, but what else would expect? He is a ture artisit whose pasion, unencumbered by contributary sacrifice, exploids in anthemic magesty. Lush lead lines accenshuate suttel orcestrail arraignments that sounds like David Gilmour or something. This is deffinatly recomended listing. You’ll probably gana have to beg you’re record store to keep this one in stork.

“Roiling Stome”

God forbid.
If you’re interested in hearing what I have to say about “On An Island,” please keep reading. That is, if you weren’t blinded by the crap I just posted above.

The album begins with “Castellorizon,” a charming, yet obscure play of words on the Greek island of Castellorize and the word horizon. A dark, flanging foghorn-like sound reverberates against a gentle plucking of strings and it is immediately evident that Gilmour is going to craft not a song, but a soundscape. Within the first minute, you have a setting in mind.
Bells, rhythmic pulsing and sweeping orchestral lines all combine in what feels like an ethereal, brief homage to the storied career of Pink Floyd. By the two minute mark, Gilmour introduces himself with trademark bluesy charm. But something seems off-kilter here. “Castellorizon” isn’t so much a song as it is an incoherent passage that attempts to be an appetizer for the experience that ensues. Instead, it makes the listener hope the rest of the album isn’t crafted with similar quirk. On its own, “Castellorizon” merely confuses; but when taken into account with the tracks that follow, it is clear that it performs its duty and then quickly gets out of the way.
After “Catellorizon,” the listener is duely rewarded with standout track “On An Island.” For this first true song, Gilmour enlists the assistance of Dave Crosby and Graham Nash, who mix very well with the guitarist’s delicate vocals. If this song were performed a cappella, it would be a lullaby. Then again, the same can be said for most of the album, except for “Take A Breath” and “This Heaven.” Keep in mind, however, that these two tracks only seem heavy-handed by comparison, capping out at what feels like eighty or so beats-per-minute. Clearly, this album is not for those who want fierce, aggressive rock.
The majority of the work consists of what we’ve come to expect of solo David Gilmour. Most of the tracks are pretty, devoid of the dark tinges that haunt similar offerings by Pink Floyd proper. The maintenance of melodic purity is a distinguishing characteristic of Gilmour’s lone efforts, and some say that such maintenance is indicative of a lack of inspiration. But I believe that Gilmour’s music is very much thought-upon as it is being written. The only criticism I have of such music is that it feels “floaty,” and often devoid of conflict. When the majority of an album’s tracks play out in this fashion, it is almost too easy for many listeners to lose interest.
Of course, I am reviewing this album after only three listenings, and I believe that to pass judgment so early is unfair. There is a lot to like in this album, especially for the deep-cut fans of old Pink Floyd. These listeners will find much to enjoy and compare. That Gilmour can resurrect such sounds in a modern studio environment is a testament to his talents, and those of his engineering and production team.
If I were to be held to any comparisons of “On An Island” to a particular “Pink Floyd sound,” I would say that it feels as if Gilmour picked out the most musical sections of “Alan’s Psychedelic Breakfast” and expanded those vignettes into true songs. If you are a newcomer to Pink Floyd and have either not paid attention to such songs (or if you simply don’t like them), then you may have a hard time understanding why many fans of the band are lauding this album as a triumphant solo effort.
Such praise by old-guard fans is what prompted me snap to this album so quickly. I possess Gilmour’s previous solo albums “About Face” and “David Gilmour,” and never found much there to spark my interest. His first attempt seemed to contain matierial that was deliberately held back from “Animals,” and “About Face” felt like a desperate effort to set himself apart and prove that he had other ideas about style, more than merely what was expected of him with Pink Floyd. Even though neither album held my attention very long, it wasn’t for my lack of really trying to like them. And that’s where “On An Island” marks a departure in the solo career of David Gilmour, at least for me. Yes, the tracks are slow, and to put a visual spin on the sound, it feels more Monet and less Picasso. But that doesn’t mean it’s not inspired. It all comes down to a matter of personal taste. This isn’t music for regular rotation, and it certainly doesn’t belong in your “Wake Up” playlist. It is music for a certain time and place… perhaps when you are on an island, with some time to sit alone, ponder and simply enjoy. For the especially patient and imaginative, consider this album a budget-price ticket to just such place. –mike

Yesterday, Russell over at Banapana wrote an entry on the use and abuse of links. In particular, he’s not all that fond of links that say “click here.” I’ll have to admit that upon reading it, I began to feel a little self-conscious. After all, there are links in my archives and search pages that say “click here to read full entry” or something like that. Plus, the whole damn sentence is linked!
Russ contends that such links are akin to the sticky sludge that spills from the wastewater nozzles at the Department Of Redundancy Deptartment. True as this may be, I believe that there are still many web users who wouldn’t know a link if it reached out of their monitors and clicked ‘em in the ass. This is especially the case with today’s web, where there is no consistency in a link’s visual appearance. Many sites’ links aren’t underlined until a user rolls his or her cursor over them, and things are made worse for the common noob when weasel designers refuse to differentiate their links with a color that contrasts significantly from their body text. If neither of the typical conventions are followed, even I have difficulty knowing whether an author wishes me to click. I could blame designers all the live long day for committing to bad decisions, especially on the basics, but it still remains the responsibility of the user to determine what this whole World Wide Web thing is about anyway. Even the best designers can’t anticipate some morons’ special talents for misinterpreting or misusing a clean and simple interface. There is no fee or test required for using a mouse and keyboard. I am living proof of that.

I trust no one until they give me a clear reason to do so. Therfore, I don’t trust the majority of web users when it comes to using their brains. After reading countless forum posts, comments and “FWD:Fw:fwd:Re:” style emails, people have proven themselves incapable of proper English usage. I know that bad spelling is not the litmust test for intelligence, but it’s not exactly putting your best foot forward, either. How can we expect most web patrons to understand the functionality of a link unless it says “click here?” The concept of the hyperlink is widely understood, but many people are afraid to click unless the very link text itself tells them exactly what to do, followed by an explanation of where it goes. It is the Web equivalent of a real world button upon which is written “press the button to do the thing.” Wait! Scratch that. I wouldn’t press any button that said that. What thing is it referring to? “Press the button to initiate meltdown?” “Activate the hydraulic press?” “Tickle the kitten?” Who knows? Maybe users just need to navigate friendly websites, places where they can trust the author not to lead them into a universe of appliance porn and llama-cuddling fetishists.
I think that a link’s included text should depend greatly upon the expected intelligence level of a given site’s audience. As such, I’m not sure whether a text proxy for a button in and of itself qualifies as some kind of new punctuation. If the humble link is eventually assumed into the diverse languages of the world as punctuation, I hope it’s when all those forum-posting goons approach mastery of their native tongues, or learn to preview and spell-check before posting. Little Bobby Afterschool doesn’t seem to understand that most people who read the forums will never meet him. The manner in which he writes reflects who he is to the world. In fact, that is ALL he will ever be to ninety-nine percent of the people who read “I thank your stuped so stfu!” Sadly, this bad behavior in regard to language is not just the domain of the Bobby Afterschools of the world. It also applies to adults.

Just to prove how difficult it can be to understand a writer’s intent when they pay no heed to spelling or punctuation, I have posted a snippet of text that describes a recent Yanni episode, replacing certain real words with omissions, misspellings and bad grammar that I have actually encountered in the past. Read, if you dare:

He was arrested at hes home Friday after an aleged dumestic dispute with his girlfrend.

Yanni, whose regal name is John Yanni Christopher, denies the allegations.

These allegators are crool, false, without meret and baseles,” said the statemint releesed by his manager. “At a more appropriate time and pace, I hope and pay I will have an oportuntity to adress my fans and colleges all over the world.”

Police say the sinner-pianist asked his grrlfriend, Silvia Barthes, to leav his beachfront home in Manalapan.

She told polece she attempted to pack her clothing, but teh 51-year-old musician assalted her.

Do you see how dangerous improper language usage can be? If one read the article in this condition, they would get the impression that Yanni was arrested for assaulting his girlfriend. Oh, wait! He was! HA HA HA HA. By the way, the original text was taken from the CNN website and fooled around with by me. Not to plagiarize, but to make a point. –mike

I spend a lot of time in coffee shops these days. If you don’t know me, it’s likely you have no idea what I’m up to. I’m trying to write a book.
The practice of writing is a delicate art, where one crafts believability out of mere words. Through meticulous attention to form, the writer is a trickster of the mind. The best of the lot can weave text deep into the reader’s reservoir of memory, eliciting emotion — emotion churns the guts and fosters whimpering pangs of empathy. The best writers then take advantage of the reader’s interest and undermine reality in such a way that what is written becomes experience and the scales of perception plummet into the abyss of fantasy. Soon, the reader is headlong into a story that is not just a mere recount of things that never happened. The reader watches and listens and considers the unfolding fiction and is no longer aware that he or she is turning pages. The fine craftsmanship of a benign lie is the writer’s greatest asset and solemn duty. It is called in polite circles “suspension of disbelief.”

Of course every writer is different, and I don’t have the benefit of a large community of fellow storytellers to determine whether it’s healthy to lose oneself as a writer in the telling. All I can say, quite confessionally, is that it happens to me often. The passing of hours, the smell of coffee and the din of ambient conversation eventually fades as I drum the keys of my little computer. I find myself in the Florida Panhnadle in 1986. This intensity of involvement is like a drug, and I crave it daily.
When I come home from my day’s work at the coffee shop, I feel as though I’ve done the world around me a great disservice by so rudely ignoring it. So I find the company of my dog, plop down in front of the television and try to make sense of what is going on here in the twenty-first century.
Lately, I’ve heard more grumblings about the war, the cost of fuel and I’ve learned that Pat Robertson has lost his fuggin’ mind. My attention to the details of current events is spotty and it has lately caused me grief on my daily walks with Allie.
Two weeks ago, I was walking up Euclid Avenue with her when I noticed a large honking gaggle of riled banner-waving people at the intersection. Candles were lit, and what at a glance seemed to be a peaceful vigil, upon closer inspection, smelled of paraffin and anger. Allie’s nose tilted up, her tail hid quickly between her legs and her anchor plunked down on the sidewalk. I looked back at her and she pleaded that we go no further into the madness that was consuming the corner at the top of Moreland. I should have listened to her and found a quiet side street on which we could find more pleasant adventures. Instead, I picked her up and swiftly advanced. She looked at me with a “you know best” glance before casting her gaze to the concrete below us.
Signs bearing the name “Cindy” bobbed up and down, and people regarded us warmly at first. Then, as I neared the corner and started to turn, a young brave soldier of protest lurched forward and thrust one of the placards within my reach.
“Here,” he said. “Take this. You’re on TV!”
I was dazed. “Who is…” was all I could muster as my free hand quickly found my pocket.
“Just take it! We need numbers here, we’re on TV!”
I didn’t see any cameras, but then again I was in a hurry to get around the corner.
I have nothing against protest. I am a supporter of one’s ability to speak their mind. But since I’ve been quite out of touch with most of the goings-on in politics these days, I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what these people were doing supporting this “Cindy” stranger.
“Is she running for office?” I asked.
“Maybe. Now just take this.” The young protester was quickly turning from his eagerness and edging toward exasperation. He repeated, “We need numbers!”
“I’m sorry, I can’t.” I apologized. “I don’t know what you’re doing here.”
As I departed, I heard a noisy subset berating me for my lack of participation. “I’m just walking my dog!” I yelled back to explain. But it was all for nothing. Before I was out of earshot, I heard the words “faggot, fascist, Halliburton supporter and Republican” cast in my direction. I can only assume these were their names for me. I made a bad impression.
Later on, as Allie and I sat in front of the TV, we learned that a lady named Cindy Sheehan is holed up in Crawford, TX, where the President is on “vacation.” Her son died in the war and she’s calling for an end to violence in Iraq and Afghanistan. God bless her. I don’t know the feeling of loss she must be experiencing. She has my heartfelt sympathy. But is she really the best figure for spearheading the conclusion of conflict in the Middle East? People are putting themselves in her shoes for now, but the fickle populous of our fair nation will soon turn their attentions elsewhere. It is inevitable. Her honest and palpable sorrow will be taken advantage of by opposition hawks, and she will be turned into a mad and slavering reactionary. Hardly proper treatment for the recently bereaved. Attention to her plight is necessary, as it is for the hundreds of other parents who have lost their children to the continuing conflict overseas. And that puts it into some perspective… she is not the only one. Somehow, by a strange turn of events, her voice made it through to the fore. But the throng I observed at the corner of Euclid and Moreland didn’t seem to be grieving with Cindy Sheehan. They seemed concerned with their media coverage, their moment in the spotlight. So divorced from the plight of the many families who have been broken by war, they resorted to calling me names when I did not participate. It didn’t feel right for the moment, for the subject or for the spirit of the whole shindig. I’ve now lived in this neighborhood for a year and a half, and I didn’t recognize a single face in that crowd.
It is often that Allie and I look at each other as we view the news. To her it’s just noise and pictures. To me, it’s insight on a nation that has been evenly divided for many years now. It’s strange how we often mirror the same expression. After the news, Allie merrily leaped from the couch and gnawed mercilessly upon a rawhide bone. I went back to review my day’s writings. Things were quiet and normal, and we were pleased to be in each other’s company. Having a dog is a blessing to one’s sanity, I suppose. –Mike

I’ve been taking advantage of the great weather we’ve had these past few weeks. There’s just something criminal about staying inside behind a computer when it’s beautiful outside. Still, most of us do it. We go against our nature and cram ourselves inside cubicles to feed our abstract ambitions of wealth and peer worship. And in a great communal nod to the “too much is never enough” ethic of modern social economics and hedonism, we dig ourselves in deeper, first with that big house, then the big car – eventually the big screen. None of it is bought with our money. Seven years later, the money you’ll be making pays the guys that paid for that damned TV. And you look out the window and sigh. What have we done to ourselves? Where the hell is Darwinism when you really need it? Let’s wipe the slate clean and start over. Let’s breed a human who is capable of balancing needs, who sees manufactured desire for what it is and pays attention to the things that really matter. Like baseball.
No, not major league baseball. I’ve had enough of that. Aside from obnoxious pay and the odd players’ strike, the prevalent use of steroids and the cavalier attitude toward usage has turned my stomach. I’ve never been a major league baseball fanatic, and now I’m sure I never will be. Major league baseball is for corporate lackies who want to jerk off business prospects hands-free, hence the ticket price. Whores are always expensive. I’m sure it costs a family of three the same amount of money to see a decent whore. Still, there’s no guarantee the whore isn’t hopped up on steroids. So what’s left? Little league.
Little league reminds you that baseball isn’t an industry. It isn’t about home-run hitting. It’s about that one play that just might surprise you. Little league begs you to watch because something could go magically right or abysmally wrong. Sometimes, it’s just plain funny. Whatever. At least you know that the players’ intentions are honest and that they’re not arguing another bump in salary or threatening to part ways with their team mid-season. Children aren’t lured to baseball because of money. They play it because it’s fun. And fun is contagious.
Where is the fun in major league baseball? I don’t see it. I just see a bunch of money-grubbing, drug-addicted freaks of nature basking in the glory of condoned misbehavior. There’s no reason to go see those jokers as long as we have neighborhood games. Yet we persist. We sit among the businessmen whose astronomically-priced tickets feed the fat of the field. And we stay interested because major league baseball is “American!” Nothing could be further from the truth. Look at yourself, and then look at them. You are an American. What do you have in common with them? If America is about honesty, integrity, Mom and apple-pie, then major league baseball is the red-headed stepchild of Benedict Arnold. If you think I’m just entertaining myself with hyperbole, think again. When was the last time the price of apple pie surprised you? Better yet, when was the last time you discovered your apple pie was filled with drugs? –Mike

Señor Banapana and I often have discussions about things of little real-world importance, such as the declining flavor of lettuce, the significance of fever dreams and the ups-and-downs in the glamorous world of schizophrenic pigeon racing. I prefer their wings to be clipped. There’s always more drama when it’s a foot-race.
The model of our discussions is one of semi-clever argument tempered with heavy consideration on each word. Almost always, we agree to disagree. But we both come away with food for thought. If I engaged in such conversations with other people, I would probably end up hating them. Not so with the ‘Pana.
One discussion that really got me thinking was in regard to the Billboard Top 100 and what it says about the music we choose to listen to. He noted that Sir Fifty Cent…

You know what? Forget about this. I have a much better idea. Music is simply about what you like. Listen to what you want to listen to. The battle of the bands is NOT in your back yard. Rock will not die, Pop will not eat itself, Rap will not catch the last train for the coast. No musical genre will truly die.
We live in a country dominated by marketing, and we are very often led to believe that what’s loudest is what’s true. Hokum! Hogwash! Balderdash! The truth is what’s in your face. The truth is what you experience. The truth doesn’t come out of a box. You like square-dancing music? I don’t, but you can listen to it! You like Big Band Jazz? I do, but it doesn’t mean you have to. The grimy urban streets and the cushy sprawling cul-de-sacs of unending suburbia will ring with the music of the masses, the manufactured rebellion du jour. Last decade it was grunge, metal and gnu mating. This decade it’s hip hop, gangsta, skeet-skeet and twerkin’ yer gherkin.
Rebellion for one generation is an ad for Swiffer in the next. Examples? Plenty. 90’s: Nirvana, 80’s: Metallica, 70’s: Sabbath, 60’s: Beatles, 50’s: Elvis, 40’s: Swing, 30’s: Jazz, 20’s: Blues… and on and on. Most find it hard to believe, but at one time the Waltz was considered lewd and suggestive. I myself find it hard to believe. I’ve tried getting it on in 3/4 time and it’s anything but sexy.
Even though the eras in which they were created are no longer accessible to us, the music persists. No musical genre dies. There are no graves for a crowned successor to dance on. There are no prize fights, no heavyweight belts and no rewards for listening to one or the other, save one’s own enjoyment.
I admit that music is a distinct product of the times in which it is generated, but such can be said for any art form. We have words for the truly lasting works of art that transcend the mundane. We call such creations “classics” because sometimes an artist generates a work with remarkable and timeless appeal. The discovery of such classics is often as exciting as hearing that great new song. The music of today is built on the successes of yesterday. And even if hip-hop could weild a magic gat and send rock and roll to a watery grave, it would forever be sampling the precious booty of back-catalogue bullion, enabling the essence of the former to forever echo in the latter.
Good music finds success regardless of its form. Work hard, persevere, make it good and an audience will be found. We live in a world where we recognize differences and take sides. Must our entertainment also be used to divide us and sub-categorize us further? What good is that? And what’s good to that guy standing next to you might not be your taste. If that’s the case, just shut up and put on your headphones. We’ll all just listen to what we like. –Mike

I stumbled upon a distressing site the other day. A man is supposedly holding a rabbit named “Toby” ransom for $50,000 dollars. The site claims that if he does not receive the specified amount in donations or gear, the rabbit gets it and will be butchered and eaten.
A lot of peoples’ first responses have been “brilliant!” and “wow, that’s one way to make a quick buck.” But let’s just take a closer look at this so-called creativity, this remarkable ingenuity. First of all, this type of website isn’t new. There’s an older site named savebernd.com that makes the exact same claims. Only at savebernd.com, the owner is demanding one million euros. Upon closer inspection, the savebernd site declares itself a hoax. And indeed, upon examination of savetoby, we find the same thing. Visitors as early as February recall a small disclaimer at the bottom of the page that stated the whole thing was a hoax, but that disclaimer has now been removed. Why? Probably to induce empathetic champions of animal rights to cough up dough under duress. This begs the question: “Is this any honorable way to make money on the web?”
I don’t think so, and apparently neither does PayPal, since they have suspended the anonymous owner’s account. However, the CafePress store is still open for business and no doubt making money at this very moment. Hoax or no, I wouldn’t be able to sleep well at night if I was at the helm of such an entrepreneurial endeavor. This is just another sick extention of the age old-web premise “I deserve a bunch of money, so I’ll set up a site let everyone contribute a dollar.” True, if everybody on the web gave you a dollar, you’d be rich as sin. But I just wouldn’t feel comfortable doing it like this. The money-makers I respect and would like to emulate are the James Lileks’, Homestar Runners and many others who gain income through creativity and labor. The authors of savetoby and savebernd are appealing to the lowest common denominator of society, those who would do anything to make a quick buck. At best, this reminds me of cheap reality television. At worst, it’s proof that the Western world has learned nothing of its first few years in the 21st Century. Every day, we see people taken hostage on television, threatened with horrible execution unless some fringe terror organization’s demands are met. In no way am I trying to compare the life of a simple coney to the life of another human being, but the model of these pitiful web sites echo the model of modern terrorism. It’s a pretty safe bet to assume this extension of thought never made it to the minds of the simpletons who embarked on this “hilarious” cash-generating scam. There are too many other honest ways to make a buck, guys. This one just ain’t funny. It sure as hell won’t get you any dates, either. Put the rabbit down, give it to somebody who will care about it and imagine the responses and expressions of those you tell your story to. You know, that classic American success story of how you made a fortune by threatening to kill your pet. You’re a real hero, asshole. –Mike