spacematic.net

As is often the case in the realm of sports, victory proves bittersweet once again. Veteran Tetherball great Jeffe deEstado was disqualified in the fifth round of the Suicide Finals, just one step away from his first-ever TetherBowl appearance. But according to fans, “El Jeffe” wasn’t ousted by any fault of his own. An angry crowd of fans protested loudly at the Chevrolet Suburban Driveway Arena on February 23rd as officials called El Jeffe out after the entire anchoring apparatus spontaneously failed.

“El Jeffe had Habersham fair and square.” commented Ellison McManus, an enraged spectator. “Then he pulled out his signature “˜Thunder Wumpus 720,’ and the whole thing just shattered! At first, we were all like “˜Damn! Jeffe gave you the Wumpus, Habersham! Go back to Talmo!’ But then the officials declared that no-talent putz winner by default. That’s just bull$#!%, man.”

The “Thunder Wumpus 720º has been a hotly-debated move in professional Tetherball ever since deEstado debuted the maneuver in 1998, defeating three-time TetherBowl champion Martin Clearwater in the Vancouver Semi-Finals. In that classic match, deEstado cocked his fist in anticipation of the ball’s advance and then punched it squarely in the air-hole. The resultant explosion of the ball, in combination with the player’s brute kinetic force, caused the rope to wind around the post rapidly, with the ball ultimately stopping for a win.

deEstado has only been able to replicate the “Wumpus” during two other matches – once to defeat Arthur Hutchinson in the 2002 Jacksonville Classic, and once more in yesterday’s match against Habersham.

But it wasn’t the “Wumpus” alone that caused the hotly-contested disqualification. An unforeseen structural failure of the tether mount as a result of the “Wumpus” move was the culprit. When questioned on the game call, official Bob Pettinaugh had this to say: “deEstado has always wondered why we watch the Wumpus carefully, and now he knows. We had no choice but to call it as we saw it when the post anchor broke.”

According to the International Tetherball Association’s Guidelines, Rules and Sportsmanship Handbook, any player “that willfully destroys an anchor, post or tether must be disqualified on the charge of subterfuge.” Subterfuge, in the sport of Tetherball, is defined as any activity by a player that prevents either side from successfully scoring.

At a press conference this morning, Pettinaugh continued to defend his judgment and added “The ball never actually hit the post. The sequence of events was clear. deEstado Wumpused the living hell out of that ball, and he knew what the consequences could be. I’m sure this will make any Tetherball athletes in our Association think twice before emulating the dastardly tactics of El Jeffe.”

Although his fans have been vocally abrasive about the turn of events, deEstado seemed to take the loss in stride. When asked about it in a post-game interview, El Jeffe simply said, “Sometime you give the Wumpus, and sometime the Wumpus gets you. That’s just the Wumpus way.”

Willie Habersham of Talmo, Alabama now advances to TetherBowl XXXVII, where he faces Izquierda Enrique Quantum of Cobb Parkway. Quantum is favored by a variable but wide margin. The TetherBowl will not be televised. –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

Check out the pic above. That’s me at around four or five, which puts the photo in the neighborhood of 1977 or 1978. At that time, my older brothers were still both at home and going to high school. Because of the ten year age difference, I wasn’t so much a little brother as I was a personal monkey. They told me to do stuff and I’d have to oblige. Most of the antics involved dressing in garish costumes or drag, harassing Mom or a combination of the two. My oldest brother’s all-time favorite trick was to get me in a frenzy, send me downstairs with my hands on my head and scream “Mommy! Mommy! He put neatsfoot oil in my hair!!!” This invariably shocked and infuriated my poor mother who is genetically pre-disposed to panic, and she would scream bloody and murderous threats to her eldest child. It always ended with me doubled over in laughter as she pried my hands off my head to see what damage came to me from the topical use of leather protectant. For some reason, the unraveling of a lie was a joy beyond joy for me. When she learned there was no neatsfoot oil in my hair, she’d pop me on the bottom and send me back upstairs while muttering something like “I can’t believe y’all just live to make me cuss. What if the preacher was at the door? He’d think we all lost our religion!” This made me laugh just that much harder. “Get in that room, you little demon! And don’t come out ’til I say it’s time for dinnah.” I liked being at the heart of matters of deception.

When I turned five, my brothers thought I was old enough to be competent in performing more complex pranks. My mom used to drag all three of us to the mall so she could shop without fear of the house catching fire while she was away. The problem with this arrangement was that two teenagers and one five year old were stuck in the ladieswear section of Rich’s, bored out of our minds. So my brothers whispered provocative, Enquirer-style headlines into my ears and made me repeat them back until they were confident I had them memorized. Then they set out into the aisles, where I would tug on ladies’ dresses and begin my performance.

“‘Scuze me, Ma’am.”
“Oh my goodness! Where’s your mother? How can I help you?”
“I gotta tell you sumpin’.”
“Well now, are you lost?”
“Nope.”
The unsuspecting ladies’ eyes always searched around briefly before smiling back and asking, “Well, what’s the matter, then?”
“JIMMY CARTER ‘MOKES POT!”
Then I’d cackle madly and run away in search of my devious brothers. I had no idea what I was saying, but my brothers sure thought it was funny, and making them laugh was an achievement I relished. When my mother found out what was going on from another store patron or from management, she dragged us home and gave us a firm talking to regarding possible penalties that could arise from uttering fallacious statements about the leader of the free world.

Following one of these grievous infractions against the establishment, I was sent to my room where my brothers entered and gave me a can of “Billy Beer,” a product of presidential brother Billy Carter and a magazine article regarding the President himself. They then photographed me for the prankster’s hall of fame. The picture above is enduring proof of such shenanigans.

From then on, my mother knew that as long as the three of us were togther, things at the mall would just get worse. So she started allowing my brothers to stay at home while she continued dragging me to the ladieswear section of Rich’s and Davidson’s. The golden days of prankhood were over, and I was doomed to boredom. Or so I thought.

Back in the day, my brothers had competing interests in music and their rooms were right next to each other. My room looked directly at both their doors. My oldest brother listened to Blue Oyster Cult, Pink Floyd, The Rolling Stones, John Denver, Dan Fogleberg, Asia and Led Zeppelin.

The interests of the younger were more along the lines of Earth, Wind and Fire, Fantastic Voyage, The Village People, Parliament, The Beatles and ELO. The only thing they had in common music-wise was KISS, and even then they’d blare competing tracks. “Detroit Rock City” and “Beth” don’t mix. The cacophonous din that would sail off into the hallway from the two full-volume stereos almost drove me crazy, so I opted for spending time in either room just so I could hear either “Immigrant Song” or “YMCA,” and not have to endure some unbearable ear-shattering hellspawn of both.

The oldest brother loved me no less than the other, but he thought that having me in the room all the time was lame, so I often found myself in the younger brother’s room listening to those damned Village People. Back then, I thought they were super cool. The music was upbeat and lively and all the candy-coated things little kids like happy music for. For my birthday, my brother even gave me a 45 RPM single of “Macho Man.”

One day, not too long after the gifted “Macho Man” single, the elder brother had a frank discussion with the younger. He couldn’t believe his ears. They couldn’t be! The Village People!? They just couldn’t be! He got on the phone with his friends – time and time again, the awful truth was confirmed. The VILLAGE PEOPLE WERE GAY. For a teenager in the mid-to-late 1970’s , such a brand was unacceptable. Why, what would his peers think of him? He had to take action and rid himself of all Village People vinyl and swag.

I’ll never forget the day I came home from preschool, opened my bedroom door and found a veritable Village People wonderland in place of my old zoo posters and stuffed animals. All my brother’s LP’s, 45’s, posters and magazines were plastered on every wall and in every corner of my room. There was even a copy of Rolling Stone featuring the Village People on the pillow of my bed. I had to go thank him immediately. Alas, he was nowhere to be found. So I spun up one of my new acquisitions and started to git down with my bad self. Halfway through the second track, I could hear uproarious laughter on the other side of the door. I tried to open it to see what was the matter, but it wouldn’t budge.

“Hey! What’s the big idea? Whatcha doin?!”
A muffled voice from the other side of the door giggled “Nothin’, man. Just lookin’ through the Village Peep-Hole to see if we can find any VILLAGE PEOPLE!” A new wave of guffaws immediately erupted.
“Lemme out!” I shrieked over the din of “In The Navy.” “Lemme out now or I’m tellin’ Mom!

The door swang wide. The faces of my brother and friend were a hazardous shade of red, their mouths twisted into a confused expression that exhibited characteristics both of glee and agony. Unable to breathe through uncontrollable fits of laughter, they gripped at their ribs tightly, letting go only to ocassionally point at me in amused anguish.
“What you guys laughin’ about?” I asked suspiciously.
“Nothin’. Nothin’, Jonny.” My brother heaved, still red-faced from watching me boogie to the music he had forsaken only a day before.
My brother’s friend then blurted, “Man, don’t you know? Those Village People are totally GAY!” After two or three desparate gasps for air, their laughter resumed. They wailed like mad hyenas in a gas chamber.
“Yeah, so?” I asked.
Try explaining what gay is to a five year old.
The laughs subsided and they attempted once more to embarrass me about the “gay” thing. No luck. I just kept saying “So? So what?”

The source of their raucous glee was fading fast, their twisted smiles gradually faded into thin expressions of frustration. They were struck with embarrassment at the prospect of explaining the birds and the bees, or rather the birds-birds/bees-bees. So they simply left me alone to enjoy my new Village People showcase.

When my older brother found out about it, he had a good laugh too. But when I started to put on a Village People record, he grabbed me, sat me down in his room and made me listen to “2112,” “Animals” and “Destroyer,” back to back to back. Even years later, he felt that his task in attempting to remedy my questioable taste in music wasn’t complete, and he prescribed heavy doses of Billy Idol and Def Leppard. Soon enough, he was off to college, and home was host to just me and my middle brother. He found other bands to enjoy, including Big Country and U2. U2 became our new favorite. One day, as we were listening to October, my brother apologized to me. “Sorry about that Village People thing, Jonny. You know we were just kidding, right?”
“Oh yeah. I’ve been done with them for years, anyway.”
As if to make up for the terrible thing he did, he helped guide me in “proper” musical choices from then on out. Thanks to him, I was one of the only children in elementary school to avoid the craze of Michael Jackson’s “Thriller.”

But I’ve got to admit that even today, when I find myself stumbling upon a Village People track on a classics radio station, I leave it there. Without fail, I always see my brother and his friend laughing away at me as I flailed about the room listening to the “gay” band. So what? For all the camp and flair of the Village People’s music and costumes, they remind me of an ideal childhood – when I was a joker in a den of scoundrels during the late 70’s. Boy, what a f&%ked-up Mardi Gras that decade was. Let’s write it off and get back to here and now. –mike

Ikea opened its doors in the Atlanta area just a few weeks ago, and since then I have been gradually giving in to the Ikea Nesting Instinct. My excuse for upgrading furniture is that now I have a dog. And even though she’s tiny, she needs more room to run in the apartment. She’s also taken a liking to the space under my huge guest chair. God only knows what she’s up to when she hides away like that. Ikea’s got good, small and cheap solutions to my problem. I’m thinking one small futon, a chair you can actually see under with a narrow footprint, a coffee table that’s not glass and an entertainment center that’s lower and smaller. These things would improve doggie running space while opening the apartment up a little, making it look bigger. Huge furniture’s great in a house. It sucks in an 800 square-foot apartment.
If you live in Bass Lofts and are here to check out the furniture, let me elaborate on the pieces in the above flyer. The sofa is in good shape, except for one of the top cushions being a little torn. This isn’t a cosmetic problem, since it’s hidden at the stitch line at the top. There’s also a scuff on the back top end, the fabric is a little frayed, but it’s not much more than one inch. The coffee table’s legs look a little scratched toward the bottom, but otherwise it’s in good shape. Same goes for the end tables. The chair is in great shape, just a little dark around the skirt. That should come out with some cleaner like “Resolve” or “Tuff Stuff.” The great thing about this furniture is that it’s really colorfast. I’ve used a bunch of cleaners on it and neither piece has either faded or stained. Just for kicks, I’m throwing in an old Sony monitor without a power cord. If you like dual-monitor support, this could do the trick. Of course, if you’re not much into the depth and weight of old CRT’s, then this behemoth won’t do you much good. If you have a 3-prong power cord to juice this sucker up, then it’s for YOU!
As a side note, I forgot to include my cheapy-cheap O’Sullivan TV stand/entertainment center. It currently supports my 27″ TV, VCR, surround system and a bunch of random crap. This thing has an excellent junk drawer. I’ll be willing to part with it for $40.
So you think I’m not being a very good salesman? I’m just being honest about this stuff. I don’t really care if anyone buys it, because after September, it’s all going in the trash anyway. I’m certainly not in it for profit, I’d just like to see it do some good for anyone who might need sturdy, cheap furniture that’s really big and conventional in style. Hey, some people really like big-ol’ cozy things. I’d keep it if it weren’t for Miss Allie. She needs the trotting space for our games. –Mike

You’ve probably heard me talking about this weird site before. What exactly is the Monkeytronic Circus of Conquest? Quite simply, it’s “A Treatise On The Enjoyability Of Fun.”
That phrase is the guiding light for all content that makes its way into the Monkeytronic realm. MCOC is a loose affiliation of images, text, music and chaos. For all the noise and random dictates, an elusive but undeniable theme emerges. The Circus Of Conquest is a reservoir of silliness, a digital monument to what is on the mind of the populace. It is naked badness forged in code.
Its entries are provided by Russell Warner and myself. Thanks to the diligence and web-savvy of the former, contributions tend to mix and randomize into a directionless voyage sure to confuse any user brave enough to click through the endless barrage of imagery. MCOC is an assault on reason and an insult to usability. It is designed to test your patience and tickle your fancy.
Most importantly, MCOC utilizes a tool (the www) designed for organization of thought and abuses it thoroughly, deconstructing the nature of logic and creating on-the-fly symbolism to no practical end. Sound interesting? I suggest you go visit it. http://www.monkeytroniccircusofconquest. Operators are standing around and sneering at your file request.
Oh yeah, and in a shameless display of ego-whoring, I submit to you a sample of spacematic music designed for Monkeytronic use. Click HERE to give it a listen. Beware, this file is super-loud. I suggest you reduce your standard listening volume and adjust to your liking once the file starts playing. Later! –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

There were a lot of people out and about before the premiere of Lucas’ latest Star Wars entry clamoring about the ruination of the saga. I myself was included in this camp of rabid fans. But after seeing Revenge of the Sith last night at a midnight screening, I must confess that my opinion of the previous installments has changed. “Sith” is the film that gives Episodes I and II the license to be as silly and lighthearted as they are. About three quarters through the film, I actually found myself starting to sympathize with Christensen’s Anakin character. “Don’t do that!” I repeated again and again, knowing that ultimately, he must do his share of evil deeds to become the dreaded Darth Vader. But even though this film is better than either Phantom Menace or Send In the Clones, it’s not without its moments of total cheese.
Some of the droid dialogue is bumbling and childish, as are the romantic scenes that had women in the audience laughing out loud. The overall mood of the audience was a cross between MST3K-style amusement and deep intrigue. Any movie that evokes such a frequently changing response in a crowd is a rare bird indeed. On the whole, I have to give “Sith” my approval. And as someone who is currently pursuing a novel, I must give Lucas proper respect for follow-through on a unique and compelling vision. He has taken us on a ride that few can genuinely say they do not enjoy. As you watch this film and roll your eyes at more than a few true groaners, remember that this is STAR WARS your watching… not Rob Roy and certainly not The Godfather.
Star Wars has been and always will be a simplistic tale, distilling real world shades of gray into stark and discernable contrast. Tales of betrayal and redemption beg a writer to bog his/her audience down in motivation and circumstance. For all the visual mumbo-jumbo Lucas throws at us, he gives us a taste of literary cake, but reminds us after all that this is a movie. In this sense, he is holding true to film roots, where he shows us a story rather than tells it. If all the fans of the franchise got what they wanted, the films would be nearly incomprehensible to the casual viewer. Sith is the evolved climax of a storyteller who says ‘damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead.’ I get the sense that Lucas was more determined to tell the story on his terms, rather than pleasing the old school fans of episodes IV, V and VI. Whereas the recent chapters are not my favorites, they are interesting and worthy of viewing. I will probably go see “Sith” again… not because I feel that I may see something I previously missed, but because it was a really fun ride. There is next to zero subtlety in this flick. As such, it may not please refined filmgoers or art cinema snobs who latch onto subtext and motivation. Star Wars is transparent, simple and fun. And that’s not all bad. –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