Archive for June, 2003

grab of the day

June 30, 2003 at 4:41 pm Leave a comment

Note the size of the scroll bar

June 28, 2003 at 10:21 am Leave a comment

dance

What’s interesting about dance music is that it occupies a greater cultural space, it’s instruments were ubiquitios creations, things imported by materials that followed the last waves industrialization around like a plague. The tuners and bolts of the moog – the original arguement-
electronica occupies a bigger cultural space, it’s the new thing, a friend just arriving on the shores, and every day it’s eventing new tricks keeping people occupied by something that’s not quite trival, but certianly links back to a history of percussive music unreached by rock’s thump and ironically the blues’ clever replacement. This is way out on a limb, but classical music lacked percussion till Ravel gave it back over to the exotica motif. But really the greater space, the sense of movement in electronica is in part due to it’s newness, the fact that it’s a frontier, a place where kids in impoverished countries can still make a name not by emulation or mutation, but by pulling up the strings entirely and doing it there way, but that’s not right exactly. It’s fresh. rock has expired, do we really care if anyone does rock anymore? does it really matter? are we consigning it to history? no we’re not. rock has proven not to be the chess of pop music, but merely it’s most vapid vechile. W/O a structure it relies on the inner vision of it’s creators to fuel it with new ideas, but unfortunately jazz seems to be the only music that’s managed to run the w/o the nets game in sucessive series of volleys that aren’t on the court, but stay up in spaces and tangents invisible to everyone but the swirly logics of their creators. There are important people in electronic music, people who are shuffling around 4/4s in nearly endless games of subtlety to folks ripping the very foundations of dance to shreds by digitally emoding free-jazz’s always prevassive wail. What it brings me to is this, to base a music around the instrument from real life fails to get the imagination of the very unreal world we live in. We’re attached to electronic devices at all times, cell phones, internet, tvs, radios, and those not terribly clever ads, somehow electronica fits into this trend. it’s the music of the unreal, something shaken from keyboards and digested in mass quantities by people who know better than to think that what’s real is necessarily what’s there. it’s not a life of illusions we live in, it’s a life of will. you can find it struggling every day in your speakers, trying to find a way out of chimera into something better than perception.

June 28, 2003 at 7:42 am Leave a comment

it’s rome

It finally occurs to me where we fit in with history’s supposed arc. While real time has a hard time contorting into the acrobatic twists of history making, America’s current world bully situation is remarkabley like Rome. Earlier thought on the similarity between WWII Germany have there accuracies in the remarkable use of such meager technicalities as the difference in spelling between enemy combatants and P.O.W.s to be able to take on people with out trial. What makes the rome comparassion accurate is that I think of Rome’s take over of the world as partially a product of arrogance – switch – what makes liberalism unpopular is doubt, part of the liberal is to expand freedom by tolerance (aka avoiding what bugs you) and to give people the benefit of the doubt. Such conciets mean that the liberal gives up comfort for the expanded sense of what is possible and there in lies the liberal’s appeal: anything is possible. By a few conceits of the imagination, we can ignore an innate sense of cultural superiorty and by that alleivate ourselves of the deterministic aspects of being conservative. Conservativism is frequently allied, in my mind, with the conception of control, certianty by that, and comes from a peculiar sense of fear, the absence of a healthy mental place to go back to and an ascceptance of what’s around us as the most important factor to our survival. Standing as the conservative me, I see that what I want is a meager sense of safety and an ability to keep my own needs above those of others. It’s a far safer place to be, but it lacks a sense of possiblity. – switch – it is such a possibility that Bush is destroying in the world. With any luck the rising middle class of Salam Paxes in Iraq would have nustled their way from meager existences as middle class citizens and up and out to high classes with the sense of conservative propeirity that would make them demand more from the government. The irony of this arguement is that the very conservatism, the very self-centered logic of only starring into yourself and your own needs for safety, is the force that eventually drives rising social classes to well not rise up, but begin to bitch enuff and pull their new found strings. The CIA would be better off educating resistors in other countries in the college educated ways of middle class america than armed war fare. The culture isn’t there in many countries to support governments that impose the liberal conception of possibility onto it’s inhabitants. Africa is beginning to injest this open ended sense of possiblity, suddenly it has a move industry, internet access, and local produce pumps. The more it’s residents rise, the less their tribal differences will matter, instead a more Ameracian sense of commerce will be bestowed on to them, a morality than can be linked back to rome – switch – I read today that Bush is now pressuring Africa, is what he did to the Middle East good? Was he like a Roman and came in to instill commercial interests that benefit the empire while accidentally spreading the eneyzme that will catalize culture? The greatest possibility mankind has, the one big desire beating at it’s heart sense the 20th hit it’s mid-mark, is the ability to hold the entire world down through communcation and nuclear arms. Destroying the world no one really wants to do, what is the biggest threat of nuclear arms is the eternal cold war, a stalemate that holds powers in check by the possibility of annihilating a great deal of lives. post-nuclear weapons have made it possible for someone to own the world, for someone to bully it till it gives, for someone to clean up the messes they don’t like. but the African, the Isrealies, the Kurds, the Iraqies, the Afhagnies, the north koreans aren’t intending to annoy us with their media related tales of savagery, but instead are merely throwing themselves at themselves in ways that make sense only to countries to have the ability to establish difference in ways that the internet can not smash with it’s freed communications, in ways that the empire can’t demolish, in ways that make them rivals not for the betterment of each culture, but for the sake establishing each culture, they’ll hate us more for stopping them, for cutting them off, than for bettering their lives by instilling them with peace for our sakes. Stasis isn’t sitting still, it’s an active holding back of issues that need to be worked out on battlefields from cultures that can’t see their cultural wars in terms of economics and theme parks. These countries need to war, need to bicker, it’s the only fucking relief in town.


a

June 27, 2003 at 5:28 am Leave a comment

the journal of a wuss

I feel like a wuss becuase I am no longer out raged by the politics of our country.
For instance:
http://www.kstp.com/article/view/88617/
http://www.talkleft.com/archives/002747.html
Neither article fills me with a desire to get up on a pedstal and decry
this as infamy. Are the politics of this country right? I have my doubts
and I definitely don’t like this administration, but I don’t feel empowered
to over throw it. I never had that power, but once it seemed I belonged to
an angry mob of people who knew this was wrong, now I merely feel like
I’m part of an apathetic party of people content to sit on their ass. We’ve
tried protesting, petitions, and everything else, what in fucks name will get
this guy to get out of the American presidency? We need a new form
of social protest, something better than non-violence or asisnation,
what we need is something from the internet better than a petition or
another angry letter to the editor. This guy isn’t listening to us, who is
the majority?

-a

June 26, 2003 at 4:11 am Leave a comment

Tipper

I just closed the deal with Tipper and despite this I still feel that absence of assurance I had before. Anyway, it comes it goes. The Beatles had a song about it. My e-mail is all fucked up. Sheila is gonna be the owner of Push come August, I need to be co-owner, seems like I’ve put the work in although no disrepect was meant to me by having her named the owner. What else, everything seems fine. No word back from Sarah.

Peace,
A

June 25, 2003 at 8:51 pm Leave a comment

the dates

Wes Anderson has a new film:
http://www.wesanderson.org/untitled/

With Kill Bill this year and it’s sequel the next w/ a new Wes Anderson film I think it’s looking good for actually making it to the multiplex.
Revised my sci-fi story with a new line. Need to take out the more direct explinations and re-think how this technology is changing us

She pushes at him with all the rage of someone who knows that when she returns to herself she’ll be nothing again. Diminished by a series of box in games, her life simply doesn’t feel real anymore. Instead she moves the knife wound around her organs making elegant cries with a handle that always turns up white: crude, direct, and to the point unlike the more cultural violence of her life up to them. It’s been three days since the wound was inserted, dissected by her in a club outside of the hotel she stumbled back 3 blocks to make it in the doorway through crowds of various breeds. It all seems like a blur when she looks through the reflective handle and sees her little eyes looking back at her gouging out in a brilliant stare.
She can’t look back at herself anymore and sheaves the knife, it sits in a pouch in her bag where she removed the bandages that only adequately cover the wound. She rustles the bag back to it’s place near the pillows and lies down, a knock comes through the door. She can’t quite get up and manages a stilted walk using the wall to prop her to the handle. Through the hole she can see the bell boy waiting, silently looking through at door with an expectant voyeurism born from hours spent running needless errands that his mind has come to anticipate that moment when the handle turns and his latest mission is unveiled. She begins to open the door, but the bell boy has already inserted a key and opens the door to her surprise.
“M’am,” he calls, “I need to work on your connection.”
“Oh,” she states a little sandwiched by the door, but reflexively cornering into a more comfortable space, “it has been acting up recently.” He moves towards the bed and removes a panel on the wall. Her laptop has been jacked on the little plank of wood and drawers near this patch for days mentally optimizing the connection, it’s silly but she still holds this proximity rule clutching a heritage of wires long passed and fears of losing intimacy.
He moves around a series of gages till a screen pops out of the box and a little keyboard projects on the wall. “If you don’t mind, the connections going to be off for a little,” he says moving a slider on the screen in one direction and keying a password into a garble of text based windows that spiral down a hallway leading, she imagines, miles away where all these little workstations congregate in their communes sharing resources and passing data like gossip between their collective virtual lips. He merely stands there for a second and something comes back, he looks up onto the screen and grins, “We’ve been having this a lot recently, don’t know exactly what’s wrong, but this little hack seems to help. We think the computers aren’t getting along, someone’s been feeding them the wrong lines, ya know getting all their usual sources of input all mixed up, looking up Spanish sites with the computer’s thinking it’s Portuguese and stuff like that. It’s funny how fast you can create these totally untraceable pidgins when you can think in one language and speak in another.” She nods a little and looks at his handywork, a series of Chinese characters spot the screen where lines of Crylic alphabet sat before. She traces the outlines of these figures with her eyes and remembers a Japanese artists who turned these figures into noise, brilliant bursts of static and sinewave that leapt from her headphones and felt less like poetry than punk rock. A few years later it was all she heard, consistent statements enraged over the stations, peopling hating on each other to the sound of white noise so warped it was almost fragged. It was a brilliant moment in her life, when it seemed the breach of politics was opening and the state was giving way, it seemed like the internet could do anything, and then they began to restrict sever access, began to take away domains and subsidize bandwidth to commercial sponsors, in essence it became a space where real estate was no longer created by the ubitiquis god like principles of a connection and a tower, but one where place in the pipeline was as important as having your newest line of cameras next to the ten hottest brands of squid chips in Japan. While sure you could have your local little networks hopping messages from buddy to buddy till the telephone ended in the recipient, but there was no money there, to make money you had to be on the internet where things go taxed and you knew no one was listening. He comes over and gives her a card, “Call me if anything happens, at the rate this shit is happening all our terminals will be talking russian-anui-lativa by noon,” he says. She thanks him and he heads out the door. When he’s gone she sits back down with her laptop and gets out the knife.

June 25, 2003 at 5:42 am Leave a comment

it comes, it goes

I’m not sure why, but whatever hole I worred into my personality in the last few months has suddenly healed. I still worry and it still nearly breaks, but I feel a desire to do things again and a rightenous in my actions that’s been missing. Thank god. Anyway, dad’s supposed to be calling today. Me, hopefully Fred, and Rom are working on getting Jamie Lidell of Super_Collider here and I’m hoping that Rom’s cool with getting Errorsmith down here next time Craig brings him to New York. Working Christian Vogel for promos. which brings up how impressed I am with Vogel’s web site http://www.no-future.com it’s all forums, like living on the sea it brings to mind. Great idea, but how many people can put up with being constantly critized by fans as all the artists complain about I meet, Kid606 took down his forum, but he does seem kinda sensitive. It must be cool to be scouring over a 100 posts a day if not more from all over, or maybe it’s just highly naricistic.
Hellboy
Reading Hellboy makes me think back on my superstitious past or lack there of. One night while in bed this white hand slapped up to me and I looked down at this alien and went to bed. another time i remember floating off bed a couple times that I have that memory. At school this other girl swears she has a home video of kids levitating. All sorta of esp shit went down between 90 – 98. Whatever happened to the X-Files anyway? I once downloaded almost every picture of Gillian Anderson I could find. Recently I sent a query to Wired about Travis, Michelle, and Gabe’s olde internet channel //. Members include Twerk, Machine Drum, Proswell, and others. I think Twerk and Machine Drum are the two biggest to come out of it. A stroll down to my teenage years on emu-net, playing emulated video games. There was a guy who was 36 dating a 16 year old via irc chat, hopefully he never made good on his promise to come and see her. Travis claims he doesn’t hang out there anymore, but the second I got an irc client he told me to join, but he seems to busy with real life to really be hang’n there for to long. Gabe similarly claims it’s all dead. I understand, I mean there’s no way in hell I’m going back to channels I used to go to, even though the desire to see who is still there would be interesting, but I think R.E., Acid whatever the fuck he was called, and others probably closed down all our servers way back in the day. I doubt they survive unless as refuges for linux freaks like we all were back then, i can’t beleive at one point in my life i could actually program (a little bit). I struggle to make the simplest scripts in supercollider work today. I once wrote a really lame fighting game at Rollins in flash. I’m under contractual obligations to write short stories now via parents. I need to work on my little sci-fi story. So yeah Hellboy, another boring comic book that doesn’t go anywhere.


a

June 21, 2003 at 6:47 am Leave a comment

the trap and the sleaze

When on vacation, sometimes you can’t move. It’s just a way of the land.
My Dad is in town today. Unsure when I’m picking him up. Didn’t get time to clean
up. Need to promote more. What else. Two girls. One on Wednesday with Jecie, but
the Wend girl was totally drunk and when she sobered up she seemed to lose interest
in talking to me and had an attitude in general. When drunk she cuddled up close, but was all over some other guy who didn’t seem interested. Tonight Joe’s girlfriend brought her sister with her. Cuter girl with more personality. Seems like someone I’d have fun dating. Cool girl. Had to leave
when her sister got in a fight with Joe. Should call her soon enuff. My complaint to the weekly was strongly worded and pissed off a lot of the weekly staff, but Ferguson agreed with me. Not that surpising, he seems ready to take the shackles off the indie-rock, but doesn’t have the writers.

Peace,
A

June 20, 2003 at 4:27 am Leave a comment

the crack

Holy shit Tiki Obmar kicks fucking ass. this shit rewls. good job m3rck….

Have a job interview Wednesday have to get my transcript into ucf. contiune to feel the ghosts of people that have called me spineless on my back. Didn’t know i didn’t “stand up for myself,” but get the feeling it’s more that people talk shit behind my back after all it seems like all I do these days is tell people to fuck off.

here’s what i wrote of the story to far:

She moves the knife wound around her organs making elegant cries with a handle that always turns up white: crude, direct, and to the point unlike the more cultural violence of her life up to them. It’s been three days since the wound was inserted, dissected by her in a club outside of the hotel she stumbled back 3 blocks to make it in the doorway through crowds of various breeds. It all seems like a blur when she looks through the reflective handle and sees her little eyes looking back at her gouging out in a brilliant stare.
She can’t look back at herself anymore and sheaves the knife, it sits in a pouch in her bag where she removed the bandages that only adequately cover the wound. She rustles the bag back to it’s place near the pillows and lies down, a knock comes through the door. She can’t quite get up and manages a stilted walk using the wall to prop her to the handle. Through the hole she can see the bell boy waiting, silently looking through at door with an expectant voyeurism born from hours spent running needless errands that his mind has come to anticipate that moment when the handle turns and his latest mission is unveiled. She begins to open the door, but the bell boy has already inserted a key and opens the door to her surprise.
“M’am,” he calls, “I need to work on your connection.”
“Oh,” she states a little sandwiched by the door, but reflexively cornering into a more comfortable space, “it has been acting up recently.” He moves towards the bed and removes a panel on the wall. Her laptop has been jacked on the little plank of wood and drawers near this patch for days mentally optimizing the connection, it’s silly but she still holds this proximity rule clutching a heritage of wires long passed and fears of losing encryption.
He moves around a series of gages till a screen pops out of the box and a little keyboard projects on the wall. “If you don’t mind, the connections going to be off for a little,” he says moving a slider on the screen in one direction and keying a password into a garble of text based windows that spiral down a hallway leading, she imagines, miles away where all these little workstations congregate in their communes sharing resources and passing data like gossip between their collective virtual lips. He merely stands there for a second and something comes back, he looks up onto the screen and grins, “We’ve been having this a lot recently, don’t know exactly what’s wrong, but this little hack seems to help. We think the computers aren’t getting along, someone’s been feeding them the wrong lines, ya know getting all their usual sources of input all mixed up, looking up Spanish sites with the computer’s thinking it’s Portuguese and stuff like that. It’s funny how fast you can create these totally untraceable pidgins when you can think in one language and speak in another.” She nods a little and looks at his handywork, a series of Chinese characters spot the screen where lines of Crylic alphabet sat before. She traces the outlines of these figures with her eyes and remembers a Japanese artists who turned these figures into noise, brilliant bursts of static and sinewave that leapt from her headphones and felt less like poetry than punk rock. A few years later it was all she heard, consistent statements enraged over the stations, peopling hating on each other to the sound of white noise so warped it was almost fragged. It was a brilliant moment in her life, when it seemed the breach of politics was opening and the state was giving way, it seemed like the internet could do anything, and then they began to restrict sever access, began to take away domains and subsidize bandwidth to commercial sponsors, in essence it became a space where real estate was no longer created by the ubitiquis god like principles of a connection and a tower, but one where place in the pipeline was as important as having your newest line of cameras next to the ten hottest brands of squid chips in Japan. While sure you could have your local little networks hopping messages from buddy to buddy till the telephone ended in the recipient, but there was no money there, to make money you had to be on the internet where things go taxed and you knew no one was listening. He comes over and gives her a card, “Call me if anything happens, at the rate this shit is happening all our terminals will be talking russian-anui-lativa by noon,” he says. She thanks him and he heads out the door. When he’s gone she sits back down with her laptop and gets out the knife.

June 17, 2003 at 5:19 am Leave a comment

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