Ipod strenuosity

The idea of owning an Ipod is better than actually owning an Ipod. Like having a kid, you've got to put in a lot of time to lay a solid foundation in order to foster any success. Maybe it's because I have five times as many CDs as the average person, but I'm struggling here. I've been importing and uploading stuff for about a week and a half, and I've only just finished with my "R" section - having started at the end of the alphabet. It doesn't help that I had to clear my player and start the whole process over when I realized I was ripping at too high a bitrate, which would have severely limited the amount of uploadable material. If money wasn't an issue, I'd seriously consider paying someone to do this for me.

On the upside, this tedium has reacquainted me with some of the classics of my youth: Sepultura - Chaos A.D., Snapcase - Progression Through Unlearning, Vision of Disorder - Imprint, Zao - Liberate te ex Inferis. They still destroy after all these years.

Common - Universal Mind Control

G.O.O.D. Music/Geffen (2008)

When it comes to mainstream music with integrity, few artists come to mind. Narrow the focus to mainstream hip-hop and the list becomes countable on one hand. Common was one of these elite few. An impeccable delivery of socially empathetic lyrics over classic soul-infused beats were the elements that made the native Chicagoan stand out amongst a sea of bling, guns and bitches. Songs like "The Light," "Come Close" and "Go!" are precidents for crossover success that doesn't compromise. Or at least they were precedents; time has an unerring way of screwing up all that once had virtue - Common's latest release being no exception.

Universal Mind Control kicks off faultlessly enough, with Common calling upon the roots of the genre - displaying a stiffer, Kurtis Blow-like rhyme scheme over the electro-funk backdrop reminiscent of Afrika Bambaata. Then the second track, "Punch Drunk Love," begins. Components: 1) garbage crunk beat tailored for radio, 2) ignorant hook from Kayne West ("Already know I'm too fly/I know what you like."). "Make My Day" then swoops in give the album some hope, featuring Cee-Loo and the smooth-yet-quirky vibe that his Gnarles Barkley moniker often employs. Then another step back. "Sex 4 Sugar": the beat sounds like it was made by a 10th grader for a Digital Media class: simple snare/kick pattern, intermittent hand claps, three-note synth progression, and nothing else. The remainder of the record is filled with this lazy Fruity Loops mode of production, pandering to the lowest common denominator with club bangers. By the time the catchy electronic flavored outro "Everytime" finishes, grave disappointment has been so deeply seeded that the absence of Pops (Common's father, who has closed out every album with spoken word since Resurrection) goes unnoticed.

And the lyrics, by Common's standards, are terrible.

"Girl, ooh, you look, aah/You're the type of thing that I came here for/What's your name?/I can't hear y'all/Will it be alright if I called you Sugar?"

"Right now I'm off the wine, wine/We can take our time, time/So much I want to fronts/Feel the bump we grind."

"Everybody I'd like to announce/Throw your hands up when we in the house/Yeah this is hip-hop baby/I'm gonna take you to the tip top baby."

Go back and check out Like Water for Chocolate. Listen to the track "The 6th Sense," and you will hear authenticity in terms of lyrics and music. You will also hear Common drop a couple of notable lines: "Reality is frisking me/This industry will make you lose intensity/The Common Sense in me remembers the basement/I'm Morpheus in this hip-hop Matrix, exposing fake shit." In context to the apathetic Universal Mind Control, these words are the echos of a once magnanimous MC who has lost his way. Speaking as a fan, may he once again find it.

Free Etiquette

With everyone pinching pennies, it comes as no surprise that the box office is hurting and Netflix subscriptions - starting at under $10 a month - are up. Netflix is a great alternative to the exorbitant prices at the cineplex, boasting a large selection of should-have-been-forgotten romantic comedies and world cinema so westernized that the only foreign element left on the screen is the language. It is also good for viewing porn discreetly; no more shady adult shops or awkward transactions with the underage staff at FYE. Netflix wins on multiple levels, for sure. Yet, it still costs money. For those people having to cut out even the most inexpensive of hobbies in order to get by, there is another outlet for watching movies.

The library. The library is awesome. I say this not only as a self-proclaimed nerd, but as an overall fan of free shit - granted this "shit" is not shit in terms of quality. Libraries are free and have tons of good material to pull from. Libraries, in addition to books, have DVD sections. These DVD sections, while not as vast as the Netflix catalogue, are worth checking out. Many include films from a diverse assortment of genres, including independent American cinema, Italian neorealism, French new wave, along with a few other revolutionary artistic movements that most people couldn't be payed to fake interest in. Free is free, though. Dumbfucks will eventually be forced to engage with some intelligent content, even if it's at the cost of everyone's 401(k).

The system is not perfect, however. There is a core problem with how we perceive the things we get for free. Consider the word worthless for a moment. Worthless, as defined by Dictionary.com, means "without worth; of no use, importance, or value; good-for-nothing." The part of the definition stating "without...value" has been stretched to include "that which was acquired at no charge." Free things are marked as worthless, and are treated accordingly.

Nowhere can this definitional perversion be seen with more heinous clarity than in DVD sections of the public library. Here we have an amazing resource of free shit, and it gets treated like the doormat to a crackhouse. Seven out of ten DVDs from the library are damaged beyond playability. Wear and tear due to constant use is not what I'm talking about. I recently checked out Blood Simple from one of my local public libraries and found it unplayable; it looked like someone had rigorously scrubbed the surface with exfoliating facial cream. Since DVDs don't suffer from blackheads, it makes me wonder whether or not people intentionally mutilate the discs.

Oddly enough, library books are not met with the same level of desecration as library DVDs. Sure, there may be the occasional illustration of popular cartoon characters banging one another in the margins, but the book is still usable, and such diversions might even help readers get through some of the more bothersome literary works. ("Ah. That was fun. Now back to Walden.") Contrary to the secondary book artist, the imbecile who uses the DVD as a drink coaster renders it unusable. Unusable is unacceptable. Below is a picture of how to avoid such careless destruction of communal property.


Look at the cute kid. Look how happy it is. It probably has a copy of Ratatouille in its hand, excited to the see the CGI tomfoolery that will ensue when the disc is placed in the DVD player. Wait. Look again. See the surface of the disc? Are there any scratches on it? Certainly not. Someone has been holding it correctly: between thumb and pointer finger, not touching the surface. Wait...what's that? Who's holding it correctly? It's a fucking kid.

If children can ensure the functionality of DVDs, there's no excuse for adults not to. We can do this. We can restore our local library's film section. Let's keep it free and playable.

Don't let me catch you holding the DVD like a sandwich, because I'll be coming for you.

Daycare - s/t

Blackliner Records

(2001)

A fun little EP from a band which used to feature Abe Cunningham, drummer of the Deftones, before he found success with Chino and company. There's nothing that remarkable here, just solid 90's rock 'n' roll with a few catchy hooks. Daycare's sound veers towards Nirvana on occasion, but lacks the urgency and songwriting to back it up. The gem of this album is definitely "Crankslut," (Cunningham reprises his role behind the kit for the song) which has great lyrical content: "I know what/You can be my crankslut/You'll like it if you try it/It's like diet/You take ten layers off your butt." Not a necessary listen, but an enjoyable one nonetheless.

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Josh Young wins

Congratulations to Josh Young, who was recently accepted into the University of Pittsburgh to pursue his MFA in poetry (?). Just so I can blow some smoke up this guy's hairy ass, allow me to say that if anyone deserves this, he does. For someone who got rejected not once, but twice from undergraduate admission to Western Washington University (Oops. Cat's out of the bag.), let us just say he's now having a nice elephant-sized piss on that school. On to bigger and better things.

Pitt will be a good scholarly fit for Josh, I'm sure. It was his first choice of schools to attend. I do, however, question that of him fitting into the city of Pittsburgh itself. After doing some research, I found that the only notable band hailing from The Steel City is Anti-Flag. (I mean, you could do worse...if you are 16 years old.) Josh is not punk rock. He does have a healthy appreciation for the Misfits (Danzig-era), though. But this cred is negated by the fact that he used to, and may very well still, listen to Mineral while lifting weights or running laps. Josh also made the claim that Social Distortion had ripped off Hüsker Dü. An interesting assertion, considering that the former has a heavy rockabilly influence, while the latter sounds like Black Flag strung out on LSD. Sorry buddy. Better stick to John Donne. (Terrible.)

I was going to make another argument against Josh's compatibility with Pittsburgh by drawing a connection between his distaste for professional sports and the Steelers winning the Super Bowl, but I will have to let it pass. In all seriousness, Josh, good luck with your future endeavours. But when you become rich and famous, don't forget about me. Because I'm going to freeload off your bloated ass. I declare these words now so there won't be any confusion later.

Recession Dividends

So many hardworking Americans have caught the shaft in these times of economic crisis. Optimism can be a scarce commodity. Sometimes it takes smiling on another's misfortune to see the proverbial diamond-in-the-rough. The sufferer of this calamity, of course, is not the Joe Sixpack who just got let go from a job he worked for the last 12 years. No, it's the CEO who let him and his friends go, so as not to be forced to sell a second beach house. Or possibly the target is a giant, corporate, purveyor of shit whose product transcends good taste. (That sentence was a little cryptic. Just hold on.) Wouldn't it be great if they went down with everyone else, maybe even getting dealt a special share-hold ending blow?

Without any further ado, I present to you the bankruptcy of Muzak, the company responsible for creating the style of music known by the same name. I don''t take elevators often, but enough to get acquainted with the instrumental indifference which flows from the speakers of these vertically shifting compartments. It is nice to think that the begetters of perpetual musical boredom will pay for their sins. But it is not why I rejoice.

Muzak was also responsible for "creating playlists for use in retail stores." If you have ever worked in a mall, you know my pain and reason for jubilation. Eight hours a day, five days week, sonic torment comes by way of a never ending, almost never changing, playlist of Top 40 artists. And the "playlist" is not deep; James Blunt and Jason Mraz offend multiple times on any given shift. Consider the fact that many stores within malls draw from the same playlist, and you have to pose the question which also happens to be the title of Bad Religion's first full-length album: "How could Hell be any worse?"

But now there is redemption. Magnificent redemption. So don't curse the economic recession, entirely. Wait for the next giant to fall.

The Wrestler

Directed by Darren Aronofsky
(2008)

The form of professional wrestling, which is often referred to as white trash Shakespeare, would be no easy task to, cinematically, inject a genuine sense of humanity into. But Mickey Rourke did it. Clownish as the ring gymnastics and backstage drama may come off in the WWE, watching Rourke as the destitute but relentless weekend warrior, Randy "the Ram" Robinson, will awaken that long-slumbering compassion for fellow man. Sympathy is not earned cheaply, though. The Ram, while emitting that gentle giant sensibility, makes his fair share of questionable decisions concerning both his estranged daughter and romantic interest stripper friend, amongst others concerning his career as a wrestler.

What is undeniably heartrending lies in the character's determination to forge ahead upon the known tragic path. He's similar to Rocky Balboa, but we know there is no victory to be had here. In a scene involving a sparsely attended meet-and-greet of other long forgotten wrestling heroes, The Ram sees that there is no glory at the end of the line; wheelchairs and catheters adorn the gathered veterans. Countless years of wrestling have left has left him a social oddity, inept to status quo assimilation. The ring being the only place he maneuvers with grace, the only place he commands respect, this is where The Ram must exist - if only for a few moments more.

I take it back. Glory is part of this wrestler's conclusion. Though it's not dressed up in championship belts or American flags. It's bittersweet, even depressing. But there is something worth celebrating in someone who fights rather than fades.

Trash Talk - s/t

TTCollective
(2008)

Something good is going on here. In this day and age of Pro Tools, triggered drums and Metal Zone pedals, Trash Talk's 2008 self-titled offering stands apart from the hordes of overly polished modern hardcore records. Fast, ugly and pissed, twelve tracks clock in at under 15 minutes. While essentially playing a thrashy brand of hardcore, the Sacramento four-piece at times sound more akin to classic grind like Repulsion (sans the lyrical gore) than they do to their peers in the scene, blasting away with unbridled fury and grime. Credit is due to Steve Albini, who engineered/mixed the album in two days, for bringing a crude-but-organic quality to the recording, one which might have been an otherwise banal outing. A very important moral can be found here: slick production doesn't necessarily capture the rage this genre was built on.

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Richard Williamson and the Church

A few days ago, I was watching The Daily Show and came across an interesting little tidbit of news about a bishop named Richard Williamson who recently had his excommunication lifted. In 1988, Williamson was improperly consecrated according to papal law and got the boot. ("Consecrate" is a special manner of sanctifying a member of the Church. Apparently the title of "bishop" alone is only a purple-belt in God's eyes.) Williamson was just recently reinstated by Pope Benedict XVI. As only divine providence could have ordained it, on the very same day he was welcomed back into the fold, a prior interview with Williamson for Swedish Television aired, depicting his views denying the existence of gas chambers in the concentration camps of the Nazi-Holocaust. Below is a video clip of that interview.

To call Bishop Richard Williamson a "holocaust denier" is not entirely true. He does not claim the event to be a complete fabrication, but rather an exaggeration. However, the validity of the bishop's claims more or less fall apart when he cites the "Leuchter report" and equates it with scientific fact. The aforementioned report has been deemed pseudoscientific by experts. Look it up on Wikipedia to get a better idea of this bogusness.

The clergy of the Church was, to summarize, non supportive of the newly reinstated bishop's remarks, using words like "unfounded and unjustified," as well as "offensive and erroneous" in reaction to them. Yet, the reinstatement was not withheld, leaving many in outrage or at least scratching their heads. Monsignor Robert Wister, professor of church history, best articulates the issue at hand: "To deny the Holocaust is not a heresy even though it is a lie. The excommunication can be lifted because he is not a heretic, but he remains a liar."

Facts and truths. Who knew they were so complicated? I am tempted to get into an lengthy analysis of this conflict between Catholic doctrine and historical fact, but there does not seem to be much of a point. Both the words of Williamson and the clergy are self-evident. They establish the wall between secular and faith/religion based truths, with the Church obviously valuing the latter over the former.

As an someone who rides the fence between the atheist and the agnostic, I find this complete disregard of rational thought frightening. It's not that I expect the Roman Catholic Church to act in accordance to logic; all religions and faiths are based on foundations beyond reason. But to brush off a member's ignorance towards such acts of barbarity as documented in Auschwitz and Majdanek is disgusting.

The phrase "never again" is often used to signify a hope that the atrocities of the Holocaust will not be repeated. But now I think it's also applicable to Richard Williamson and the Church.

The Wages of Fear

Directed by Henri-Georges
Clouzot

France
(1953)

A great example of a film which is cunning in its simplicity. While the first half hour or so meanders in the establishment of characters and setting, the majority of the 143 minutes are structured around a plot confined to the movement between two points. Granted these points are geographically about 200 miles apart, in an oil-exploited South America, with inadequate trucks - crossing deteriorating roads - carrying an absurd amount of nitroglycerin, with each driver hoping to collect a reward of $2,000 upon delivery. Extraordinary circumstances aside, this is still a "point A to point B" situation.

This environment (some might consider it to be anything but simple) forces characters to confront perhaps the most basic element of human experience: survival. As it was with the Cro-Magnon (please fact-check the following statement), survival depends not only upon the individual, but a collective of individuals and their ability to work together, as well as factors which are completely out of their control. Lucky for early man that he did not have to deal with such a highly volatile substance.

And lucky for the viewer, who gets to enjoy the byproduct of this pressure-cooker: character development. All without the bad aftertaste of flashbacks; there is nothing like imminent death to cut the superficial baloney and reveal the ego. Specifically the character of Jo, an aging former gangster, takes on the most prominent metamorphosis with the erosion of his threatening bully persona. At times he is humbled to productive means, but ultimately Jo is left a pitiful shell of his former self, unable to cope with the ever-present anxiety. Others, such as the Aryan blueprint Bimba and the romantic Italian laborer Luigi, have smaller arcs. In the end all will fall victim to the extraordinary circumstances. If it is not a chance explosion that kills them, it is the constant fear of the inevitable, destroying their ability to reason within and with others, that will lead to death.

But is it not cheap to crush characters by forces which they cannot control? Maybe. However, nitroglycerin is not a meteor or a tsunami. It is a product of humanity; its constant harnessing of nature for supposed benefit and progression. The characters of The Wages of Fear are trapped in this subject/object relationship between man and nature. Though they appear passive (they themselves did not create nitroglycerin), they are nonetheless participants both in and of its destruction. Man's creations, extracted from a natural source, govern both nature and man himself according to forces he cannot fully control. Here lies another reminder that our existence is not a separate entity from the world we inhabit.

Super Bowl XLIII

I think of myself as a caring and sensitive individual. Animal welfare, humanity, the entire planet: these weigh heavily on my conscience, daily. But there are times when concerns of this sort must be disregarded in order to appreciate the glory of adult men beating the living shit out of each other upon a field of painted grass. So it was with no guilt that I sat down this afternoon to watch Super Bowl XLIII.

This was actually the first Super Bowl I had seen in five years, since I did not have television during that period. I came to the event about as knowledgeable as my mom normally is about such things. There were only a few veterans that I recognized on each team. The rest of players were completely indistinguishable in terms of their skill or celebrity. The last time I watched the Steelers play Jerome Bettis was their running back. My 12 year old self has just shoved me into a garbage can and called me a pussy.

I won't go into detail about the game, other than it was the classic David versus Goliath setup. David put up a valiant effort and almost triumphed against the odds. But, alas, he was too slow to cast the final stone which would have ensured him a victorious reign. With time - rather than faith - being essential to this game of arbitrary rules, Goliath stormed his adversary with haste and disemboweled him while leaving mere seconds of insignificance left in regulation. He then had a cooler of Gatorade dumped on him.

There were also two noteworthy post-game moments.

1) Joe Namath carrying the championship trophy out to the winning team. Counting him, that made a total of three players that I recognized on the field tonight.

2) John Madden's insightful recap: "It truly was a super-Super Bowl."