To what I am listening, vol. 6

Sigur Rós, Með Suð í Eyrum Við Spilum Endalaust

“With a buzz in our ears, we play endlessly.”

I was given two Sigur Rós albums a few years ago as a gift, and both Ágætis Byrjun and ( ) each got a ton of play. They’re perfect albums to put on and leave alone while working or writing or simply trying to be alone in any other way. While Takk… continued down that same path, the execution felt somewhat stale. Með Suð refreshes the band’s creative output–the sound is still distinctly Sigur Rós, but with less emphasis on the ethereal strings and more confidence in percussion and piano elements.

Unfortunately, “Gobbledigook,” the album’s first single, is, in my opinion, the weakest track on the record. That said, it’s still an excellent track worth a listen, but it masks the beauty demonstrated by the album’s other ten tracks. I’d recommend “Festival,” a nine-and-a-half minute piece that transitions beautifully from wispy desolation to strident uplifting percussion at the halfway point. “Gobbledigook” seems to be the extreme of their creative aim with making the album, but “Festival” is representative of the result of refining that ambition and merging it beautifully with the style Sigur Rós is known for.

Loudon Wainwright III, “Bicentennial“

I bought my dad the first season of Saturday Night Live for his birthday. By the time he had finished it, I had gotten him the second season for Father’s Day. I watched a few episodes with him, but missed most of them. Since then, I’ve been filling in the gaps by making my way through the first season and discovering music I either knew about but hadn’t heard or had no knowledge of in the first place. While I know Rufus Wainwright, I was unfamiliar with his father Loudon. His spastic performance of “Bicentennial” on SNL caught my attention, and I’ve been listening to the full band version off and on ever since–oddly appropriate leading up to Independence Day. Other acts I’ve discovered thanks to SNL include the Stylstics and Bill Withers, and I have a new appreciation for Patti Smith after watching her two performances on the show hosted by then-pres secretary Ron Nessen.

Girl Talk, Feed the Animals

Mashup or sample-based albums are usually novelties, The Grey Album perhaps being a notable exception. The problem is using the source material in an artistically new way so as to make it interesting beyond the initial listener reaction of “that’s pretty clever.” Feed the Animals is an insanely intricate work, managing to leave the samples recognizable yet utilize them in concert with each other to create a new work. It’s the best sample-based record I’ve heard, and it’s up for download via the tip-jar system adopted by many artists since Radiohead’s In Rainbows. Whether you pay or not, it’s worth at least one listen. Two tracks toward the end of the album are my favorite–”Let Me See You” for its noticeable use of the Cranberries and M.I.A., and “Here’s the Thing” for mixing Kelly Clarkson with Nine Inch Nails, a move that had me laughing at how absurdly effective it was. «»

Just like honey

Lost in Translation is one of my favorite movies. I saw it at a time when I was very prone to its content–the feelings of disconnection, the search for purpose, the desire for authenticity. I’ve probably watched it a dozen times since then, and with each viewing those same sentiments are echoed for me. Diluted, perhaps, but still very much there. It’s a good reminder of who I was, am, and may become.

I watched it again recently, and two things stood out to me that hadn’t before. Scarlett Johansson’s character says to Bill Murray’s character: “Let’s never come here again because it would never be as much fun.” I’ve overheard this a couple times in my life, vows from friends or acquaintances to never do something or go somewhere again because it wouldn’t be the same. Of course it wouldn’t be the same. It may be better, worse, more significant, less important, phenomenally boring, infinitely interesting, or anything in between. When I was traveling with a friend, I brought up that statement on the streets of Budapest when we were talking about if we would ever return to the places we traveled.

Returning to anywhere is fraught with memories, events and emotions that inform the visit to that place. The only time someone says “let’s never come here again” is when the experience is new and exciting. That very human imprint is being made on the place. It is marked in the memory, and will forever be associated with that moment in time unless it is forgotten. I can see myself returning to places, my experiences more complex having been there before. Those experiences enrich life and establish the canvas onto which other memories can be painted. It is an understandable sentiment, “let’s never come here again,” but a silly one as well. In the film, Bill Murray’s character responds jokingly, “Whatever you say. You’re the boss.”

The other element of the film that struck me was the leadup to the final moments. The two characters say goodbye the night before and the morning of Bill Murray’s character’s departure, but both goodbyes are unsatisfactory. The inability to say goodbye is extraordinary. The experience surely must be universal: being forced to let go prematurely. How much longer would allow a sufficient goodbye? What mooment could be created that would establish a decent farewell? As each moment slips away, so does the chance of a proper goodbye, and holding on longer seems to decrease the chance of it happening. In Lost in Translation, it is sheer coincidence that the final moments of the film unfold as they do.

I read a review a few years after seeing the movie that suggested that the moment robbed the audience of a proper denouement–there is no closure since the audience cannot hear what is said. But I think the audience knows enough. Look into Scarlett Johansson’s tear-filled eyes and Bill Murray’s half-smile as he walks away, and anyone can see what has occurred: the perfect goodbye. The characters are allowed the catharsis, and the audience is lucky enough to witness it, maybe join in the experience.

We have trouble letting go–of moments, of places, of people. Our attachment to this world of ours is too strong.

Just like honey. «»

Boing Boing’d

I’ve been reading Boing Boing for over two years now–not long enough to consider myself a part of the community, but long enough to be familiar with its trends and how the blog conducts itself.

Initially, I loved it. It was an alternative source of news, a catchall resource for under-the-radar culture, filling the gaps that mainstream media left. I can recall constantly saying to friends in my dorm, “There was this post on Boing Boing…” I was just latching on to RSS feeds, and it was by far the most prolific and most often read of my feeds.

Over the past year, this relationship has been tempered with a slice of objectivity and a pinch of analysis. As my online reading habits have shifted to include more diverse mass media sources and more specifically focused blogs, I’ve become more critical of Boing Boing’s approach toward certain subject matter, religion being the first topic that raised my eyebrows.

Scientology has come up a lot in the past couple years–too much for my taste, to be frank. The internet-generated “protests” at different Scientology centers has brought out the worst in both the religious group and anti-religious web junkies. It’s been akin to a hipper, younger anti-cult movement. Remember when Dungeons & Dragons and hair metal was compared to Satanism? I don’t, but I’ve read about it, and the principal dissenters in those cases were extraordinarily out of the loop and ignorant. Now the term “cult” has revived, primarily aimed at the Fundmentalist Latter-Day Saints and Scientology. I would expect that from the less-reputable parts of the mass media (e.g. Oprah asking dramatically on an episode dealing with FLDS, “Is this a cult?” as if the word itself were potent enough on its own to mean something).

Yet Boing Boing consistently uses the term “cult” in referring to any number of new religious movements, particularly in California. It’s haphazard, it promotes ignorance and intolerance, and it’s bad writing. It’s particularly bad journalism, no matter the source; even if the claims of shadiness levied at Scientology are legitimate (and they are), slander and hostile attitudes will do nothing to accurately cover the story or inform any readers. A comment on one Scientology post remarked that “Boingers call ‘em like they see ‘em,” a defense which can be used to defend any claim, researched or not. In the case of this comment, the claim is clearly ill-researched, poorly founded and badly constructed.

This difference I have with the site is a matter of a personal editorial position, and I can accept that. Because their coverage of religion is midguided at times doesn’t mean the site as a whole is worthless. Their presentation of religious issues led me to read each post with a more critical eye, which isn’t a bad thing.

However, a recent controversy I’ve encountered has led me to reconsider my entire position regarding the site. Long known for championing net neutrality, a rollback of draconian intellectual property laws, and transparency in government, Boing Boing is often at the forefront of 21st century issues regarding governmental and private organizations’ duty to the public. That status has now been called into question by the bizarre removal of sometime contributor Violet Blue’s posts.

Two recent posts on her blog have raised the issue: mysterious erasure of almost all mention of her name. I personally found Violet Blue thanks to her contributions to Boing Boing, so this was somewhat alarming. The digital age allows for modification and deletion of things posted in the past, but the practice widely regarded as unethical when done in a non-transparent way. Unfortunately, all evidence points to that being the case here, as Violet Blue’s most recent post on the matter mentions.

Now I’m left with the question of what to do when a supposed leader of digital ethics has done something strangely and silently unethical. It’s their site, and theirs to run as they see fit–I allowed that on the issue of religion. This matter, however, severely tarnishes their reputation as a progressive and culturally-significant website in my eyes.

It would seem the same problems that plague old media can be found in new media, and it’s a little disheartening. Another case of when the cynic wishes he was wrong. «»

Update: See also “That Boing Boing thing.” (2008-07-02)

Wednesday wiki gem #3

Pointing out the obvious is oftentimes an encyclopedia’s job. Doing so poorly or haphazardly is not, but that’s how it goes down on Wikipedia at times, leading to the following quote, from the article on The Adventures of Pinocchio:

Once he arrives at home, a talking cricket (called the Talking Cricket) tells him that boys who do not obey their parents grow up to be donkeys.

Parenthetical statements can enliven a sentence, inserting an under-the-breath bit of information that makes the sentence come alive beyond the original statement. Like most exciting punctuation, however, they should be used sparingly, as one would add spices to an entree. A little too much, and the meal is ruined, tasting entirely like the spice you added. What were you thinking?

I’m a fan of the dash and the semicolon–both of which are dangerous territory for an inexperienced writer. I probably use both more often than I should, and probably incorrectly at times. I steer clear of parenthetical statements most of the time because they can slow down an idea and undercut the original content of the sentence. It should be said in the above quote’s defense that there’s a hyperlink to the “Talking Cricket” article on Wikipedia in the parenthetical. That doesn’t justify the distracting flow of the first half of the sentence. Surely there’s a better way to communicate that in the original story, the talking cricket was left unnamed, only referred to as “the Talking Cricket,” not Jiminy as in the Disney adaptation. I mean, I just managed it, right?

The next installment of this feature will focus on something else besides writing style minutiae. Wikipedia (called Wikipedia) is a goldmine for looking at human knowledge and what the average person (called the average person) considers useful or noteworthy information. There’s just the matter of determining what’s noteworthy about that. «»

What to do if your dog brings home a severed head

At some point in your life, one of your pets will bring home a severed head, most likely your dog. It’s bound to happen, and there’s no getting around it–ask any canine owner. To the best of my knowledge, no guide has been written on how to deal with this common occurrence, until now.

1. Don’t panic. It’s easy to get caught up in the moment and wig out–after all, there’s a severed head in your dog’s mouth. This is not the time to panic, however. Panicking should be reserved for truly panic-worthy occasions, such as a printer running out of paper or a hangnail. Right now, you need to be level-headed and take the appropriate action.

2. Remove the head from your dog’s mouth. This is perhaps the most important and most difficult task in this process. Removing the head can prove tricky, especially if your dog wants to hang onto it like it does with tennis balls and pet toys. You have to remember that removing it is key to your success in this situation, especially once the sound of tearing flesh hits your ears as your beloved dog starts his tug-of-war with you.

3. Do not throw the head. Just as dogs are conditioned through training, you’ve been conditioned to remove things from your dog’s mouth and throw them again for the dog to fetch. Don’t do this.

4. Be firm with your dog, but do not lash out. It’s important to let your pet know that bringing severed heads home is not appropriate behavior, but do not be too harsh lest your dog stop bringing severed limbs home altogether. Remember how you felt the first time your dog brought home one of the neighbor kid’s severed arms, how proud you were. Your dog needs boundaries, and you need to reaffirm that good behavior and discourage the bad.

5. Dispose of the head and forget this ever happened. That head could have come from anywhere. Don’t jump to conclusions–your dog could have found it in a dumpster, or at the beach. Just because your dog brought a severed head home doesn’t mean your pet is a mindless bloodthirsty beast. He’s just inquisitive. He’s a good dog, a nice inquisitive dog with blood-soaked fangs.

I guess now’s as good a time as any to admit I haven’t owned a dog. Still, I hope this advice is useful the next time your dog brings home a severed head.

And he will. «»

To what I am listening, vol. 5

David Cross, Shut Up, You F—ing Baby!

I used to listen to music to help me go to sleep, which stopped when I finished high school. Recently, I’ve listened to stand-up when I’m going to bed–Eddie Izzard, Patton Oswalt, Mitch Hedberg, and David Cross, depending on whose style I prefer at the time.

I only recent heard David Cross’s Shut Up, and it’s stuck with me more than his other stand-up work. I heard It’s Not Funny when it came out a couple years ago, but the last half of the record seemed more politically harsh, and I’ve preferred that comedic mine to be plumbed by Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert over the past couple years. Shut Up is a double album, with a clean break in between the anecdotes and observations in the first half and political satire in the second. His track about Kansas City (a portion of which can be heard here), which closes the first disc, is excellent, with a brilliant setup that meanders hilariously until the surreal climax.

It’s hard to remark about a comedy album in a critical way–either it works or it doesn’t. I wouldn’t listen to it if it didn’t work. «»

Pillaging the past IV: Nintendo

My first memory of video games was playing the original Zelda at a distant cousin’s house while visiting in Alabama. I remember playing a little, and her explaining things to me, and I recall her talking about not touching the cartridge so it could save properly. I also remember not wanting to leave. This cousin was at least five years older than me, and being an only child, she became the standard for what was cool. Lacking an older sister or brother to give me CDs or help me navigate culture in some other way, she filled that role in the brief time I spent with her.

To further explain, on another visit I watched Beavis & Butt-head with her, blissfully unaware of how controversial it was. The episode I watched involved them washing a dog by putting it in a clothes washer. A couple weeks later my mom asked me about it, having seen an item on the news about how damaging it was, and I can now point to that moment as creating the gap between generations. If I wanted to find what was new and interesting, I had to go out and find it on my own.

The Nintendo seed had been planted. The NES was something other kids had. My cousin and an aunt and uncle had it in Alabama. During a family reunion on the other side of the family, more distant cousins (all older than me) were all upstairs playing Tennis on the NES. I wanted to play. It was unfamiliar and complicated and I had to take turns with all the other kids. My turn to serve, and I’d double fault, which became increasingly frustrating as I had no time to learn how to play, and my older cousins certainly weren’t helping. I went downstairs to the adults, completely pissed off and looking for some sort of recourse from my parents.

My parents had the prospect of driving from Toronto back to Louisiana with me, down the east coast. I was seven, and annoying. My dad said he’d buy me a Nintendo when we got back home, and I was placated. For the rest of the car trip, however, I asked about it constantly, fulfilling my role as the annoying seven-year-old. I was told to not talk about it until we got back to Louisiana or I wouldn’t get one.

The trip from northern Louisiana to northern Alabama was a familiar one–all interstate until Mississippi, at which time we took the Natchez Trace, a scenic two-lane road surrounded by forest, which was entirely boring to a young child. The one landmark between the two places was the bridge over the Mississippi River about a third of the way through the trip. Coming home from the East Coast, I recognized the bridge, and knew we were coming back to Louisiana. About halfway across the bridge, I asked about getting the Nintendo again, fulfilling the bargain to its exact wording. If I remember correctly, I said, “So, what day are we going to get the Nintendo?”

I got my Super Nintendo around July 4, 1992, and it was a gift for my dad as much as it was for me. It was my introduction into the gaming world, and despite time away from video games from time to time, that first taste of Zelda on my cousin’s NES to playing Super Mario World in my own bedroom for the first time set into motion my path to being a gamer and a geek. «»

The story begins with you

The World Ends with You is one of the best games i’ve played on the Nintendo DS, and I have a lot of games for the DS. Some would say too many. TWEWY is unlike any of the others, though. I spend most of my DS time playing Mario Kart DS or Clubhouse Games–casual gaming experiences. Last fall was spent beating Elite Beat Agents and The Legend of Zelda: Phantom Hourglass, but those two games don’t have much replay value. (Believe me, I’ve replayed them.) My attention then shifted to the Wii: Guitar Hero III, Super Mario Galaxy and No More Heroes. It’s been a good couple of years for Nintendo fanboys. That’s another post entirely.

The World Ends with You is the first Square game I’ve played since Secret of Mana on the SNES, which should prompt the exclamation “Final Fantasy!?!” from anyone literate in video games. I’ve never played Final Fantasy VII despite multiple arguments over about a decade that I should. My only brush with the series was a brief stint with Final Fantasy III at a time when the game seemed dated. So after a decade and a half away from any Square franchise, The World Ends with You is a revelation, and from what I’ve read, reviewers agree.

It’s refreshing to have an immersive storyline and intense action sequences in a handheld. No More Heroes provided that on the Wii, and I wished that I could play it when I was away from the console. Now I can’t put down the DS.

There’s been a call from various sources for adequate game criticism, akin to film theory and literary theory. Another year or two, and plot-laden games like this are still lacking when it comes to dialogue and exposition. There’s a necessity to point the player to things in an obvious way (“He went that way! We should follow him!”) that sacrifices the subtlety of good storytelling. Dialogue then suffers. The World Ends with You has done something I haven’t seen yet–marry teenage tech culture with the gravity of an emotional story. No More Heroes almost accomplished this, with its otaku protagonist, but the culture protrayed was still very much adult in spite of the protagonist’s initial immaturity.

A bunch of fifteen-year-olds are the main characters of TWEWY, and they act fifteen. But by “acting fifteen,” they aren’t caricatures of teenagers–they are teenagers. They’re moody and emotional, but they have ambitions, hopes and cares like most fifteen-year-olds would. They’re literate and thoughtful but also tech savvy (the main menu of the game is represented by a cellphone). One comic relief character is a typical otaku: hyperactive and obsessed with a game within the game. He’s portrayed in stark contrast to the characters the player controls. There are weaknesses in the story, as with any game, and unfortunately, because of the way the industry has developed, story is a lot less important to the production of the video game than it would be to a film.

Another year and another handful of games like these, and that could all change. «»

In this space

There is a space which can never be filled. The purpose of the space is cirumscribed, and it cannot be intruded upon or else the purpose of the space is lost. The space is learned about but never taught, only exists in two dimensions, and is used by only the most powerful wielders of language.

It is the space between the end of a sentence and an exclamation point !

The single space used before an exclamation point is so clear in its purpose, yet it is an implied meaning, evolved from broadsides, as far as I know. Without a space, the exclamation is sincere and demands attention! But when you put a space before the punctuation, it becomes a somewhat ironic announcement ! The sincerity is waived in favor of faux-enthusiasm. Por ejemplo,

See the amazing death-defying acrobats!

See the amazing death-defying acrobats !

Or perhaps another will help:

I can’t believe this !

I can’t believe this!

Hopefully I’m not the only one who sees this implied informal usage of language and punctuation. Long live the exclamatory empty space ! «»

Never quite as it seems

I think dream analysis is nonsense. I don’t have the patience to listen to analysis of dreams or, in most cases, dreams themselves. The comfort of objective analysis of bizarre imagery is understandable–one has a dream with unfamiliar elements combined in a strange bouquet of nonsense, and there’s a relatable desire to make sense of it. The explanation is simpler, more boring and less comforting: the human mind is complex, and sleep is a biological process that helps your mind organize memories. The side effect of this process is the perception and recombination of memories as the relationships between those memories are established. That’s an offensively crude explanation, no doubt, but it’s my simple understanding of what goes on when one dreams.

My attitude toward dreaming is doubtlessly informed by my inability to remember dreams. Only once in a while am I able to recall something I dreamed as I wake up. It’s not a matter of losing the memory after waking, it’s a matter of not having that memory while conscious. While that explains my lack of interest in dreaming and dream analysis, my hostility may have something to do with incidents of sleepwalking and night terrors I’ve had.

“Night terror” is a strong word, but from what I’ve read, it describes what’s happened–usually I hallucinate that there’s some sort of creature in the bed or room with me (a bear, insect and snake, in the cases I can remember) and I run out of the room screaming. These are rare, and only happen when I’m under stress or I haven’t had enough sleep. I haven’t sleepwalked in five years, but my parents would always tell me about my wandering around the house the next day. I don’t like not knowing what’s going on and having no control over myself when I’m asleep, and dreams fall into that category.

So I take a rationalist stance toward dreams and dreaming, though sometimes I wish there were an explanation that provided some meaning. It would help make some sense of the dream I had the other night about Judy Garland talking about marriage and revealing a tattoo of the word “almost” written in runes. I’ll take the mystery over the false explanation any day. «»