Song lyrics I've considered tattooing

"I don't care if forever never comes / 'cause I'm holding out for that teenage feeling."

"I ain't born typical."

"Words are blunt instruments / Words are sawed-off shotguns."

EDIT: "Everything dies baby that's a fact / but maybe everything that dies someday comes back."

Questions for mixed emotions

Over the past few days, I've seen a couple of concerts by two bands I both admire and adore. Both had their moments of transcendence that everyone looks for in a live show. And yet, both had some significant flaws, ranging from technical problems with sound to the ticket price. But nonetheless, I won't say they were bad shows. Part of this of course has to do with the fact that I screamed my head off in joy a number of times at both events, and that was in response to the performances. But I also think part of this has to do with what is expected from concert goers in this day and age.

Whenever anyone goes to see a band play live -- a specific band, not just a random night of let's-see-who's-playing-tonight -- there is an investment made in time and money. The last thing anyone wants to say about their investment is that it was worthless. If the band you love is having crippling technical troubles in the middle of a song, you want to see them fix it fast and regain momentum. You want to see them power through the technical problems of their equipment and rock without abandon. Or, if two tickets for one night of two bands costs more than a three-day pass at a outdoor summer festival thanks to all the lovely hidden fees Ticketmaster/Livenation gets away with, you want that band to be phenomenal and mind-blowing, the best concert money can buy.

But does this genuine desire cloud the mind from seeing things as they truly are?

At what point after so many experiences does someone learn what separates the truly magical from the mundane?

When I say something is amazing, do I mean it or am I just going though the motions of what I'm expected to say?

Should I just except the good and the bad as unique ingredients of an experience that will never happen again, and just enjoy it on those grounds alone... even if they did cost hundreds of dollars?

Shouldn't Be Ashamed: "Rude Boy" by Rihanna

Oh yeah, I'm blogging again. And this isn't a day-late April Fool's joke.

On the occasion of its third week atop the Billboard Hot 100, I wanted to return to the blogosphere and comment on yet another Rihanna number one hit. And the nature of my comments might surprise the people who know my long-standing position on the pop-tart.

I actually kind of dig it. Like, really kind of dig it.

See, when Rihanna first hit the scene with "Pon de Replay," she was an impossibly pretty looking kid with an ear toward the dancehall trend occupying pop radio. Her single was catchy and infectious enough, even if it was yet another song addressed to a, "Mr. DJ." I can't explain how much I don't like those words. Perhaps any readers who actually go to dance clubs on a regular basis can correct me on this, but many DJs want to be referred by "Mr..." their job. I can't imagine it would work in any other profession either. (Mr. Accountant? Miss Reporter? Dr. ... uh... Dermatologist?)

After that smash first single, Rihanna came back with "SOS," which committed two large fouls in my mind. First: it was NOT an ABBA cover. Second: it appropriated the immortal synth-pop classic, "Tainted Love," without adding anything new to the mix. I probably shouldn't expect much from pop singles, but it just irked me to know that an easily impressionable youngster was going to hear Soft Cell and think, "Wow, they're just ripping off Rihanna, right down to the, 'I toss and turn / I can't sleep at night' part." It felt like whoever was in charge of her music was deliberately stealing the past in lieu of finding a new sound for Rihanna to look impossibly pretty to... and doll out come-ons like, "Hold me close / cause I'm your tiny dancer." (?)

After that, the illogically terrible ballad "Unfaithful," set me off of Rihanna for years. She was just another puppet of pop without a single ounce of soul in her auto-tuned voice. Even her biggest hit, "Umbrella," could only rank as high as "not-bad," in my mind. At least the gimmick in that song was a vocal tic, rather than an obviously appropriated sample.

Then came the big sympathy moment, when Chris Brown did a supremely awful thing to his then-girlfriend. Because of this, Rihanna changed her image from the candy-coated exotic sex-pot, to this strange dominatrix-punk-sex-pot. She started pushing her songs to edgier places too. (Relatively speaking of course. She probably wouldn't cover a Suicide song in her lifetime.) And most critics went right along with it, praising her for seemingly taking her traumatic experience and channeling it into interesting pop. I wasn't exactly with them for the ride. "Russian Roulette," was again, simply "not bad," and not particularly memorable to me. "Stupid in Love," just drove the acknowledge-Chris-Brown point critics were searching for home too much.

But then there's "Rude Boy," a single which I will defend as Rihanna's best. Instead of an easily recognizable sample, Rihanna sings over an evocative synth line that could've been easily found on 808's and Heartbreaks. But moreover, what I love most about the song is her vocal performance. She finally got it exactly right. That voice I once called soulless had turned itself into a cool, detached, slightly damaged instrument. It makes the general, "fuck me, I dare you," lyrics sound all the more compelling. When the chorus comes, and Rihanna chants, "yeah," underneath a crescendo of "Take it, take it, love me, love me," she sounds completely in control in the coolest way.

Even better is the fact that she just lets the song do the talking. Give this song to any other pop star, including a younger Rihanna, and you'd get at least a few bars of American Idol/Mariah Carey-esque trilling and vocal acrobatics. There's none of that on this single, surprisingly, and it saddens me to think that no one at a major label will notice this. Rihanna gives the melodies exactly what they need and nothing more.

Sure, Rihanna can't entirely get away from easy appropriation. The video to her song is a blatant rip-off of "Boyz," by M.I.A. But I'd like to apply the same amount of spin to this as I do to Coldplay's blatant appropriation of Kraftwerk and Brian Eno; maybe, just maybe, there's a young music fan who will use this medium as jumping off point toward the more obscure musicians. Maybe Rihanna and M.I.A. could work off each other, giving one pop singer more artistic credibility, and one experimental-artist more popular exposure. Even if that's just an unlikely fantasy, it's nice that along with Lady Gaga, Rihanna's doing her part to make the pop charts a weirder, more rewarding place.

Not a surprise...

... but this blog is going on hiatus. Like previous "let's blog for fun" projects, it's difficult to maintain without feeling like it's going too many places and nowhere at the same time. And while this might sound incredibly snobbish, it's more difficult drumming up the motivation to write an open-ended blog post when I've been getting paid to write (all of which can be read on this blog).

I suppose this space will be kept open in case I feel the need to utilize it.

Rappers, known your basketball trivia

Newly blog-wielding friend, Miss Mezzano, recently put up the almost decade old(!) "Summer Girls" music video from late '90s boy band, LFO (or as their wikipedia calls them, Lyte Funky Ones. I know...) Even in 1999, that song was one of the most baffling chart hits. How else could anyone explain an upper-class white boy rapping non-sequiturs about girls, Abercrombie & Fitch, the summer, chinese food, girls in the summer, etc.?

It's interesting that after ten years of trying to repress this song from ever popping in my head randomly, the first lyric that really slapped me in the face reminded me of one of more rant-worthy snippets of recent upper-class white rapper Asher Roth.

Compare if you will:

• "[With reggae inflection] I am champ-ee-on / at beer pong / Allen Iverson / Hakeem Olajuwon"

• "You're the best girl that I ever did see / the great Larry Bird / jersey 33"
  

Let this be a lesson to gimmicky rappers looking for a way to complete their rhyme scheme - know you're basketball trivia.

(The offending post)

Food for quote: Tim O'Brien on writing

"By telling stories, you objectify your own experience. You separate it from yourself. You pin down certain truths. You make up others. You start sometimes with an incident that truly happened [...] and you carry it forward by inventing incidents that did not in fact occur, but that nonetheless help clarify and explain."

- From The Things They Carried by Tim O'Brien.

---

My stage managing friend Kate told me once about the two different schools of acting. There is "method," which gets actors in the press all the time for their months of research and tales of completely immersing themselves into a character maintaining it on and off screen/stage. I should say that my knowledge of acting theory is limited to my four years of high school drama club and one semester of a "Acting for Non-Theater Majors" at NIU, so forgive me if I butcher this theory. But from what I gather, method acting requires one to do as much as they can to become a character externally and internally.

Then there's the Brechtian theory, which seems to underplay that kind of immersion. Sure, mind exercises, meditations and research are valuable tools, but no matter what, there are always two people onstage - the character and the actor portraying the character. In the end, it's someone onstage, pretending to be someone else. (Hey actors, I'm not saying that what you do isn't incredible. I'm not saying it doesn't take a high level of skill and talent to do what you do. Let's just call a spade a spade. A painter makes pretty pictures. A writer puts words on paper.)

The latter came to mind upon reading the above quote from Tim O'Brien. It came from a piece of fiction based on his real-life experiences fighting in the Vietnam War. O'Brien blurs the line between fiction and truth by naming all the characters after people he served with and, in passages like the one above, breaking the fourth wall and admitting that certain things are exaggerated. In The Things They Carried, there are two O'Briens; the one who writes the stories drawn from his war experience, and the one in the stories.

When discussing the book in a writers group at my local library, other writers described how when they wrote memoirs on particularly hard or tragic events in their life, they too were able to separate themselves from the incident and look at it from a neutral position, because their trauma had been turned into story, something they could poke at, tweak and craft into something emotionally true, even if it's not one-hundred percent factual. Before, I had believed that writing creative nonfiction required a more method approach, and would try to mentally inhabit a past-self when I wrote. But O'Brien, and apparently the rest of the writers group, seems to fly in the face of that notion. Writing about the past isn't the same as writing history or journalism. The only thing that needs to be cited in memory, and is there anything more fickle and random than memory?

I finish this with another quote from Mark Twain; "It's no wonder that truth is stranger than fiction. Fiction has to make sense."

A new link for the right side of the page

An internet friend from way back has finally found her perfect social network/blog medium - the Tumblr. It's stream-of-conscious overload of images, text and music fit nicely with her persona, so have a look-see at Mizz Mezzano's Black Hearted Love for her stylish and very NSFW randomness.

A brief list of things I've enjoyed consuming.

1. Two Suns by Bat for Lashes [album]
2. Post-Nothing by Japandroids [album]
3. The Things They Carried by Tim O'Brien [book]
4. Dollhouse [TV]
5. The "Cafe Disco" episode of The Office [TV]
6. Mexican train dominos [family game]

Shooting nature in the face

Now that the weather has turned a corner into consistent pleasantness, why not take a walk and see what I find? Pics from April 22 & 23, 2009.

Adventures in Overthinking: "Mr. November"

Today, I felt a bit closer to the many anti-P.C. natured people in America. You know, the ones who laugh at Larry the Cable Guy and Carlos Mencia and think things like "developmentally challenged," is just "retarded" with too many syllables. Just when you think the things you love to watch, listen to and read are nothing more than entertainment, someone else comes along and makes you think again.

No one told me my favorite song, "Mr. November," by my favorite band, The National, had something not-P.C. in it. I can only claim ignorance to what being "the great white hope," actually meant. Sure, I had heard the phrase before, but it was one of those phrases that at my age was simply in the public knowledge without any idea as to where it came from.

Enter Ken Burns, and his documentary, Unforgivable Blackness: The Rise and Fall of Jack Johnson. For those who immediately thought of the terrible surfer/singer-songwriter, Jack Johnson was the first black man to win a heavyweight title in boxing. But in doing so, he brought on him an almost national racially charged hatred. This was the early 20th century, and black people weren't supposed to be flamboyantly wealthy and dominant like white people were.  So in an effort to take back the title, there was a search for "the great white hope," the caucasian who would beat the black Jack Johnson. 

Flash-forward to 2005, and the Brooklyn indie-rock band, the National close out their breakthrough album, Alligator, with a song called "Mr. November," a powerful rock song with a pre-chorus that reads, "I'm the new blue blood / I'm the great white hope." I'd always heard those lines as mantras of self-encouragement - something a batter could get himself pumped up with before he goes to the plate. But now, it feels like every time I say it, I'm saying, "I'm going to be the guy from the superior race who shows the rest of the world what for."

The National are as white as they come, but my super-fandom makes me want to believe that they weren't trying to convey any racial superiority. Part of what makes the song great is how the lyrics are all about past glories and pick-me-ups while singer Matt Berninger delivers it in his sad-sack baritone. You get the impression that no matter how many times he screams "I'm Mr. November," he's still going to find a way to mess things up. Maybe, by using a dated term, he's widening the disconnect from merely picking himself up to actual redemption. Or maybe he just likes boxing.

Ten, two, one.

Has it really been ten years since the Columbine shooting? ... I don't want to this post to devolve into some cliche, can't-we-all-just-get-along rhetoric. It's just that sometimes, I can't believe that the world doesn't just stop whenever acts of violence occur.... I wish I had something more to say on the subject.

Quote of the day: 4/14/09

Not sure what I'm looking forward to more... the kid getting here and I officially become a Father, or the kid getting here, and I get a week off work.

- From a friend on facebook.

On watching Eminem's new video...

A lot has changed since Eminem was a relevant and prolific force in both hip-hop and popular music. It's been ten years(!) since his break-through Slim Shady LP. Back then Clinton was in the White House. The economy was booming. The internet, DVDs and video games hadn't become popular enough to prevent the music industry from seeing their crop of stars sell millions of CDs in a week. 

So it's strange to see how little of Marshall Mathers's schtick has changed in the years since he retreated from the spotlight. To watch his new video, "We Made You," is to watch someone plainly trying to remind the public of his existence ("Guess who's back? / Did you miss me?") and take down a few of today's tabloid cover stars; in the video he talks about fucking Sarah Palin, Kim Kardashian and turning both Lindsay Lohan and Portia de Rossi back into heterosexuals. It could be nostalgic if it weren't so clear that Mathers has no idea that his best days are behind him.

But what of those days? When The Marshall Mathers LP hit the airwaves, it was also a critical success, despite the many outspoken critics and politicians who said he was too violent, misogynistic and homophobic for anyone to enjoy. 

I never really paid attention to reviews when the album came out. I was in eighth grade and firmly entrenched in my nu-metal, rap-rock phase. So what was it about Eminem's filthy mind that had me crossing over to one of the usual forbidden genres of my upbringing? Swear words of course.

I thought about how as a kid gets into the double-digits age bracket, there's a naturally longing for him or her to not be considered a kid anymore. Ideas and personalities start to develop and the time comes to let go of the Nickelodeon cartoons for something more mature. But here's the catch - that kid is still a long way from mature, and unless they are decidedly gifted, like a certain girl in my class who did a sixth grade project on the Bronte sisters, the next steps are just equally juvenile takes on adult humor. Along side South Park, Eminem was the cartoon for the kid who wanted to seem more adult and mature, the stepping stone towards being able to handle violence and profanity in entertainment, without being too challenging intellectually. 

I doubt this new crop of pre-teens will feel the same way about Eminem as I did when he first started taking down easy targets on MTV. South Park at least continued and adapted through the years, consistently taking down easy targets week after week like a cruder, animated version of Saturday Night Live. But Eminem's been out of his game for some time now, settling down with rote party-songs like "Ass Like That." To find him treading old ground again, it's hard to believe he was considered one of the greatest MCs ever.

Mark Twain's met his match

Ever since I read Mark Twain's The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, my mind has rattled itself trying to figure out how a story that starts and progresses so well can finish is such an unsatisfying fashion. It's a great novel sure, but there comes a certain point about three-quarters in where you know it's all downhill from here. I thought it was kind of unique in that respect. And then I watched the series finale of Battlestar Galactica.

That being said, it is one of the best TV shows I've ever seen. Just... beware of the last five minutes.

Overheard on the internet.

i would kill for a chocolate chip cookie right now

who would you kill?

a chocolate man

i would eat him to death

A change might come

I'm thinking about changing the name - and therefore the website address - of the blog. The Kinetic Android handle has been with me for a while, but I've been toying with the idea of renaming it something like "Mountain/Molehill: Adventures in Overthinking." It probably describes the kinds of post I make more aptly, don't you think?

I'll entertain other name suggestions and/or pleas not to change things for a week or so.

Fire metaphors

A friend on facebook put a quote in her status message as food for thought.

Love is friendship caught on fire.

A quick Google search reveals the apparent originator of those words might have come from a man known for his great thinking, Bruce Lee. That point aside, there's something about people using fire as a metaphor for inspiration that I find interesting. Obviously, it's used as a representation of determination, drive and passion. When the subjects of the documentary film Jesus Camp called their organization "Kids on Fire," it's a title of motivation. Fire is a source of power, light and warmth. Who wouldn't want to be compared to that?

But isn't fire also a force of destruction? How many times a year does the news report on people who've lost their homes and all their possessions in wildfires? Therefore, I had to ask my friend who posted the quote, whether the quote really meant something different; if love is a friendship that's on fire, could a friendship be consumed and ultimately destroyed by love?

I can think of a few occasions in my life that certainly would apply to that kind of interpretation.

Late to the game: Lykke Li

Last year, Lykke Li appeared on the internet and registered in my brain as some kind of Swedish version of Feist. Not being one of Feist's biggest fans, I tended to disregard her debut, Youth Novels. I'm making up for it now most definitely, especially the incredible tease of a love song, "Little Bit." Also worth checking out is the video for her song "I'm Good, I'm Gone."

Mountain/Molehill: Media consumption, aggregation and social networks

Today, I decided to put an end to the annoying messages that were starting to trickle in from my Flixster account. I have been using the movie-review application on Facebook for well over a year now, and in doing so, I had an account on the website itself. The problem is, along with the features I had no interest in like movie-taste compatibility tests and quizzes, the site came with it's own team of fake members who like to email random dudes and ask for their email address for more spam messages and maybe a virus.

We've all been there - assuming we've all had a Myspace at one point in our lives. Which reminds me, I should check it and maybe even close it. A salacious looking profile picture with an equally salacious handle will randomly leave a comment or message about how our tastes are so similar and that we'd make a great couple. Give me you email and I'll send a picture and more email about me.

Well I said no thanks to that and, acting on a momentary impulse, closed my account. Of course my facebook application would not be affected I thought. Whoops-a-daisy. Now my collection of short movie reviews is gone. 

Part of me feels upset because as an amateur critic, I took those kind of websites pretty seriously, if only for allowing me to consider a kind of rating or soundbite of thought instead of just letting whatever I saw wash over me, never to be considered again. Also, having a timeline of when I saw particular movies or read particular books helped tell a little story of what I was interested in for the fleeting moment, and subtly nagged me to keep consuming. 

But there's the rub. Now I think if I can just quit all those websites, I will be unburdened by certain reminders to keep consuming. It could make watching movies and reading books the joyful experience they can be, without the added chore of making sure I logged in some kind of opinion somewhere in the vast ocean of the internet. Aside from some good friends, how many people really consider what is written? I don't read other people's reviews on those websites. Why would they read mine? (I'm aware that the same could be said for this blog...)

I had a similar epiphany years ago when I made an effort to listen to every relevant new music release that came out. Of course I fell behind and I acquired music that STILL hasn't been listened to. And it became a chore trying to get through it all. When something you absolutely love to do becomes a chore, then it might be time to rethink how you approach it. 

A cautionary tale...

Names have been changed to protect the innocent. Celebrity voices impersonated.

[Female friend over iChat]

andyyyy

[My boyfriend] is mad at me. help!

I was at this stupid party last night where I was the only person without a fiance/husband/wife.

Everyone was paired up.

So I texted [my boyfriend] to tell him this.

and he joked that it was probably a swinger's party.

and I said, "I wish. [Guy I mentioned I thought was cute a long time ago] is here."

Boyfriend did not find this funny. Moral of the story - ladies, find a man with a sense of humor. There's no reason a perfectly good zinger like that should go unappreciated.