I've always loved making compilation albums. For my sixth (or so) birthday I got a black boom box that contained a CD player, tape player/recorder, and FM/AM tuner. As well as recording my own radio show (which I had previously done on our family's answering machine), I made a lot of mix tapes for my family and friends. In particular, I remember making my dad a tape that played Weird Al Yanchovich's "Spam" (a parody of R.E.M.'s "Stand") over and over as a birthday present. Now, I make a lot of mix CD's, still not knowing what to call them. I am currently working on my girlfriends 11th mix.
In High Fidelity, John Cusack's character gives lengthy monologues on the "right" way to go about it, saying something like "It's a very delicate thing... You're using other people's poetry to express yourself, and that can be dangerous." He goes on to explain how the first track needs to really "grab their attention," the second track needs to "kick it up another notch," and then the third track needs to "take it down a notch." I am paraphrasing (badly), but I agree with him one hundred percent. Making a "mix tape" (I usually do CDs this day, but have no such snappy term with which to call them) is an art form, as Cusack points out, and "there are a lot of rules." I all to often have heard a mix tape some friend has made (for a girl, a birthday, a party, whatever) that is a simple, heterogeneous trash heap of their "favorite songs," i.e. there is no flow, no or not enough attention paid to the selection or more so the arrangement.
Why would you make a mix? Often times mixes are created for a specific instance: a party, a wedding, a funeral, etc. Also mixes are commonly created along the lines of a certain theme or tone: songs about love, songs from the 60’s, slow jazz songs, music to make out to, etc. I feel like mixes are a fantastic gift for holidays, birthdays, anniversaries, etc. In these instances, especially when the mix is for a close friend, a mix tape says “I spent time making something just for you!,” which everyone loves to know. In addition, the recipient, being that you two like similar music, might actually use their present!
How do you make a mix? I could probably transcribe some kind of step by step guide to my approach at compiling mixes, but I don't really see why I should. That sounds hard. Plus, there is no concrete rule system that fits. Like mixing drinks, mixing CD's (tapes, whatever) is an art form, not a science. Sometimes a splash is 15ml, sometimes its more, sometimes its less.
However, I think I can put down something more abstract and general. The tracks, the songs themselves are solid. They cannot be altered or doctored in anyway. However, they are (hopefully) not all the same, that is to say, they are not congruent copies of each other; they are not like a pile of bricks. They are all different shapes, sizes, textures. You did not create them, you found them (assuming it is all unoriginal music), thus the songs are like naturally occurring rocks. Some are huge and hollow, some are tiny and grainy. Whereas with bricks it does not matter what goes where (as they are designed to fit together), these rocks were not designed with the other rocks in mind. You have to carefully choose where you place them. Which rock can be the base to support another? Which rocks are small enough to fit here? Which rocks can fill in this space? And which have the right look, the right shimmer or luster, the right shape? Sometimes you love a certain rock, but it just can't work within the structure, so you have to save it for another time. Sometimes you don't love a certain rock, but it is just the right size to fit in a certain space. On top of all of this, you are not making a flat wall, as you would with the bricks. The creation is something more distinct, a unique sculpture designed for the rocks, whereas the bricks were designed for the wall. Hmmm... I'm actually starting to want to write a guide to mix-taping. Maybe I will...
Some Guidelines:
Once again, these techniques are not essential. They are not really rules, they are just habits I have a developed that I think make for a good mix. I will write them authoritatively, but take them with a grain of salt. Once again: art form, not science.
Guidelines 1-3 / Choosing your music
1.) Unless you are setting out to create a greatest hits compilation, a single musician should only have one song per album. The whole point is to arrange a variety of different music into a single work. This is one of my most solemn rules, though I have broken it a handful of times. Sometimes I have used multiple bands containing the same musicians (The Magnetic Fields and The 6ths, for instance, are both bands of Stephin Merritt). Still, I try to avoid this all together.
2.) Use up most of the CD. Generally, a CD-R or CD-RW (which I would recommend against using if it is a present because that makes your artistry re-workable) is 74 to 80 minutes long. Usually, I shoot to make a mix over an hour long. Bands put out short albums all the time (I feel like people are still stuck on the 44 minute length of an LP) and I just don’t think that is enough music. If you are drawing from a large enough body and variety of music, and hour’s worth of music should be easily entertaining. Plus, I feel like mixes are a good way to encourage people to discover new music. An hour gives you roughly 20 songs, thus 20 different artists, so the audience has a lot to choose from. I have nearly always followed this rule, but I have been considering lately that a shorter mix might create a very different effect, as would an even longer mix (say a double album). It all depends what your goal is.
3.) Selecting the music itself is probably the hardest step to guideline. Once again, themes (love, baseball, high school, etc.) and tones (sad songs, upbeat songs, etc.) as well as styles (jazz, rap, folk, etc.) and other specificities can be criteria from which to base a mix. Another approach can be to come up with a message (I’m so hot for you, I’m sad today, I love our country, etc.) and chose songs to fill your conceived frame. Most often I take both of these notions and disregard them. What usually happens is I’ll be listening to some song and say to myself “Hey, I bet [so and so (as the expression goes)] would really dig this tune!” and I put it in a playlist. With the creation of a playlist, I then have in mind that I should be on the look for other songs that that person would like. However, I usually don’t go searching at first. For several weeks, sometimes months, I let the songs find and then dump them in the playlist. Sometimes I have too many, sometimes not enough. In the case of the latter, when I’m getting ready to turn the playlist into something more substantial, I go searching to find some other songs I think the other person would like (and that I usually like as well). I do pick some songs based on those specific criteria listed above (theme, tone, style), for instance, on one mix I chose six different songs with the word “time” in the title, but I do not let these criteria become the governing force behind my decisions. It is a lot of trial and error. Sometimes I love a song but it just seems to conflict with the others on the playlist (often times because the style is too similar) and I shelve it to be used later. I really cannot say what to chose, but you know when you have an album and every song on it is a good one? That’s what you’re trying to do, except it gets more complicated then that when you begin to arrange the tracks.
Guidelines 4-7 / Arranging the Tracks
4.) Pay careful attention to the transitions between songs. This is really tricky and what I probably spend the most time on. The transition from one track to the next makes a huge difference, in my opinion. Strategically placing one song in front of another can bring out ‘flavor’ in the latter. A song fading out slowly followed by a song fading in slowly has a very different effect than following with a song that starts suddenly and loudly. I can’t cite any rule for this process, but just keeping in mind the importance of transitions should help you create a good flow within your mix. I think one of the biggest problems with other mixes I’ve heard is that transitions were not considered at all. This commonly determines where I will place a song within the track list.
5.) Creating a flow among the songs is essentially taking the same principals of structuring transitions and applying it to a larger scale. If you have chosen a variety of music, tones and styles, instrumentation, and so on may differ greatly from song to song. Some might be fast rock music, some slow acoustic ballads, some spoken word, some 80’s pop music. Organizing the songs depends heavily on there similarities and differences. To show how I generally organize, I will make a diagram!
/ / / - songs that go up; fast, catchy, danceable, etc.
\ \ \ - songs that go down; slower, often sadder, elongate breathing cycles, more contemplation needed, etc.
~ ~ ~ - songs that go out; that is, “out there,” the weirder, less conventional songs that break heavily, like spoken word or experimental music, etc.
First of all, I get all of the alike together:
/ / / / / / / / / / \ \ \ \ \ \ \ ~ ~ ~ [I do gather them on more specific criteria as well; for instance, all the blues songs together, all the female singers together, etc.
Like I said, I don’t like to many similar things together. I don’t want this.
/ / / / / / / / / / ~ ~ ~ \ \ \ \ \ \ \
But I don’t want continual rise and fall either. Than can wear a person out.
~/\/\/\/\~/\/\/\/\/~ I’m already worn out!
I want some gradual movements.
/\
/ \
/ \
/ \ ~~~ beauitful!
Friday, January 30, 2009
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Well I Might Not Be The Best Typist
I wrote this song when I was about 15. It had an inherent melody that I have never forgotten. At the time I wrote it, much to my dismay, I could not figure out the appropriate accompanimentof guitar chords. Now I think I know it, though I haven't tried in some time. I have always very much liked the song and would like to finish it. The last stanza presented here was written some time later. Still, I do't believe it is finished.
Well I might not be the best typist
and I might not go to the clubs
but I do know who you can get with
he'll type up all your stuff
all your stu-uff
his name is Steve
he has a red beard
and hands of pure gold
He can type forever
and he'll never mis a key
unless he's told
His number is 5555555566
and his dinner is ketchup french fries salt pepper and fish sticks
And he goes to the clubs
and has some fun
Give him a job
He gets it done
For a small fee
His fee will put a hole in your pocket
It's sad but it's true
You feed him dinner every night
then he'll know what to do
and so will you
I oughta work this one out for stage. Oh, i didn't tell you? I'm gonna start trying to play on stage. I know, I better clean up that myspace. Songs about drugs, Oregon trail gigolos, and... marching. Gotta family-friendly it - censor myself a little. Just like I do here! In the Blog. I hereby contradict my first post. Shit yeah! There I swore.
Well I might not be the best typist
and I might not go to the clubs
but I do know who you can get with
he'll type up all your stuff
all your stu-uff
his name is Steve
he has a red beard
and hands of pure gold
He can type forever
and he'll never mis a key
unless he's told
His number is 5555555566
and his dinner is ketchup french fries salt pepper and fish sticks
And he goes to the clubs
and has some fun
Give him a job
He gets it done
For a small fee
His fee will put a hole in your pocket
It's sad but it's true
You feed him dinner every night
then he'll know what to do
and so will you
I oughta work this one out for stage. Oh, i didn't tell you? I'm gonna start trying to play on stage. I know, I better clean up that myspace. Songs about drugs, Oregon trail gigolos, and... marching. Gotta family-friendly it - censor myself a little. Just like I do here! In the Blog. I hereby contradict my first post. Shit yeah! There I swore.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
The You
The businessmen had their work to do
They poisoned you and so did you
I drove you to the hospital
And when we got there you drove back
I tried to convince you that they didn't cancel out
But you insisted and I caved
The businessmen smoked their cigars
And Andy had a Saturday
You and I took a picnic
and I could tell you weren't feeling well
But once again you insisted and I caved
The businessmen's business was wasn't growing
So they gave me back the antidote
And I tried to convince you to take it
But your stubbornness prevailed
So I hid it in your food
And now you don't like my cooking anymore
You bought the businessmen's
Pineapple flavored fructose juice
and cigarettes like shredded metal
kept cutting up your mouth
and jutting out
And I asked you to change so you hit me
We shared the same drink every weekday
and we shared the same bed every worknight
and the businessmen's exotic cigar collection
would never amount to what we shared
Yet I knew you were poisoned
and still I chose to forget it
You got sicker and sicker and sicker
and you still wouldn't eat my dinners
and the businessmen kept getting fatter
and you kept getting thinner
and sicker
and deadlier
Again I drove you to the hospital
but you died in my arms
and the unmanned steering wheel
lead our auto off course
and when we crashed
I shoved my fingers in your nostrils
If I hadn't left the antidote
sitting atop the sink counter
to collect dust
and little face pubes
I might have saved your life
But instead I fel5t your last breath
The businessmen had lost a dedicated costumer
But I don't think they realized
I like to think that one of them
burned their expensive suit jacket on an expensive cigar
for you
But I"m really just pretending
The house is lonely without you
There's always to much drink for me
and I get lost in the bed
I admit the house smells better
But I hate it more now
I've never seen the inside of that hospital
I wonder what they would have done to conceal your smell
I know they can can that smell
That hospital smell
I wish I would have thought of that earlier
for you
I am the most beautiful widow
and everyone knows it
But I hate to talk about myself
Unless it is about you
I've always been like that
But it's harder now
The doorbell rang last night
After hours
and I signed off on a package
The ski jacket
you'd been saving all those cigarette boxes for
I wanted to dig you up
but I restrained myself
Three days later the doorbell rang again
this time in the middle of the day
I signed off on a package
like you would never let me
A fruit basket
with a 1.5x2 piece of paper attached to it
that read "from the businessmen"
I would have thrown that I out a month ago
Now I eat the fruit
It is the best fruit I've ever had
They poisoned you and so did you
I drove you to the hospital
And when we got there you drove back
I tried to convince you that they didn't cancel out
But you insisted and I caved
The businessmen smoked their cigars
And Andy had a Saturday
You and I took a picnic
and I could tell you weren't feeling well
But once again you insisted and I caved
The businessmen's business was wasn't growing
So they gave me back the antidote
And I tried to convince you to take it
But your stubbornness prevailed
So I hid it in your food
And now you don't like my cooking anymore
You bought the businessmen's
Pineapple flavored fructose juice
and cigarettes like shredded metal
kept cutting up your mouth
and jutting out
And I asked you to change so you hit me
We shared the same drink every weekday
and we shared the same bed every worknight
and the businessmen's exotic cigar collection
would never amount to what we shared
Yet I knew you were poisoned
and still I chose to forget it
You got sicker and sicker and sicker
and you still wouldn't eat my dinners
and the businessmen kept getting fatter
and you kept getting thinner
and sicker
and deadlier
Again I drove you to the hospital
but you died in my arms
and the unmanned steering wheel
lead our auto off course
and when we crashed
I shoved my fingers in your nostrils
If I hadn't left the antidote
sitting atop the sink counter
to collect dust
and little face pubes
I might have saved your life
But instead I fel5t your last breath
The businessmen had lost a dedicated costumer
But I don't think they realized
I like to think that one of them
burned their expensive suit jacket on an expensive cigar
for you
But I"m really just pretending
The house is lonely without you
There's always to much drink for me
and I get lost in the bed
I admit the house smells better
But I hate it more now
I've never seen the inside of that hospital
I wonder what they would have done to conceal your smell
I know they can can that smell
That hospital smell
I wish I would have thought of that earlier
for you
I am the most beautiful widow
and everyone knows it
But I hate to talk about myself
Unless it is about you
I've always been like that
But it's harder now
The doorbell rang last night
After hours
and I signed off on a package
The ski jacket
you'd been saving all those cigarette boxes for
I wanted to dig you up
but I restrained myself
Three days later the doorbell rang again
this time in the middle of the day
I signed off on a package
like you would never let me
A fruit basket
with a 1.5x2 piece of paper attached to it
that read "from the businessmen"
I would have thrown that I out a month ago
Now I eat the fruit
It is the best fruit I've ever had
Homecoming Queen
I have always wanted to be the Homecoming Queen. I would have given everything, anything, things I never had just to wear the crown that last year of high school. To dance with the king, to be up on stage, to get announced to the whole school, "This is our senior class Queen!" The applause, the respect, if only for a single night. I would have been on top of the world. It would have been my greatest achievement and I would have relieved that moment over and over in my head for the rest of my life. The pictures, dancing while enclosed by a circle of my watching classmates. The inability to hide a smile. Getting my hair done up in some crazy do. My nails, the dress. The spot in the yearbook. God, I would have done anything to be the Homecoming Queen.
Friday, January 23, 2009
The Light, The Coffee,
For dinner I had a Twix bar, a cup of coffee, and a pack of gum. The coffee was from a vending machine, a place I never wanted my coffee to come from, and the machine only took exact change, 70¢ for a 12oz cup and 55¢ for an 8oz. My lifesavings, all I was carrying, was completely in quarters, so to get the needed amount I had to buy the Twix and the gum. The coffee was bad, but the Twix was good, and the gum was Juicy Fruit so I chewed it all. Not all at once, though.
Now I'm sitting here drinking this green thing; basically watered down lime juice. It is what a camp counselor might call 'bug juice,' except that its alcoholic. I had finished my Gold cigarettes and moved on to Silver when I noticed something was wrong.
The light is on in here, I thought, and slowed my step in caution. I could see it through the crack between the door and the ground. Somebody's in there? I inquired. Something had gone wrong.
Bills were stacked upon bills and the factory was closing down for the winter - the economic winter. I needed some coffee, so I heated up some water, but all I found was rum (not fit for a pirate), sugar and lime juice. So inhaled the wrong end and took a large gulp. To tell you the truth Keys, I missed the vending machine.
The day has a funny way of passing you by when you forget to eat. For my friend in the hospital, it is less funny. I suppose the coffees just as bad there, but, to tell you the truth, the human aspect of it actually gets me. No, I know Keys, I don't have your little man, but I do have a speck of sentimentality - if you want to call it that - for the old days, the times when the machines were less particular and when all a man thought about was what he was going to eat.
I miss those days, I miss my friend, and I miss you too Keys - if you want to call it sentimentality. I poured out the bug juice and the Silvers turned to Bronze. I left the light on. Now I know I am alone.
Now I'm sitting here drinking this green thing; basically watered down lime juice. It is what a camp counselor might call 'bug juice,' except that its alcoholic. I had finished my Gold cigarettes and moved on to Silver when I noticed something was wrong.
The light is on in here, I thought, and slowed my step in caution. I could see it through the crack between the door and the ground. Somebody's in there? I inquired. Something had gone wrong.
Bills were stacked upon bills and the factory was closing down for the winter - the economic winter. I needed some coffee, so I heated up some water, but all I found was rum (not fit for a pirate), sugar and lime juice. So inhaled the wrong end and took a large gulp. To tell you the truth Keys, I missed the vending machine.
The day has a funny way of passing you by when you forget to eat. For my friend in the hospital, it is less funny. I suppose the coffees just as bad there, but, to tell you the truth, the human aspect of it actually gets me. No, I know Keys, I don't have your little man, but I do have a speck of sentimentality - if you want to call it that - for the old days, the times when the machines were less particular and when all a man thought about was what he was going to eat.
I miss those days, I miss my friend, and I miss you too Keys - if you want to call it sentimentality. I poured out the bug juice and the Silvers turned to Bronze. I left the light on. Now I know I am alone.
Monday, January 19, 2009
A Week Nearly Uncharted
Hello Blog, it has been too long. You are so beautiful to me.
Watched five movies this week:
Chronicle of a Summer
Mildred Pierce
Sweeny Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street
The Wrestler
Breathless
and also the short documentary Perfect Film
Last night I did the premier performance of TINGO! I wrote a lot of it in the hour leading up to show time, failed to rehearse most of it, and resultantly botched most of the dialog. Overall, an okay performance.
Kate's cat threw up grass on the carpet, one of Kate's dogs pooped on the carpet, and I drooled a little fake blood (Kool-aid) on the carpet. It was a messy weekend.
In the last hour or so, I have started writing/recording the backing music for Nick's Campus Movie Fest project. So far it is going okay.
In sum, a pretty decent week. Hopefully, in the following week, I will have more chances to Blog. I miss you pretty text box. I want you back.
Watched five movies this week:
Chronicle of a Summer
Mildred Pierce
Sweeny Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street
The Wrestler
Breathless
and also the short documentary Perfect Film
Last night I did the premier performance of TINGO! I wrote a lot of it in the hour leading up to show time, failed to rehearse most of it, and resultantly botched most of the dialog. Overall, an okay performance.
Kate's cat threw up grass on the carpet, one of Kate's dogs pooped on the carpet, and I drooled a little fake blood (Kool-aid) on the carpet. It was a messy weekend.
In the last hour or so, I have started writing/recording the backing music for Nick's Campus Movie Fest project. So far it is going okay.
In sum, a pretty decent week. Hopefully, in the following week, I will have more chances to Blog. I miss you pretty text box. I want you back.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
A bad poem, a good picture
The ubiquitous overseer
In plane and cactus off his career
The omnipresent omnivore
He who exists indiscriminately forevermore
The F-car
The F-car is not your stereotypical race car. The F-car can not, cannot, run in Drive and Reverse Simultaneously like the race car can. However, the F-car can go backwards, forwards, sideways, side-over side, front-over-back, back-over-front, and so forth rather seamlessly without changing gears or utilizing a motor. This is what the F-car looks like (roughly):
F
|
c ------]
O O
-----------------------[from side]
( )
/ \
O-| -- |-O
| F |
O-| -- |-O
|__|
-----------------------[from top]
A work of true progress, the F-car is just about the best thing you can get out of a new years popper. With its patented versatility and definite sex appeal, the F-car can do just about anything, go just about anywhere, and succeed at just about anything. Can you?
Friday, January 9, 2009
Herman - A drink before bed
The drink that will save a hundred overworked peasants.
"He has has a drink every night before bed; it helps him sleep."
Of once he had trouble sleeping, but now
the dreams have ceased as the exhaustion has become routine.
And the thousand, starving peasants cry
"A little spot from the drink is good every once in a while,
but to make it a habit is to make it a crutch
a crutch that may be capitalistic, but that will most certainly blank out our existences."
As Herman sips at his drink, he CANNOT be bothered by
the cry of the worksman and worksman's wives
and worksman's children
who have suffered his choice
to drink a glass before bed
and pass-out as soon as his head
hits the pillow.
There is drunkenness in his eyes.
And his thought is too shallow
to foster a dream,
and he goes to bed stupidly
and wakes up in pain
and brain cells are worthless
for the rest of the day
and he waits till the end of the day
and drinks more
not for pleasure nor dependency
merely to encourage healthy mammalian habits.
And as he drowns his insomnia
he drowns his desires
and the 'self taught' actors
need to find new work.
Unskilled labor, manual labor,
doesn't fit their fabric
and it's much rather likely
that he'll put them all to sleep.
And Herman heard
that somewhere
the dreams are dying.
And Herman gave a $1o
u.s. dollars
to keep this from happening.
"He has has a drink every night before bed; it helps him sleep."
Of once he had trouble sleeping, but now
the dreams have ceased as the exhaustion has become routine.
And the thousand, starving peasants cry
"A little spot from the drink is good every once in a while,
but to make it a habit is to make it a crutch
a crutch that may be capitalistic, but that will most certainly blank out our existences."
As Herman sips at his drink, he CANNOT be bothered by
the cry of the worksman and worksman's wives
and worksman's children
who have suffered his choice
to drink a glass before bed
and pass-out as soon as his head
hits the pillow.
There is drunkenness in his eyes.
And his thought is too shallow
to foster a dream,
and he goes to bed stupidly
and wakes up in pain
and brain cells are worthless
for the rest of the day
and he waits till the end of the day
and drinks more
not for pleasure nor dependency
merely to encourage healthy mammalian habits.
And as he drowns his insomnia
he drowns his desires
and the 'self taught' actors
need to find new work.
Unskilled labor, manual labor,
doesn't fit their fabric
and it's much rather likely
that he'll put them all to sleep.
And Herman heard
that somewhere
the dreams are dying.
And Herman gave a $1o
u.s. dollars
to keep this from happening.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
The Workings of a Man With Four Eyes
The Workings of Man With Four Eyes
and sometimes The Workings of a Man With Three Eyes when he squints,
that is, when he drinks,
or when his cigarette gets short.
The Launch 'er Man In Ya' funpage! tried to sue him.
But he showed them.
He poisoned their moderator.
The cigarette tax is going up?
He thought that'd already happened?
It's okay, it'll just make his withered lungs worth more, right?
When the man works he wears eyeglasses black.
When the man goes out he wears contact lenses.
When the man he sings he closes half his eyes.
And when the man sleeps he removes the other half.
The president is black?
The man doesn't care.
He has a T.V. that doesn't have color.
There's graffiti on the subway?
The man doesn't mind.
He likes to write abstracts for them and post them beneath.
Kids use curse words?
The man is supportive.
He curses right back with his outdated lingo.
Kids drive to fast?
Well the man can drive faster.
He takes drugs that help him think quickly.
The church is perverse?
Well the man is perverser.
In fact, he's the reason the church is still around.
The Musings of an Amputee:
A one armed girl
named Susan Marie.
At thirteen she was confirmed.
Her confirmation name was Susan.
She liked what she'd been named so much
she had herself named it again.
The Abuses of an Obtuse Orthodontist:
Novocaine
Laughing Gas
Rubber Bands
Breathing Masks
The Coercion of a Martian:
"We come in piece. Here try this. You like it? We call it coffee. Here we have some more on our ship. Come in, come in."
Kapow! [alternate endings: Zip!, Smoooch!, Toooot!, Beeeelch!, etc.]
Cheese Burger
a molded mass atop a ground pet
Ham Burger
the backs of the thighs between the cheeks of the buttocks
French Fry
a frizzler with a tendency to swear
For other options, check out are Menú
For those stuck on unisexuality, check out our Womenú as well
Hector the Heterosexual,
Homer the Homosexual,
Billy the Bisexual,
and Umberto the Unisexual,
and none of them seem to be having sex right now.
The man without glasses can help.
These are The Workings of a Man With Four Eyes:
一个人的工作有四只眼睛的
This is what his aura looks like:
气氛
This is what his belly button looks like:
传递ゆ
Literally, "Trades the wild rice to fight"
and when he does you know
- at least, by now you should know -
It is but the Workings of a Man With Four Eyes
He sees twice as much as you
and yet, he is blind.
He is the prophet of his day,
yet he cannot see the future,
he leads no group,
he is immoral,
and wrong,
and he is rooted in material,
i.e., he is only what he has typed.
Still, The Workings of A Man With Four Eyes
are apparent in you life,
should you look hard enough.
The dead tried to kill him.
But he killed them first.
The critics tried to critizize him.
But he never let them read his Workings.
They tried to tell a joke about him with Walker Texas Ranger.
But he couldn't remember his name, so the joke wasn't funny.
The Workings of a Man With Four Eyes
and sometimes The Workings of a Man With Three Eyes when he squints,
that is, when he drinks,
or when his cigarette gets short.
The Launch 'er Man In Ya' funpage! tried to sue him.
But he showed them.
He poisoned their moderator.
The cigarette tax is going up?
He thought that'd already happened?
It's okay, it'll just make his withered lungs worth more, right?
When the man works he wears eyeglasses black.
When the man goes out he wears contact lenses.
When the man he sings he closes half his eyes.
And when the man sleeps he removes the other half.
The president is black?
The man doesn't care.
He has a T.V. that doesn't have color.
There's graffiti on the subway?
The man doesn't mind.
He likes to write abstracts for them and post them beneath.
Kids use curse words?
The man is supportive.
He curses right back with his outdated lingo.
Kids drive to fast?
Well the man can drive faster.
He takes drugs that help him think quickly.
The church is perverse?
Well the man is perverser.
In fact, he's the reason the church is still around.
The Musings of an Amputee:
A one armed girl
named Susan Marie.
At thirteen she was confirmed.
Her confirmation name was Susan.
She liked what she'd been named so much
she had herself named it again.
The Abuses of an Obtuse Orthodontist:
Novocaine
Laughing Gas
Rubber Bands
Breathing Masks
The Coercion of a Martian:
"We come in piece. Here try this. You like it? We call it coffee. Here we have some more on our ship. Come in, come in."
Kapow! [alternate endings: Zip!, Smoooch!, Toooot!, Beeeelch!, etc.]
Cheese Burger
a molded mass atop a ground pet
Ham Burger
the backs of the thighs between the cheeks of the buttocks
French Fry
a frizzler with a tendency to swear
For other options, check out are Menú
For those stuck on unisexuality, check out our Womenú as well
Hector the Heterosexual,
Homer the Homosexual,
Billy the Bisexual,
and Umberto the Unisexual,
and none of them seem to be having sex right now.
The man without glasses can help.
These are The Workings of a Man With Four Eyes:
一个人的工作有四只眼睛的
This is what his aura looks like:
气氛
This is what his belly button looks like:
传递ゆ
Literally, "Trades the wild rice to fight"
and when he does you know
- at least, by now you should know -
It is but the Workings of a Man With Four Eyes
He sees twice as much as you
and yet, he is blind.
He is the prophet of his day,
yet he cannot see the future,
he leads no group,
he is immoral,
and wrong,
and he is rooted in material,
i.e., he is only what he has typed.
Still, The Workings of A Man With Four Eyes
are apparent in you life,
should you look hard enough.
The dead tried to kill him.
But he killed them first.
The critics tried to critizize him.
But he never let them read his Workings.
They tried to tell a joke about him with Walker Texas Ranger.
But he couldn't remember his name, so the joke wasn't funny.
The Workings of a Man With Four Eyes
Monday, January 5, 2009
Daily Life - January 2009- [in prog]
I would like to transcribe a thorough description of my 'every-day,' that is, my common day-to-day schedule in this period of my life so that when I'm old (because it seems like my parents can't remember the commonplace activities of the lives in the past) I can look back on these writings and remember, not really remenise, but just be able to reference how my days were spent when I was 19. I have started this post now on January 5th, 2009 and doubt that I will finish it tonight, but I will edit in the rest later and then include the date on which I finish the writing.
I would like to do one of these style posts every six months or so so that I can keep a detailed record of my 'every-day,' though the period of time I have cited is arbitrary; I intend to document different stages of life rather than periods of time.
It is 10pm on Sunday, April 26th, 2009. Tomorrow is the last day of the Spring semester. I feel like there is so much to tell, most of it humdrum and mundane, but I will persevere. I would like to know what I did in fourth grade, what my days were composed of, and someday I would like to know what I did in Spring of '09. So here goes.
I will start with an overview of what my weeks have been like. [then discuss my classes,
Monday: Try to wake up early like 8 or 9 but usually fail. Sometimes sleep till 1:30, God forbid any later, but sometimes I succeed in my goal. First Monday of the semester I believe I woke up around 8 and wrote a Blog. Generally, if I have this time, I will clean the house, primarily the kitchen and secondarily my room. Documentary film is at 3:00pm. Class was originally held in the downstairs of Aderhold, but after our room was subject to flood damage it has been moved to the third floor which I often forget. Sometimes after class I go up to the fourth floor balcony and eat lunch, but usually I just head to Five Points station, take the East bound train to Inman Park and, because I get there around 4:30 or 4:45 and the bus doesn't leave till 5:00, I walk about 15 minutes to work on Krog street where I am a janitor and proud of it. For $160 a month, I clean twice a week for about an hour-and-a-half to two hours, though sometimes I shave that down if I'm in a hurry. My employer is my Mother's and she got me the job. Most everyone is nice to me there, but the vacuum is severely worn down and the wheels keep falling off because I vacuum with such intensity (often I pretend that it is a trick, racing show to pass the time). Then I walk back to Inman, rarely catching the bus, and take the train one stop East to Edgewood-Chandler park, arriving home at 188 Mayson Ave. around 7 or 7:30. Hard to say exactly what I do then, maybe clean, maybe homework, maybe write or play music. As most nights that we have not seen each pther in person, I talk to Kate on the phone for around an hour.
Tuesday: Wake up at 9:30, shower, cook breakfast, pack lunch, load backpack, or some or all of those things the night before so I can sleep as late as possible. Lately after class Greg and I will go to Dunkin Doughnuts where I will get a Bagel toasted with Cream Cheese on the side and some kind of doughnut. The man who works behind the counter, whose name I've never known, is extremely nice and makes my coffee as soon as I walk in. Freshman year, after Astronomy class at 10am, I used to go there three times a week. I stopped going because I was making eggs and bacon everyday, but after Kate hinted that could cause a bad cholesterol future to quote (I'm being sarcastic because of my bad syntax), I decided to go back and he remembered me and the coffee I liked! So I now go every Tuesday and Thursday and Greg and I (he usually eats something else or nothing) use one of those dirty, plastic tables that say "FOR CUSTOMERS ONLY!" Hobos hassle us commonly. I then go to Geology at 11pm. Sometimes I am late but I don't really care. Before I was going to Dunkin I used just wait outside the class for 25 minutes or so and read film essays amongst many other students. After class ends at 12:15 I proceed to eat lunch (after urinating and washing my hands of course) during the busiet, most crowded, smoky, and loud time on campus. I used to meet up w/ James at this time, but because of various scheduling difficulties I now eat with Greg, though after eating Dunkin Doughnuts so recently, I generally don't want to eat yet. This is to much detail and kind of boring to write up. But I will persevere! I used to go to Geology lab at 1, but it ended short of the semester, thank God. I usually ride the train to Doraville, as I have done for many Sundays, where Kate picks me up and we usually go the her house, often hitting the bank, my house, or a restaurant like Hudson Grill. On the train I read my Documentary essay for the week, sometimes experiencing motion sickness, and write a short report about it that night or, more commonly...
Wednesday: morning. [Here I had to take a break becuase I was so bored... I will play the guitar now and resume this writing tomorrow]
I would like to do one of these style posts every six months or so so that I can keep a detailed record of my 'every-day,' though the period of time I have cited is arbitrary; I intend to document different stages of life rather than periods of time.
It is 10pm on Sunday, April 26th, 2009. Tomorrow is the last day of the Spring semester. I feel like there is so much to tell, most of it humdrum and mundane, but I will persevere. I would like to know what I did in fourth grade, what my days were composed of, and someday I would like to know what I did in Spring of '09. So here goes.
I will start with an overview of what my weeks have been like. [then discuss my classes,
Monday: Try to wake up early like 8 or 9 but usually fail. Sometimes sleep till 1:30, God forbid any later, but sometimes I succeed in my goal. First Monday of the semester I believe I woke up around 8 and wrote a Blog. Generally, if I have this time, I will clean the house, primarily the kitchen and secondarily my room. Documentary film is at 3:00pm. Class was originally held in the downstairs of Aderhold, but after our room was subject to flood damage it has been moved to the third floor which I often forget. Sometimes after class I go up to the fourth floor balcony and eat lunch, but usually I just head to Five Points station, take the East bound train to Inman Park and, because I get there around 4:30 or 4:45 and the bus doesn't leave till 5:00, I walk about 15 minutes to work on Krog street where I am a janitor and proud of it. For $160 a month, I clean twice a week for about an hour-and-a-half to two hours, though sometimes I shave that down if I'm in a hurry. My employer is my Mother's and she got me the job. Most everyone is nice to me there, but the vacuum is severely worn down and the wheels keep falling off because I vacuum with such intensity (often I pretend that it is a trick, racing show to pass the time). Then I walk back to Inman, rarely catching the bus, and take the train one stop East to Edgewood-Chandler park, arriving home at 188 Mayson Ave. around 7 or 7:30. Hard to say exactly what I do then, maybe clean, maybe homework, maybe write or play music. As most nights that we have not seen each pther in person, I talk to Kate on the phone for around an hour.
Tuesday: Wake up at 9:30, shower, cook breakfast, pack lunch, load backpack, or some or all of those things the night before so I can sleep as late as possible. Lately after class Greg and I will go to Dunkin Doughnuts where I will get a Bagel toasted with Cream Cheese on the side and some kind of doughnut. The man who works behind the counter, whose name I've never known, is extremely nice and makes my coffee as soon as I walk in. Freshman year, after Astronomy class at 10am, I used to go there three times a week. I stopped going because I was making eggs and bacon everyday, but after Kate hinted that could cause a bad cholesterol future to quote (I'm being sarcastic because of my bad syntax), I decided to go back and he remembered me and the coffee I liked! So I now go every Tuesday and Thursday and Greg and I (he usually eats something else or nothing) use one of those dirty, plastic tables that say "FOR CUSTOMERS ONLY!" Hobos hassle us commonly. I then go to Geology at 11pm. Sometimes I am late but I don't really care. Before I was going to Dunkin I used just wait outside the class for 25 minutes or so and read film essays amongst many other students. After class ends at 12:15 I proceed to eat lunch (after urinating and washing my hands of course) during the busiet, most crowded, smoky, and loud time on campus. I used to meet up w/ James at this time, but because of various scheduling difficulties I now eat with Greg, though after eating Dunkin Doughnuts so recently, I generally don't want to eat yet. This is to much detail and kind of boring to write up. But I will persevere! I used to go to Geology lab at 1, but it ended short of the semester, thank God. I usually ride the train to Doraville, as I have done for many Sundays, where Kate picks me up and we usually go the her house, often hitting the bank, my house, or a restaurant like Hudson Grill. On the train I read my Documentary essay for the week, sometimes experiencing motion sickness, and write a short report about it that night or, more commonly...
Wednesday: morning. [Here I had to take a break becuase I was so bored... I will play the guitar now and resume this writing tomorrow]
Power the Moon
238,857 miles of extension chord
and, damn it!
It's a three-pronged chord
for a two-pronged hole
I handwrote this poem some time ago on some notebook paper. I have always liked it and have been meaning to type it up for some time. At this time, I do not have the original copy and have transcribed it from memory, thus there maybe incongruities which I will correct when I locate the original.
One incongruity was expected: when I wrote the original I was sitting in my backyard atop a sewer drain and did not know the distance from Earth to the Moon, so I put in a arbitrarily large number and planned to correct it later - which I have now done.
and, damn it!
It's a three-pronged chord
for a two-pronged hole
I handwrote this poem some time ago on some notebook paper. I have always liked it and have been meaning to type it up for some time. At this time, I do not have the original copy and have transcribed it from memory, thus there maybe incongruities which I will correct when I locate the original.
One incongruity was expected: when I wrote the original I was sitting in my backyard atop a sewer drain and did not know the distance from Earth to the Moon, so I put in a arbitrarily large number and planned to correct it later - which I have now done.
Commencement of Resistentialist Writings and the Haunting Words of David Lynch
The punishment for incorrectly typing the password is a brutal shaking from side to side
So don’t screw it up!
Just kidding
You really don’t need to be so careful
You can always rewrite it
Okay
Now
I need to practice what I preach, instead of preach
So I finally (finally? It has been about a week!) started my resistentialist story - rather, I sat trembling in fear until I could muster up the tiniest bit of courage to begin typing, and once I did I liked nothing that I wrote. I had done a bit of brainstorming prior and ideas had come easily to me; tons of ideas, big ideas, enough ideas to branch into other ideas and procreate with other ideas so that I'd have enough ideas to write a full-length novel. But, with so many ideas that I like (that I want to respect and express well) I have become too damned fearful of screwing them up while transcribing them. So, in my severe cautiousness and over sensitive criticism, I failed to put much down, like much what I had written, and, worst of all, enjoy what I was doing. [I recently watched the documentary Lynch in which the director said something like "If you don't like the doing, you're in the wrong line of work," scolding the notion of a 'tortured artist' and promoting his transcendental meditation driven 'feel good' work ethics. The line has haunted me since and I have worried over every work thinking Is this really what I want to do? Does this make me happy?]
Is it that I'm trying to find any easy way out (what some have called the 'problem with our generation,' that is, we are afraid to work hard)? That may be true, but I don't think this dilemma is at the heart of my issue. Is it that I am afraid of failure? That might be more like it. Do I like the prospect of being an artist but not the creative-constructive process itself? No, now that is just the fear talking. I have always known what I wanted to generally, but know that I have a specific my dreams have become more concrete, solid, and less abstract and fluid, thus they have become more fragile. But I should not fear this transmutation, I should embrace it. I currently have the inspiration to turn something I've always idealized into something real, something I could use, and I should not let a fear of failure restrict that.
I need to remember, just because it has become more solid DOES NOT MEAN THAT I CAN'T STILL CHANGE IT, I CAN! I can edit, I can delete, I can re-write, but I can't re-write if I write nothing in the first place. I need to remember, it is only a first draft - I should just let the ideas flow and cast off my inhibitions. I must get naked and roll around in paint. I must sleep a lot and meditate. I must have a healthy diet and an optomistic outlook. I must be free to all kinds of experimentation. I must smile, ALWAYS! I must subscribe to davidlynch.com and support his advertisement-free web page with my annual pledge of [some unGodly amount of money] and buy his Signature Cup and drink it everyday. You know what they say... if you ain't happy wit 'er, erase 'er head! Ahahaha...
So don’t screw it up!
Just kidding
You really don’t need to be so careful
You can always rewrite it
Okay
Now
I need to practice what I preach, instead of preach
So I finally (finally? It has been about a week!) started my resistentialist story - rather, I sat trembling in fear until I could muster up the tiniest bit of courage to begin typing, and once I did I liked nothing that I wrote. I had done a bit of brainstorming prior and ideas had come easily to me; tons of ideas, big ideas, enough ideas to branch into other ideas and procreate with other ideas so that I'd have enough ideas to write a full-length novel. But, with so many ideas that I like (that I want to respect and express well) I have become too damned fearful of screwing them up while transcribing them. So, in my severe cautiousness and over sensitive criticism, I failed to put much down, like much what I had written, and, worst of all, enjoy what I was doing. [I recently watched the documentary Lynch in which the director said something like "If you don't like the doing, you're in the wrong line of work," scolding the notion of a 'tortured artist' and promoting his transcendental meditation driven 'feel good' work ethics. The line has haunted me since and I have worried over every work thinking Is this really what I want to do? Does this make me happy?]
Is it that I'm trying to find any easy way out (what some have called the 'problem with our generation,' that is, we are afraid to work hard)? That may be true, but I don't think this dilemma is at the heart of my issue. Is it that I am afraid of failure? That might be more like it. Do I like the prospect of being an artist but not the creative-constructive process itself? No, now that is just the fear talking. I have always known what I wanted to generally, but know that I have a specific my dreams have become more concrete, solid, and less abstract and fluid, thus they have become more fragile. But I should not fear this transmutation, I should embrace it. I currently have the inspiration to turn something I've always idealized into something real, something I could use, and I should not let a fear of failure restrict that.
I need to remember, just because it has become more solid DOES NOT MEAN THAT I CAN'T STILL CHANGE IT, I CAN! I can edit, I can delete, I can re-write, but I can't re-write if I write nothing in the first place. I need to remember, it is only a first draft - I should just let the ideas flow and cast off my inhibitions. I must get naked and roll around in paint. I must sleep a lot and meditate. I must have a healthy diet and an optomistic outlook. I must be free to all kinds of experimentation. I must smile, ALWAYS! I must subscribe to davidlynch.com and support his advertisement-free web page with my annual pledge of [some unGodly amount of money] and buy his Signature Cup and drink it everyday. You know what they say... if you ain't happy wit 'er, erase 'er head! Ahahaha...
Thursday, January 1, 2009
Blog better than before, Blog in COLOR!
Quotes from Questions on "Shooter" and Mark Walhberg:
"He's injecting water into his veins?!"
Vein Artery
I now believe the subject of the song Psycho Killer by The Talking Heads is combat stress reaction.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Combat_stress_reaction
i.e. shell shock
( ) Parenthesis indicate that I have quoted the Symptoms and Signs section of the Combat Stress Reaction article on Wikipedia.
[ ] Brackets indicate material that I have asserted, that is, it is NOT quoted in the Symptoms and Signs section of the Combat Stress Reaction article on Wikipedia.
i Itallics indicate translation.
I can’t seem to face up to the facts. [denial]
I’m tense and nervous and I... can’t relax. (Anxiety & Inability to relax)
I can’t sleep, cause my bed’s on fire. (Insomnia & Sweating. )
Don’t touch me I’m a real live wire. (Irritability.)
Psycho Killer [homicidiality is not listed as a symptom, but (suicidality) is]
Qu'est-ce que c'est? What is this? (Confusion. )
fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa far better
Run run run run run run run away (Heightened sense of threat)
OH OH OH
You start a conversation you can't even finish it. (Indecision and lack of concentration)
You're talkin' a lot, but you're not sayin' anything. [same as above]
When I have nothing to say, my lips are sealed. (Disruptive behaviour [?])
Say something once, why say it again?
Ce que j'ai fait, ce soir-là
Ce qu'elle a dit, ce soir-là
Réalisant mon espoir
Je me lance vers la gloire ...
What I did, tonight there which she said, tonight there Realizing my hope I launch myself towards glory... [These lines read like a battle cry
We are vain and we are blind [the dumb confidence of a solider?)
I hate people when they're not polite (Disruptive behaviour [?])
In addition to those listed above, the lyrics and the overall tone of the song correspond to the following listed symptoms:
The slowing of reaction time.
Slowness of thought. [possibly the stuttering]
Difficulty prioritising tasks.
Difficulty initiating routine tasks.
Preoccupation with minor issues and familiar tasks.
Loss of initiative with fatigue.
Exhaustion.
Headaches.
Backaches.
Shaking and tremors.
Sweating.
Dizziness.
Insomnia.
Nightmares.
Restless sleep.
Excessive startle.
Hypervigilance.
Heightened sense of threat.
Anxiety.
Irritability.
Depression.
Loss of adaptability.
Disruptive behaviour.
Loss of beliefs.
Mistrust of others.
Confusion.
Extreme feeling of losing control.
And the last one's the kicker/; done for today!
"He's injecting water into his veins?!"
Vein Artery
I now believe the subject of the song Psycho Killer by The Talking Heads is combat stress reaction.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Combat_stress_reaction
i.e. shell shock
( ) Parenthesis indicate that I have quoted the Symptoms and Signs section of the Combat Stress Reaction article on Wikipedia.
[ ] Brackets indicate material that I have asserted, that is, it is NOT quoted in the Symptoms and Signs section of the Combat Stress Reaction article on Wikipedia.
i Itallics indicate translation.
I can’t seem to face up to the facts. [denial]
I’m tense and nervous and I... can’t relax. (Anxiety & Inability to relax)
I can’t sleep, cause my bed’s on fire. (Insomnia & Sweating. )
Don’t touch me I’m a real live wire. (Irritability.)
Psycho Killer [homicidiality is not listed as a symptom, but (suicidality) is]
Qu'est-ce que c'est? What is this? (Confusion. )
fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa far better
Run run run run run run run away (Heightened sense of threat)
OH OH OH
You start a conversation you can't even finish it. (Indecision and lack of concentration)
You're talkin' a lot, but you're not sayin' anything. [same as above]
When I have nothing to say, my lips are sealed. (Disruptive behaviour [?])
Say something once, why say it again?
Ce que j'ai fait, ce soir-là
Ce qu'elle a dit, ce soir-là
Réalisant mon espoir
Je me lance vers la gloire ...
What I did, tonight there which she said, tonight there Realizing my hope I launch myself towards glory... [These lines read like a battle cry
We are vain and we are blind [the dumb confidence of a solider?)
I hate people when they're not polite (Disruptive behaviour [?])
In addition to those listed above, the lyrics and the overall tone of the song correspond to the following listed symptoms:
The slowing of reaction time.
Slowness of thought. [possibly the stuttering]
Difficulty prioritising tasks.
Difficulty initiating routine tasks.
Preoccupation with minor issues and familiar tasks.
Loss of initiative with fatigue.
Exhaustion.
Headaches.
Backaches.
Shaking and tremors.
Sweating.
Dizziness.
Insomnia.
Nightmares.
Restless sleep.
Excessive startle.
Hypervigilance.
Heightened sense of threat.
Anxiety.
Irritability.
Depression.
Loss of adaptability.
Disruptive behaviour.
Loss of beliefs.
Mistrust of others.
Confusion.
Extreme feeling of losing control.
And the last one's the kicker/; done for today!
Moon Extract
Moon Extract
Use in:
Homemade Ice Cream
Coffee
Apple Sauce
Chili
Improves your:
Typing Abilities
Stamina
Concentration
Vocabulary
Diet
Moon Extract
Use in:
Homemade Ice Cream
Coffee
Apple Sauce
Chili
Improves your:
Typing Abilities
Stamina
Concentration
Vocabulary
Diet
Moon Extract
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