Scotch here in IHQ. The second half of the prologue follows this communique. It's also worth noting that one of our contacts will be introducing I-Crew to Boise, ID. Follow @hyattch on twitter to track the recruiting process.
Before I sign off, I would also like to say thank you for reading, and thank you for keeping an open mind. If the Cryions had their way, we'd all be listening to Miley Cyrus and acting like The Situation. Also, Chapter One begins at IHQ's next update, until then, enjoy the last half of the prologue! Scotch, out.
END TRANSMISSION
Encrypted transmission follows
Dawes Residence
Akron, Ohio
June 6, 2003
19:45 EST
“Owen, hurry up! You’re going to be late!” Martine Dawes yelled up the stairs. “Your father and I want to get a picture of you before you go!”
“Martine, ease up on the boy. He’s going as fast as he needs to. Plaza’s only ten minutes away, it’s not as if he’s going to Timbuktu. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if Owen didn’t go at all” Roger Dawes told his wife.
Owen’s parents were good people, though they frequently annoyed the crap out of him. Roger was the founder of an extremely popular alternative weekly newspaper in the African-American community. Many people regarded him with respect, owing to his charming personality, his square cut jaw and the slight cleft in his chin, and the fact that in his forty-five years of life he never compromised his beliefs, even against stiff opposition. He looked intimidating with his broad shoulders and standing six foot and an inch, but not overly so.
Martine was satisfied with freelance photography when not teaching kindergarten, while her husband stayed at home and looked after the paper. She was a buxom woman, a real June Cleaver in all senses of the term. During the summer while Roger worked, she more or less ran the house, having decided that once she left the Akron police department that all she wanted to do was put her feet up, and every so often enjoy a mint julep or two. Sometimes, because they were so externally personable and genuine, people thought that they were two working schmoes who had moved to North Hill in Akron straight from Normalville Kansas, 1955. In reality, he had moved from the heart of the ghettos of Atlanta, she had moved from Greenwich, Connecticut with the spoon still in her mouth, and both of them were loaded in their own right. Both loved their only son deeply, though they were relatively overprotective, and when he came home yesterday they were both concerned about his emotional state. Though the hurt was an emotional one, one best suited for a mother’s touch, it was Roger’s words that had put Owen’s mind at ease.
As Owen put on his jacket, and made his way to his bedroom door, striding towards the inevitable encounter with his apparent ex-girlfriend, he remembered what his father had told him two years earlier while going through the sophomore year transition.
Son, you’re sixteen now, I think it‘s now time for us to speak like men. This whole deal is just that high school bullshit. When you guys get to college and see that the high school games don’t work, people’ll see just how bad they got owned in high school. And if that doesn’t help, at least there’s the cheap and petty feeling that you know that when they finally figure this out, you’ll be able say “’Bout time y‘all came up.”
That was the first time that his dad had ever revealed that side of his personality, the hidden rogue in him, and it had encouraged Owen to stand up tall and be his own man, regardless of the societal pressure placed upon young men his age. He just had to be damned careful not to show that side to his mother.
“Very nice! That’s very nice!” Mrs. Dawes told her son.
“Mom, it’s just a shirt and khakis.”
“But still, you look good in them!”
“Lord, give me strength.” Owen said under his breath.
“Martie, you keep smothering him like that and he’ll really be late.”
“Okay Owen, be careful and be back by midnight.”
“Midnight? Are you kidding me?”
“I'm inclined to agree, Martie.”
She cocked a brow and looked at her husband like he'd lost his mind.
“And what would you consider reasonable?” she asked the two gentlemen standing around her.
“Two-thirty.” Owen said.
“Try again.” Roger said.
“Two?”
“One.” Martine said.
“One-thirty?”
Roger and Martine looked at each other for a moment.
“Done.” Martine said. “Just be careful.”
“I will, Mom.” Owen said, opening the front door. “Love you guys.” And with a nod of Mr. Dawes’ head, Owen shut the door.
Owen opened his door, turned the car over and turned on his radio. With a frown, he tuned away from 92.3 FM. Ever since they went oldies, then death metal, they hadn’t been the same. He tuned to 96.5, the new home for what used to be Hot 101 and quickly changed away from Jessie Griffin’s newest pop hit. 98.1 was playing Tina Aquila’s song about some sort of bottle he didn’t give a damn about, and listening to Raven 100 would still be sacrilege after the unceremonious firing of their most popular and competent on-air talent.
God...hell with this.
He turned on his CD player. He thought he’d never be glad to be listening to 4 Unabridged’s three year old version of eurotechno. Swinging the car onto North Main Street, he looked back toward his house, head bopping along to the beat, wind flowing smoothly around his head.
I hope to Christ that this party’s gonna be worth it. Owen thought. He cruised along the High Level Bridge, unaware that six miles above him, hurtling rapidly down at twice the speed of sound, ahead of him would be the last object he would see.
He heard and felt the concussion of the sonic boom pass over him.
What the fu-
He was suddenly shoved violently to the side by the force of the heat and pressure caused by the slipstream of the passing object. He looked up to see a smooth, gun metal gray behemoth passing over and just ahead of him. He mercifully blacked out after it had cleared him, so he didn't see the object dropping through the sky only to plow into the bridge a scant fifty feet ahead of him, nor was he aware of the car beginning its descent into the Cuyahoga Valley.
Monday, July 5, 2010
Friday, July 2, 2010
The HQ Is Back in Business!
For those of you just joining the game, welcome to Instigator's HQ! My name is Owen, callsign Scotch and you're here because you want to tell the truth about the state of pop culture and society, even if it means arrest!
After a brief hiatus, we have received new mission orders from Goliath: Release The Instigator's Manifesto, the story of how IHQ was created, on the web! So I will be posting all 133,000+ words on here in sections, beginning with the prologue below. Enjoy, and remember, this is a work of fiction, partially based in reality.
PROLOGUE
Wallace High School
Cuyahoga Falls, Ohio
June 6, 2003
1430 EST
Owen Dawes’ stride was long and deliberate as he walked into the parking lot. He yanked
his car door open and sank in a huff into the driver’s seat. He shut the door of his blue Ford
Taurus and put on his seat belt. He took a moment to look at himself in the mirror. He cleared his brown eyes of debris, ran his hand over his short black hair, taking care to notice the feeling of short bristle in the wake of a fresh haircut, and ran his thumb and forefinger around his goatee to make sure there was nothing in it. His facial composure more or less regained, he now adjusted the mirror so he could see through the window behind him and placed the key in the ignition.
“Owen, wait!” a voice from behind him called in a pleading tone.
A good fifty feet away, Mariel Scott ran towards the car, dirty blonde hair flowing behind
her.
Jesus Christ. Now what the hell else do I have to deal with?
Mariel sat next to him in English class during their junior year at Wallace High. Like
every other guy in the school, he'd had a major crush on her. To be totally fair, it was more of an
infatuation, as she had the body of a Barbie doll, without necessarily having the mental attributes of one. He hadn’t said anything about it to her because there wasnabsolutely no realistic chance in holy hell that the homecoming queen, head cheerleader and all around most popular person in the school would be bothered to even approach the most average looking person in the class.
He wasn’t an athlete by any means, sticking mainly with tech crew and other liberal arts
extracurriculars. He didn’t have a flashy car, wore glasses and certainly was not ripped and cut
like most of the other senior guys. Her friends spent their time at concerts, shopping and
partying. His spent their free time reading, writing, and getting together at Susan’s Coffee and
Tea. Naturally, he had asked himself just what lucky star he'd been born under when she walked up to him in the middle of the Commons and asked him out the last day before Christmas vacation. He'd asked her if someone had put her up to it. Her response was pulling him around the corner and Frenching him. His response was getting ridiculously wasted with his friends in anticipation of the Rapture, which would be pretty pleasant as watching the original Peanuts ice skating in on their little frozen pond in Hell to Vince Guaraldi's theme music was getting boring.
“Can we at least talk about it?” Mariel asked.
Owen pressed the switch that activated the power windows
“Look Owen, it’s not you. It’s me.” Mariel started, leaning through the passenger side
window.
At least have the balls to not start with that old chestnut.
“I just feel like we drifted apart recently.”
“Right, I mean the play started up and I was hanging out more with the tech crew and you
were hanging with the other seven-eighths of the school. It was bound to happen eventually, high school social structures and all.”
“Look, Mitch was around a lot and-“
“And you were still in shock from falling into Mitch's lap that your mouth was still open, yeah, okay.”
“That’s not fair.” Mariel whimpered, a tear forming in the corner of her eye.
“No it’s not. What’s fair is at least telling me where I stood. It doesn’t matter anymore,
really. Look, I’ve got to get home.”
“Will you at least come to Jordan’s party tomorrow? He booked out the Plaza.”
“Jordan‘s throwing a party in a hotel? Well I‘ll be sure to show up to that.” Owen said in
a sarcastic tone.
“Really? You’ll come?”
At that precise moment a mousy looking kid opened the front passenger door and
climbed into the front seat, seemingly oblivious to the teen drama unfolding.
“Ready to rock?” Shawn Greene asked.
“Excellent timing, my friend.” Owen replied. Turning back to Mariel he said, “We’ll
see.” and started the car. He put the car in reverse then said, “but don’t hold your breath”
Owen released the brake, Mariel took a step back and just like that, Owen was speeding
down Wyaga Pond Drive, and out of her life. The worst thing about it was that she knew he was
right.
“You deserve better.” Shawn said. Shawn was an average looking white kid. His brown
hair, overly polite mannerisms and mature mindset made him seem at least five years senior to
his seventeen year old self.
‘I know, right? Who the hell dumps a guy for no other reason than to maintain social
status and then tries to rationalize it?”
“Bleach blondes.”
“Power daters.”
“Don’t forget sorostitutes-in-training” Shawn added.
“Of course!”
Owen turned his mp3 player on, filling the car with the sounds of Stacy Mallory and
Gerideau.
''God, I could seriously use a mocha and a biscotti.”
“So, where am I dropping you today?”
“At home. My mom wants me to sign for some package she's getting today.”
“Not another one of those liberal anarchy survivalist deals.”
“Nah, nah, nothing that bad. I think it's Aunt Rose's yearly summer cookbook.”
“Oh jeez. When's she gonna learn that no one in your family are vegans.”
"We'll give her until Thanksgiving. One more tofurky and someone's gonna have to say
something.”
All of a sudden, Owen slammed his hand against the steering wheel and yelled “Damn
it!”
“Don't worry man,” Shawn said, commiserating with his friend “You'll get over her soon
enough.”
“You know me, I'm already done. I told her upfront, take me for me, and not as some
social whatever, and we're kosher. She screwed me, I'll learn for next time. What I'm pissed
about is how this kind of crap's the norm.”
“What do you mean”
"When, in all of your years of school, has who's dating or sleeping with who been crucial
information?”
“Other than high school?'
“Including high school”
“Never”
“There you go.”
“Yeah man. It's bollocksed up.”
“Ain't that the truth.”
END TRANSMISSION
auth code EAVB_FUKWEFTMAH
After a brief hiatus, we have received new mission orders from Goliath: Release The Instigator's Manifesto, the story of how IHQ was created, on the web! So I will be posting all 133,000+ words on here in sections, beginning with the prologue below. Enjoy, and remember, this is a work of fiction, partially based in reality.
PROLOGUE
Wallace High School
Cuyahoga Falls, Ohio
June 6, 2003
1430 EST
Owen Dawes’ stride was long and deliberate as he walked into the parking lot. He yanked
his car door open and sank in a huff into the driver’s seat. He shut the door of his blue Ford
Taurus and put on his seat belt. He took a moment to look at himself in the mirror. He cleared his brown eyes of debris, ran his hand over his short black hair, taking care to notice the feeling of short bristle in the wake of a fresh haircut, and ran his thumb and forefinger around his goatee to make sure there was nothing in it. His facial composure more or less regained, he now adjusted the mirror so he could see through the window behind him and placed the key in the ignition.
“Owen, wait!” a voice from behind him called in a pleading tone.
A good fifty feet away, Mariel Scott ran towards the car, dirty blonde hair flowing behind
her.
Jesus Christ. Now what the hell else do I have to deal with?
Mariel sat next to him in English class during their junior year at Wallace High. Like
every other guy in the school, he'd had a major crush on her. To be totally fair, it was more of an
infatuation, as she had the body of a Barbie doll, without necessarily having the mental attributes of one. He hadn’t said anything about it to her because there wasnabsolutely no realistic chance in holy hell that the homecoming queen, head cheerleader and all around most popular person in the school would be bothered to even approach the most average looking person in the class.
He wasn’t an athlete by any means, sticking mainly with tech crew and other liberal arts
extracurriculars. He didn’t have a flashy car, wore glasses and certainly was not ripped and cut
like most of the other senior guys. Her friends spent their time at concerts, shopping and
partying. His spent their free time reading, writing, and getting together at Susan’s Coffee and
Tea. Naturally, he had asked himself just what lucky star he'd been born under when she walked up to him in the middle of the Commons and asked him out the last day before Christmas vacation. He'd asked her if someone had put her up to it. Her response was pulling him around the corner and Frenching him. His response was getting ridiculously wasted with his friends in anticipation of the Rapture, which would be pretty pleasant as watching the original Peanuts ice skating in on their little frozen pond in Hell to Vince Guaraldi's theme music was getting boring.
“Can we at least talk about it?” Mariel asked.
Owen pressed the switch that activated the power windows
“Look Owen, it’s not you. It’s me.” Mariel started, leaning through the passenger side
window.
At least have the balls to not start with that old chestnut.
“I just feel like we drifted apart recently.”
“Right, I mean the play started up and I was hanging out more with the tech crew and you
were hanging with the other seven-eighths of the school. It was bound to happen eventually, high school social structures and all.”
“Look, Mitch was around a lot and-“
“And you were still in shock from falling into Mitch's lap that your mouth was still open, yeah, okay.”
“That’s not fair.” Mariel whimpered, a tear forming in the corner of her eye.
“No it’s not. What’s fair is at least telling me where I stood. It doesn’t matter anymore,
really. Look, I’ve got to get home.”
“Will you at least come to Jordan’s party tomorrow? He booked out the Plaza.”
“Jordan‘s throwing a party in a hotel? Well I‘ll be sure to show up to that.” Owen said in
a sarcastic tone.
“Really? You’ll come?”
At that precise moment a mousy looking kid opened the front passenger door and
climbed into the front seat, seemingly oblivious to the teen drama unfolding.
“Ready to rock?” Shawn Greene asked.
“Excellent timing, my friend.” Owen replied. Turning back to Mariel he said, “We’ll
see.” and started the car. He put the car in reverse then said, “but don’t hold your breath”
Owen released the brake, Mariel took a step back and just like that, Owen was speeding
down Wyaga Pond Drive, and out of her life. The worst thing about it was that she knew he was
right.
“You deserve better.” Shawn said. Shawn was an average looking white kid. His brown
hair, overly polite mannerisms and mature mindset made him seem at least five years senior to
his seventeen year old self.
‘I know, right? Who the hell dumps a guy for no other reason than to maintain social
status and then tries to rationalize it?”
“Bleach blondes.”
“Power daters.”
“Don’t forget sorostitutes-in-training” Shawn added.
“Of course!”
Owen turned his mp3 player on, filling the car with the sounds of Stacy Mallory and
Gerideau.
''God, I could seriously use a mocha and a biscotti.”
“So, where am I dropping you today?”
“At home. My mom wants me to sign for some package she's getting today.”
“Not another one of those liberal anarchy survivalist deals.”
“Nah, nah, nothing that bad. I think it's Aunt Rose's yearly summer cookbook.”
“Oh jeez. When's she gonna learn that no one in your family are vegans.”
"We'll give her until Thanksgiving. One more tofurky and someone's gonna have to say
something.”
All of a sudden, Owen slammed his hand against the steering wheel and yelled “Damn
it!”
“Don't worry man,” Shawn said, commiserating with his friend “You'll get over her soon
enough.”
“You know me, I'm already done. I told her upfront, take me for me, and not as some
social whatever, and we're kosher. She screwed me, I'll learn for next time. What I'm pissed
about is how this kind of crap's the norm.”
“What do you mean”
"When, in all of your years of school, has who's dating or sleeping with who been crucial
information?”
“Other than high school?'
“Including high school”
“Never”
“There you go.”
“Yeah man. It's bollocksed up.”
“Ain't that the truth.”
END TRANSMISSION
auth code EAVB_FUKWEFTMAH
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
How to Call a Spade a Spade (or Generalization 101)
I have loads of discussions with people, and more often than not we'll get on he topic of modern society and pop culture and then I start saying truths about shows, about people. The number one response to these truths: You can't generalize or stereotype."
First of all, let's get our terms straight, because like irony, most people don't get it. The Dictionary.com definition of generalization is the act or process of generalizing. a result of this process; a general statement, idea, or principle, whereas stereotype is defined as a simplified and standardized conception or image invested with special meaning and held in common by members of a group.
For those who don't see the difference still, I'll boil it down to one word: intent. I'm a descriptive learner, so I'll paint a pretty picture, using white people (only for ease of clarity, I promise!). Take the statement 'Generally speaking white people are either brunettes or blondes.' This is a generalization that can be interpreted in several similar and correct ways. By number, there are more brunettes and blondes than anything else, which is true. By instance, you're more likely to see a brunette or a blonde, which is also true, by virtue of, and independent of the previous point. In the observer's experiences, they've seen more brunettes and blondes than anything else. These are quantifiable facts.
Stereotypes are generalizations with intent. Rich young white women are stuck up, conceited, easy, skanky ass fame whore bitches. By number, this is not (necessarily) true, in my observing experience this is not (quite) true, so it can't be a legit generalization, but because every time I turn on my TV and see those kind of women, I can make that claim, knowing it's a stereotype. I know most white people, to say nothing of rich ones, don't (necessarily) act (quite) like that, but if I want to take a shot at them that's what I'd say.
So the next time I take a shot at Paris Hilton types ask yourself a question: How many of these Paris Hilton types are there. If your answer is along the lines of 'more than enough' then shut the hell up. You no longer have an excuse for your ignorance.
First of all, let's get our terms straight, because like irony, most people don't get it. The Dictionary.com definition of generalization is the act or process of generalizing. a result of this process; a general statement, idea, or principle, whereas stereotype is defined as a simplified and standardized conception or image invested with special meaning and held in common by members of a group.
For those who don't see the difference still, I'll boil it down to one word: intent. I'm a descriptive learner, so I'll paint a pretty picture, using white people (only for ease of clarity, I promise!). Take the statement 'Generally speaking white people are either brunettes or blondes.' This is a generalization that can be interpreted in several similar and correct ways. By number, there are more brunettes and blondes than anything else, which is true. By instance, you're more likely to see a brunette or a blonde, which is also true, by virtue of, and independent of the previous point. In the observer's experiences, they've seen more brunettes and blondes than anything else. These are quantifiable facts.
Stereotypes are generalizations with intent. Rich young white women are stuck up, conceited, easy, skanky ass fame whore bitches. By number, this is not (necessarily) true, in my observing experience this is not (quite) true, so it can't be a legit generalization, but because every time I turn on my TV and see those kind of women, I can make that claim, knowing it's a stereotype. I know most white people, to say nothing of rich ones, don't (necessarily) act (quite) like that, but if I want to take a shot at them that's what I'd say.
So the next time I take a shot at Paris Hilton types ask yourself a question: How many of these Paris Hilton types are there. If your answer is along the lines of 'more than enough' then shut the hell up. You no longer have an excuse for your ignorance.
Friday, February 19, 2010
Techno Hypocrisy
For the last twenty years techno music has been a means to an end. 808s, 909s, synths and all the other familiar sounds have sold everything from action films to educational kiddie toys. You can't go to a professional sports arena without hearing a techno song. So why is it when I ask people their thoughts on techno music they say either that they don't like it, or that nobody listens to it? I think it's because they're grossly ignorant, but let's look at some examples
When I was young and in college, I would go to the bar and look through the Touch Tunes jukebox. After about always walk away disappointed at the lack of current techno, if they had any at all, or bad and old techno from good artists. If I could find something current and good, and played it, the deebies and sorostitutes with them would be all 'What the fuck's this gay shit?' Now when I go to the bar, I can't so much as spit without hearing 'I Gotta Feeling' or fucking Lady Gaga or David Guetta being a turncoat sell-out bastard, and what's worse, they're actively shitting on proper electro
Speaking of college and douchebags, if techno was a religion and DJs could be patron saints, Saint Bob Sinclar (or Christopher whatever the hell his last name is) would be the patron saint of douchbaggery, asshattery, Abercrombie and fraternities.
Compilation CDs are a total cop out. Dance Nation commercials have been on TV for God knows how long, to say nothing of the Ultra Dance series. I would include NOW, but since they have always been about bubblegum pop with those few 'acceptable' songs (Rockerfella Skank, South Side etc) they actually get the free pass because their bullshit is nothing new. Either way, if you're going to do a techno album, compilation or otherwise, at least have the front to call it what it is.
And speaking of front, what pisses me off above all is the front 'rap culture' has. I say 'rap culture' because apparently it's cool for allegedly hard white people to act like they were actively discriminated against, but that's for another topic. For the late 90s and early 2000s rap consistently rejected techno out of hand, insisting on making their own beats as they had since the 80s, which I can't blame them for. They even went so far to say that techno isn't real music, and then there was that ridiculous beef between Eminem and Moby, pre-sell out days. Then Kanye West drops 'Stronger' and I needed to find a weapon
For those who don' t already know, 'Stronger' is little more than Kanye rapping over a rearrangement of the main hook and chorus from Daft Punk's 'Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger', which dropped six years prior. This practice is called sampling, it's been around forever, and as longs as you give credit to the artists, and you respect the track by not fucking it up, I'm fine. Kanye won the Grammy, and did the right thing by Daft Punk, bringing them to the show to make the beat live. Great move by Kanye, but unfortunately, he flashed the Batsignal for the new trend of putting techno hooks in your track.
Pitbull is the most flagrant example. He took Nicola Fasano vs. Pat Rich's "75, Brazil Street" made NO changes to it, and just rapped over the top, messing up the title of the track as he covers himself. Ne-Yo and Usher songs by definition are house songs. I don't give a fuck what you kiddies screaming "It's R&B" at the top of your lungs say or scream, you're wrong, do your musical homework starting with the blues section.
If music were a religion, I'd have a fatwa on T.I. It's one thing to shamelessly rip Crystal Waters' "Gypsy Woman". That track, while still the tip, as evidenced by the host of recent clones and imitators, is twenty years old. I can understand it being sampled to death, but not in the way T.I. did it. Musically it worked, but the purpose he use it for was ludicrous. Song is diametrically opposed to the life T.I was talking about, let alone the actual beat, but I can live with that. What I can't live with is his taking O-zone's "Dragostea Din Tei" (the motherfucking Numa Numa song) with Riahanna on the half yodels, putting a beat on it and calling himself hard. First, any use of the Numa Numa song outsideof techno makes you lame and second, fuck you T.I. for even having the idea. Besides, what happened to techno not being music, or being fake or lame?
I'm musically equivalent to or ahead of the curve. Sounds grandiose, I know, but I don't claim to be consciously aware of it most of the time, but it's not as if I didn't know or see this coming. If you look at it, Two Door Cinema Club and other similar bands have artistic roots as far back as 1998 with bands like Capitol K (their hit song 'Pillow' was the background music for the first generation of 'priceless' MasterCard commercials, specifically the one where they college boy goes to Europe), which I picked up on in 2001-2002. I kind of sort of called the play on electro back in '05 when I went on a pretty large Late Night Alumni/Annie/Daybehavior bender, the former two I jumped on when they dropped, thank you Kaskade. Electro as fuck, evoking thoughts of New Order, Depeche Mode and OMD.
Here's a fun fact: I've never really sat down and took the time to listen to Depeche Mode, though I've heard of them most of my life.
When I was young and in college, I would go to the bar and look through the Touch Tunes jukebox. After about always walk away disappointed at the lack of current techno, if they had any at all, or bad and old techno from good artists. If I could find something current and good, and played it, the deebies and sorostitutes with them would be all 'What the fuck's this gay shit?' Now when I go to the bar, I can't so much as spit without hearing 'I Gotta Feeling' or fucking Lady Gaga or David Guetta being a turncoat sell-out bastard, and what's worse, they're actively shitting on proper electro
Speaking of college and douchebags, if techno was a religion and DJs could be patron saints, Saint Bob Sinclar (or Christopher whatever the hell his last name is) would be the patron saint of douchbaggery, asshattery, Abercrombie and fraternities.
Compilation CDs are a total cop out. Dance Nation commercials have been on TV for God knows how long, to say nothing of the Ultra Dance series. I would include NOW, but since they have always been about bubblegum pop with those few 'acceptable' songs (Rockerfella Skank, South Side etc) they actually get the free pass because their bullshit is nothing new. Either way, if you're going to do a techno album, compilation or otherwise, at least have the front to call it what it is.
And speaking of front, what pisses me off above all is the front 'rap culture' has. I say 'rap culture' because apparently it's cool for allegedly hard white people to act like they were actively discriminated against, but that's for another topic. For the late 90s and early 2000s rap consistently rejected techno out of hand, insisting on making their own beats as they had since the 80s, which I can't blame them for. They even went so far to say that techno isn't real music, and then there was that ridiculous beef between Eminem and Moby, pre-sell out days. Then Kanye West drops 'Stronger' and I needed to find a weapon
For those who don' t already know, 'Stronger' is little more than Kanye rapping over a rearrangement of the main hook and chorus from Daft Punk's 'Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger', which dropped six years prior. This practice is called sampling, it's been around forever, and as longs as you give credit to the artists, and you respect the track by not fucking it up, I'm fine. Kanye won the Grammy, and did the right thing by Daft Punk, bringing them to the show to make the beat live. Great move by Kanye, but unfortunately, he flashed the Batsignal for the new trend of putting techno hooks in your track.
Pitbull is the most flagrant example. He took Nicola Fasano vs. Pat Rich's "75, Brazil Street" made NO changes to it, and just rapped over the top, messing up the title of the track as he covers himself. Ne-Yo and Usher songs by definition are house songs. I don't give a fuck what you kiddies screaming "It's R&B" at the top of your lungs say or scream, you're wrong, do your musical homework starting with the blues section.
If music were a religion, I'd have a fatwa on T.I. It's one thing to shamelessly rip Crystal Waters' "Gypsy Woman". That track, while still the tip, as evidenced by the host of recent clones and imitators, is twenty years old. I can understand it being sampled to death, but not in the way T.I. did it. Musically it worked, but the purpose he use it for was ludicrous. Song is diametrically opposed to the life T.I was talking about, let alone the actual beat, but I can live with that. What I can't live with is his taking O-zone's "Dragostea Din Tei" (the motherfucking Numa Numa song) with Riahanna on the half yodels, putting a beat on it and calling himself hard. First, any use of the Numa Numa song outsideof techno makes you lame and second, fuck you T.I. for even having the idea. Besides, what happened to techno not being music, or being fake or lame?
I'm musically equivalent to or ahead of the curve. Sounds grandiose, I know, but I don't claim to be consciously aware of it most of the time, but it's not as if I didn't know or see this coming. If you look at it, Two Door Cinema Club and other similar bands have artistic roots as far back as 1998 with bands like Capitol K (their hit song 'Pillow' was the background music for the first generation of 'priceless' MasterCard commercials, specifically the one where they college boy goes to Europe), which I picked up on in 2001-2002. I kind of sort of called the play on electro back in '05 when I went on a pretty large Late Night Alumni/Annie/Daybehavior bender, the former two I jumped on when they dropped, thank you Kaskade. Electro as fuck, evoking thoughts of New Order, Depeche Mode and OMD.
Here's a fun fact: I've never really sat down and took the time to listen to Depeche Mode, though I've heard of them most of my life.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Eridani
The crown jewel of the Eridani system burned against the blackness of space. 40 Eridani A shone a brilliant red-orange as it rotated happily in the Auriga constellation. It was a type K, an average aging star along the main sequence, smaller and cooler than Sol. It hiccuped, kicking a stream of high energy plasma away from it in a flash of light so bright that the Kongai starcruiser T'fari's main optical systems overloaded seven light-minutes away, forcing a course change to turn away from the flare.
Sixteen years later, a new light surrounded both the flare and the star, without warning and without wavering in intensity. The controller at the Eridani starport looked down at his console when the amber alert lights started flashing. Three power spikes in rapid succession flashed on his EM sensors. The first one was the T'fari's shields going up. The second was the biggest energy wave he'd ever seen in his sixty-two years of service. The third, not surprisingly, was the T'fari's jump engines coming online, a yellow jump point into hyperspace forming twenty-thousand tezlov off their port bow.
He stood, looking up and out of the viewport. A bright speck of light winked into existence and began growing larger and brighter, larger and ever brighter. In a remarkably detached, deadpan tone of voice, he communicated the only thought in his mind to open space as the entire station was immersed in the pure, white light of the approaching wave.
“Not again.”
He sat in his chair and checked his readings one more time. Confirming the imminent
arrival of the wave, he looked up, and for one brief moment, just as the T'fari's jump point closed into a twinkle of light, it seemed to him that the universe itself gave him the cosmic equivalent of the wink and the gun. Then, the jump point, the station, the planet, the entire Eridani system improbably disappeared without trace.
Only three living souls saw what used to be a decent getaway within five jumps of all the major tourist areas in the sector, be replaced by a satellite map of the city of Akron. They all walked in the room at the same time.
Sixteen years later, a new light surrounded both the flare and the star, without warning and without wavering in intensity. The controller at the Eridani starport looked down at his console when the amber alert lights started flashing. Three power spikes in rapid succession flashed on his EM sensors. The first one was the T'fari's shields going up. The second was the biggest energy wave he'd ever seen in his sixty-two years of service. The third, not surprisingly, was the T'fari's jump engines coming online, a yellow jump point into hyperspace forming twenty-thousand tezlov off their port bow.
He stood, looking up and out of the viewport. A bright speck of light winked into existence and began growing larger and brighter, larger and ever brighter. In a remarkably detached, deadpan tone of voice, he communicated the only thought in his mind to open space as the entire station was immersed in the pure, white light of the approaching wave.
“Not again.”
He sat in his chair and checked his readings one more time. Confirming the imminent
arrival of the wave, he looked up, and for one brief moment, just as the T'fari's jump point closed into a twinkle of light, it seemed to him that the universe itself gave him the cosmic equivalent of the wink and the gun. Then, the jump point, the station, the planet, the entire Eridani system improbably disappeared without trace.
Only three living souls saw what used to be a decent getaway within five jumps of all the major tourist areas in the sector, be replaced by a satellite map of the city of Akron. They all walked in the room at the same time.
Monday, February 15, 2010
American Idol Is a Sham
A few thoughts on American Idol:
Only two of them remain relevant, namely Kelly Clarkson (the first) and Carrie Underwood (the country girl that's nice to look at)
No one gives a damn about the male contestants
You know you're getting a raw shake from the name of the show. They're not looking for singers, they're looking for Idols.
As long as you make the top ten you're guaranteed a deal
How is it that that there are no representatives of the record industry on the show, let alone be one of the judges. Thee closest thing up there was Randy Jackson, a producer. Where's the A & R guys, or the record execs themselves?
Understanding they're looking for pop singers, why is it, aside from Carrie Underwood, barely, there's absolutely no diversity except for on racial lines? White Idols sing like Britney and Justin, the black Idols like Beyonce and Usher.
Ellen DeGeneres? Don't get me wrong, I like Ellen. I've liked Ellen since 'These Friends of Mine"
(yeah bitches, I straight went old school on your asses) but since when is she a credible authority on music? Show me an Ellen EP or a Grammy that's not for comedy and I'll shut up
I won't get into the unoriginality of it except to say I've got two words for you: Star Search.
You ever notice how they like to humiliate people? Again granted that people knew what they were getting into, but then again if you sucked that bad and no one told you, then they put it on TV, how would you feel? I'm surprised no one's killed themselves over that.
Have they considered a format change? Or at the very least, a raising of the bar talent wise. Oh wait, that'll never happen because IT'S REALITY TV
Only two of them remain relevant, namely Kelly Clarkson (the first) and Carrie Underwood (the country girl that's nice to look at)
No one gives a damn about the male contestants
You know you're getting a raw shake from the name of the show. They're not looking for singers, they're looking for Idols.
As long as you make the top ten you're guaranteed a deal
How is it that that there are no representatives of the record industry on the show, let alone be one of the judges. Thee closest thing up there was Randy Jackson, a producer. Where's the A & R guys, or the record execs themselves?
Understanding they're looking for pop singers, why is it, aside from Carrie Underwood, barely, there's absolutely no diversity except for on racial lines? White Idols sing like Britney and Justin, the black Idols like Beyonce and Usher.
Ellen DeGeneres? Don't get me wrong, I like Ellen. I've liked Ellen since 'These Friends of Mine"
(yeah bitches, I straight went old school on your asses) but since when is she a credible authority on music? Show me an Ellen EP or a Grammy that's not for comedy and I'll shut up
I won't get into the unoriginality of it except to say I've got two words for you: Star Search.
You ever notice how they like to humiliate people? Again granted that people knew what they were getting into, but then again if you sucked that bad and no one told you, then they put it on TV, how would you feel? I'm surprised no one's killed themselves over that.
Have they considered a format change? Or at the very least, a raising of the bar talent wise. Oh wait, that'll never happen because IT'S REALITY TV
Sunday, February 14, 2010
The Myspace Angle (aka Happy Valentine's Day)
I get the fact that people are self conscious. I understand people want to look good at all times, in all situations. I can even understand the idiotic tendencies both genders have to modifying themselves to look more attractive than they normally would be. But ladies and gentlemen, in this digital age where there's more than one picture of you on the web, there's really no such thing as 'your best face'. Enter the myspace angle.
The myspace angle is a technique of photography, made popular on myspace, by which not-so attractive women make themselves look more attractive my taking a picture that generally only features head, neck, boobs and maybe some leg action. The pictures are self-shot, generally using the one armed 'party' shot position, but can also happen in the bathroom using a mirror.
The visual mechanics are simple. When men look at pictures of women, they only look at faces, tits, legs and asses. As such, the faces are heavily made up, mask like even. The boobs are visible in either a low cut shirt, a tight fitting shirt for the curve, or with bra only. The legs, if visible, are shaved, and you never really see much of them.
Now if you're astute, you already know where I'm going with this. If not, first realize this is a generalization based on observed situations, and second, I challenge you to prove me wrong. The people most likely to use this angle are bigger women. Defining 'big', because according to Hollywood, big is a size four, big means blatantly outright fat. Not obese, but just fat. Not muscular heavy, not 'thick' but straight up fat (there'll be a blog post about size soon, I promise you). They use it for the obvious reasons, and for the obvious reasons, it will work., but here's my overriding points:
First, guys on the web know the myspace angle as soon as it's presented to them. Second, guys who are total n00bs can recognize he myspace angle immediately. Third, unless the only profile pictures of you are of the myspace angle, guys are going to figure out your true size. Fourth, if all your profile pictures are myspace angled, then it's as sure as telling someone your true size.
Now for some tips: Ladies, stop abusing the shot. I realize the full on shot isn't always desired, but Jesus Christ, it's like loading an Uzi with silver bullets. Sooner or later, you'll have a useless weapon. Be loud, be proud. If the guys can't handle it, fuck 'em, they're not worth it. I'm not saying that it's a free pass to be a slobby as humanly possible, but for the sake if nothing else, your health, at the very least, take care of yourselves. Guys have to do the same, it's a two way street.
Gentlemen: I know what I'm about to do is like shouting at a brick wall, but stop being so damned image obsessed. Women are not our playthings, they are not to be molded into what we want. Take them as they are or don't put them through unnecessary grief. Here's something else that you don't want to hear, we're responsible for the myspace angle. The douchebags amongst us have forced women to find creative ways to be noticed when they don't have to. For serious gentlemen, they're boobs, we'll fondle them, and it's a warm vagina, we'll put our pee pees into them. It's a matter of degrees after that and the spacing is ludicrous.
So with that, happy Valentine's Day. Spread the love to everyone, just don't get her pregnant, and don't give him/her lasting marks for work tomorrow.
The myspace angle is a technique of photography, made popular on myspace, by which not-so attractive women make themselves look more attractive my taking a picture that generally only features head, neck, boobs and maybe some leg action. The pictures are self-shot, generally using the one armed 'party' shot position, but can also happen in the bathroom using a mirror.
The visual mechanics are simple. When men look at pictures of women, they only look at faces, tits, legs and asses. As such, the faces are heavily made up, mask like even. The boobs are visible in either a low cut shirt, a tight fitting shirt for the curve, or with bra only. The legs, if visible, are shaved, and you never really see much of them.
Now if you're astute, you already know where I'm going with this. If not, first realize this is a generalization based on observed situations, and second, I challenge you to prove me wrong. The people most likely to use this angle are bigger women. Defining 'big', because according to Hollywood, big is a size four, big means blatantly outright fat. Not obese, but just fat. Not muscular heavy, not 'thick' but straight up fat (there'll be a blog post about size soon, I promise you). They use it for the obvious reasons, and for the obvious reasons, it will work., but here's my overriding points:
First, guys on the web know the myspace angle as soon as it's presented to them. Second, guys who are total n00bs can recognize he myspace angle immediately. Third, unless the only profile pictures of you are of the myspace angle, guys are going to figure out your true size. Fourth, if all your profile pictures are myspace angled, then it's as sure as telling someone your true size.
Now for some tips: Ladies, stop abusing the shot. I realize the full on shot isn't always desired, but Jesus Christ, it's like loading an Uzi with silver bullets. Sooner or later, you'll have a useless weapon. Be loud, be proud. If the guys can't handle it, fuck 'em, they're not worth it. I'm not saying that it's a free pass to be a slobby as humanly possible, but for the sake if nothing else, your health, at the very least, take care of yourselves. Guys have to do the same, it's a two way street.
Gentlemen: I know what I'm about to do is like shouting at a brick wall, but stop being so damned image obsessed. Women are not our playthings, they are not to be molded into what we want. Take them as they are or don't put them through unnecessary grief. Here's something else that you don't want to hear, we're responsible for the myspace angle. The douchebags amongst us have forced women to find creative ways to be noticed when they don't have to. For serious gentlemen, they're boobs, we'll fondle them, and it's a warm vagina, we'll put our pee pees into them. It's a matter of degrees after that and the spacing is ludicrous.
So with that, happy Valentine's Day. Spread the love to everyone, just don't get her pregnant, and don't give him/her lasting marks for work tomorrow.