Flipping

The truck cut me off so quickly I don’t even remember reacting. Something instinctual in me turned the wheel. It was too sharp.

As soon as the car went airborne, the first thing I felt was a strange sense of serenity. They always tell you time slows down when these things happen, and for once, they are right. Time slows down, sounds cease, and everything is surrounded in weightlessness. I knew it was rolling onto its side because I felt my hair shifting across my back. Strand by strand the whole mass of made it's way towards my drivers’ side window, and I turned my head to the glass.

I wasn't moving very fast, but the grass through the pane was going in fast forward in relation to everything else, and I realized the car was on it's side, but still floating. A tampon hit my cheek and I turned to face the passenger seat. As I watched everything I owned spill out of my purse and past my face, I thought about how trivial everything I had done to get that car was about to suddenly become, how trivial every time I had worked for a thing, for a material end result had become. I watched my lighter fall past my face and thought “why did I spend all these years smoking”. Paperclips, pens, candies taken from Chinese restaurants, more tampons fell, a notebook of crap I had written lately, the only loss that would really matter.

It was then that I looked forward, past my windshield and to the lake. By then, it felt like I had been floating for ages, like I had lived lifetimes in midair.

When the car landed just short of the lake, my first thought was “get out”. Looking around me I quickly figured there was no opening my door, since the car was sitting on it. The passenger door proved too heavy to push up. Then my eyes met the moonroof. As I raised my hand to the button, I was praying to a God I would otherwise not believe in to have preserved the mechanical integrity of my car’s electrical system.

I pushed the button. The roof slid open.

In less than a second I climbed out of the car, staring at it as it balanced precariously on its side, not quite flipped as much as tilted. The trunk had come open, and amongst the thousand tampons strewed from the Costco package I had recently picked up from Mom were all my things. I picked up as much as I could until the fire department arrived.

Poem: Every song is a cliché

It’s the softest of touches, the things that just come to you without reason.
It’s the looks that we give each other in the dark, it’s the whispers
its either the precipice or the downfall of things, but does it matter?
its haikus in other languages, an overwhelming obsession with laughter
no explanations, or not too much thought, opting instead
To be swept along by the voices of far away promises, stupid jokes,
a comfortable proximity, an internal chuckle...

Now there are these fleeting moments, where all I can think about is how hungrily he touched my body, how greedily he bit my skin, how it set my pulse on fire;
All I can think about is breathing.
How breath became the language in which we spoke, in which we begged.
The warmth of that breath on my neck, below my ear, that’s all I can think about.

And now it follows me around, it lives in my head, and inside every photo
Every song is a clichéd memory of some sweet moment that’s been shared by a million lovers, a million times, in a million places, each with different smiles.
This one, however, is a reminder of mine.

'The Man Your Man Could Smell Like' or 'Old Spice and Wit'

It aired during the Superbowl, which in itself is a clever move, and has now become one of the most recognizable bits on youtube. Knowing full well that it's halftime in one of the nation's most watched sporting events, Old Spice clearly made a smart move. While 90% of the men in country have been shouting, jumping, fist pumping at the screen in a display of Neanderthalish fervor, the women in the country, who in most cases are also the purchasing authority for domestic goods, were treated to a game of their own.

The spot is clear in it's message: Ladies, when your man smells like a man, you get treated like a woman. Aside from being hilarious they become immediately highly effective.

Since launching its latest campaign with Mustafa, Old spice sales are up 107%. Look at that number again, now look at your profit margins, now look at that number again.
107%.

Pow. That's good marketing.

So it stands that sandwiched between pecs and sarcastic writing, is one of the most successful advertising campaigns I've seen hit the mainstream. In what has become a viral sensation, Isaiah Mustafa (whose name, by the way, screams manliness)delivers one of my favorite television performances since....

Bruce Campbell for Old Spice


More after the jump.....

Critics like Flufflers.

I like to pretend that I write for a living. I mean, it doesn’t pay my bills at all, but when people ask me what I do for a living, I usually tell them about Smile for Camera first. While I by no means pretend to be an expert in music, I do listen to the stuff, and as a listener (and a writer), I publish out opinions and suggestions on music daily (and thank to Smile, have a surprisingly large number of people that actually pay attention to it). Whenever I make a post, I really try to make it so that I am offering something to my readers that will enrich their lives the way it has mine. Either it will make them smile, dance, or laugh, or maybe even lull them off into a sleep, there’s always a deep level of consideration and research with almost every song. I may not always go deep into an artist’s history or motives, but my ultimate goal is always to expose new music, music that may influence a new generation of musicians to create the next big thing.

Yet, it seems like a lot of the stuff that makes its way into my inbox, Soundcloud drop box, and Google reader, to be quite frank, is pure crap. And yet, the hype surrounding the artists that produce this crap is huge, and I cannot seem to figure out why. It’s been a sad evolution for music, I must admit; and lately I find myself more and more often clicking the “mark all items as read” button to avoid the rehash of material that I know is about to take place. It’s always the same artists, the same stories, the same sounds. The entire blogosphere has become a huge circle jerk of self obsession, and mutual masturbation.

Although I admit that I remain safely within the boundaries of musical genres that I really enjoy, I can’t help but noticed that variety and ingenuity have flown out the window as of late. Whatever Happened to Indie? Indie kids used to be untouchable, the next big fad since whatever the last movement before it was and the spanking new nightmare of many a parent. Indie was the culture for the elite, the clubber that got too cool for the uppity joints, the teenager just old enough to dance, young and lusting for hours of endless motion. Indie was all about ingenuity. Indie was not about the flash, the pizzazz, colors so bright they made day-glo jealous.
Fast forward 3 years and now it seems that everywhere you look someone’s acting ‘Indie’. But the term has undergone so much change and evolution that is has become saturated with meanings.

In the Mid 1980s ‘Indie’ was born as the shy, quiet, shiny new baby daughter of 60s garage, 70s punk, and 80s post punk (It was a complicated love triangle, poor Indie doesn’t know for sure who to call ‘daddy). Her Full name was Independent Rock, and as she grew up she became an angsty rebellious pre-pubescent girl. Soon, she was shaving and putting on Teen Spirit every morning before school. She noticed boys. As ‘Indie’ continued to mature, she began to think of her future. And the story becomes fuzzy.

To qualify as an ‘Indie’ band, used to be that one (or one’s band) had strict criteria to meet. One must a) not be signed by a major label, as in, independent. b) flaunt ideas that are cutting edge, untested, new and c) Sport a dirty, and unoriginally unique style that includes, but is not limited to: brides-maids dresses you purchased at a flea market, girl pants on guys, guy pants on girls, suspenders, sunglasses, bright colors, and anything that anyone from Kurt Cobain to Kanye West would wear to make it into the ‘not hot’ edition of US weekly.

The problem is that when ‘indie’ bands got signed they continued to be called ‘Indie’, confusing the heck out of a whole bunch of people. The meaning of ‘Indie’ changed; It was no longer a terms used to describe those that were independent from the man and unsigned; now, ‘Indie’ became more of a description of a sound, a style. Which would’ve fine if it had stopped there.
But, Little ‘Indie’ refused to stop; different and new were good things, but she always wanted to be more. Soon, she found herself leaving the guitar built home of her parents to venture in the land of the electronic. ‘Indie’ still noticed boys, only boys also noticed her, and soon she found herself being thrown around between them. Boys named electro, boys named dance, boys named rap, boys named design, they took her and used and made to love to her as they pleased.

From these trysts we’re given the many meaning of ‘Indie’ now. The problem is, there are now so many of these ‘meanings’, so many interpretations, ideas, and stupid stigmas about what ‘Indie’ is, that it’s become hard to find any value in anything that is produced under the moniker. What Indie was, was something amazing, virginal, pure, untouched and untarnished by the hands of the mainstream. Now you turn on your tele, and Indie is on MTV, in her patent leather high heels, her purple tights and long off the shoulder black dress with a metallic tiger print on the front. Her big, plastic, purple hoop earrings are lost in her disheveled, intentionally messy hair. She stares at the screen in eyes lidded in hot pink shadow and says “love me”.
The influx of what we call Indie has led to a specific and very urgent situation: what was once supposed to be a pool of raw, untouched talent has become a nest of repetitious, recycled sounds. Artists are picked up by blogs so early that their hype swells and deflates long before their record is ever released, and those that survive are constantly pressured with producing more music, much faster than artists have ever had to do in the past. As a result, there is not much that can be called new coming from bands we label “Indie”. It’s almost as if they’ve gotten overwhelmed, lost their confidence, or they don’t know who to be.

While the Indie phenomenon is nothing new when you consider that every generation has a ‘movement’, what is new is how we approach the music. When I first started writing this article, which was over a year ago now, we were making leaps and bounds towards new forms of Electronic Indie music, but what I failed to notice, is that we re also making leaps in bounds in the facilitation of communication.

Armed with this new realization, and with great insight, I find now, the answer to a question I’ve been asking myself for over a year since I started pondering on the subject, “What the hell happened to our music?” In an article called “Indie will Eat Itself” written for pitchfork Nitsuh Abebe writes:

“People who dislike things should say so, and any artist who puts out a record should be prepared for the fact that not everyone will love it. This is just life, and there’s no good alternative to it: Scenes in which every artist is uncritically considered a special, fragile snowflake tend to get really cruddy really quickly. But when you get to the point where you’re wary of any band that seems to think it’s actually doing something cool— even when that act’s only gotten as far as selling a couple of hundred singles— you’re halfway to kneecapping any opportunity for bands to actually be cool. So whenever I hear complaints about new indie acts being predictable, bland, overly tasteful, or unambitious, I can’t help thinking this might be part of the reason: That this scene may have started producing music the way some adolescents get dressed, corrosively self-conscious about any sign of unfashionable difference that opens them up to be mocked. At worst, you can wind up with a whole genre where the acts and the audience are both armoring themselves against standing out or embracing risks. You wind up reaching that weird provincial point where you’re always cutting down the plant that grows higher than the others— where the way you call for the music to be more interesting (or try to express what makes you more interesting) actually has the effect of making it tamer, less interesting.” (Nitsuh Abebe “Why We Fight: Why We Fight #1”)

Holy. Shit.

Abebe’s argument supports a crucial point: we need critics that actually criticize, as opposed to trying to please artists by writing fluff without any insight. Criticism is supposed to help artists grow, which in turn elevates the quality of the music in any scene. Instead we’ve become distracted with the flash of all it and forgotten what music discussion was actually about: discussing music, not artists.

In a genre so saturated with new music releasing daily, we simply cannot allow (or even afford) substandard music to be hyped to national notoriety, less we be content with the eventual death of a big chunk of modern culture. We need press that makes artists think about what they’re actually offering, as opposed to painting every new sensation as a “unicorn-riding medieval fantasy”. This is not porn, and we are not fluffers. Our goal should not be to make all artists look big in the bright lights, but to pick and choose the ones that will proudly represent the state of things under the spotlight. We need to give musicians a chance to change, to evolve, and that means pointing out their shortcomings and errors, not just their outfits and sex partners.
If we were look at our industry as if it were an episode of American Idol (competition episode, not decision night), we all need to be more like Simon Cowell, and less like Paula Abdul. Otherwise, there’s no where to go from here, but downhill.

Random Writing on Tumblr Reblogs

My tumblr gets the crap that doesn't fit anywhere. Because there are far too many vast lands to explore on the internets, and I'm the souvenir type. Way to go Me.

Anyways, this photo showed up in my dashboard:


via brokenmachine:ceasingtolovereality: papertissue
and I, for some reason, wrote the following:


God, isn't that true.

An Aside: It's not often that I actually have a reaction to one of these photos that I reblog. Occasionally i think, "wow, that's amazing, that's absolutely beautiful" or "man, something about this photo just irks me in the right way", but its not often that I come across a photo that I look at, and swell up.
/Over.

Background: I'm moving. Pretty much everyone knows I'm moving, but what are we leaving behind to do so? It's not something I often want to think about. I mean you always want to look into the future, we look forward by default, forward to what's going to come, forward to a place where we can make up beautiful realities that may or may never exist at all.
I saw this photo, and instead of thinking: "Oh, how pretty" my thought process went something like this*: "a thumbtack, I mean how simple...Who doesn't have that. On a map, makes sense, I mean, where else would a thumbtack be aside from a map, or a corkboard. This is not a corkboard. This is a map, and thumbtacks on a map usually show places you have been, the locations of branches you have grown, traces of you left behind. Look at all those thumbtacks in the distance, each one, a reminder, that something you loved is still living in that place. I began to wonder how that person must feel, that loved one left behind, shoved, nay, buried and pinched under the tip of some office miscellanea, torn to shreds between an aluminum point and a plaster wall. How sad, how utterly heartbreaking to think that moving, and starting over means that you have to leave something behind, to tear it apart, to forget it a little. Because, I mean, come on, how are you supposed to "start over" if you don't actually "start". I mean, then; at that point, you're just left with "over", and "over" is not a 'start', its not a 'beginning', its not a 'go'; "Over" is a 'done', an 'end'."**

That got me thinking. When I go, when I finally get there, there are literally a thousand different potential outcomes, each with their own heartaches and growing pains, but each with the same thing left behind.
So how do you know? how do you if you're absolutely supposed to let go? How do you know what to hold onto? How do you know you're not making the wrong choice?


*A thought process? an entire thought process in a paragraph. It seems very presumptuous to assume that you could actually accurately describe a thought process in one paragraph, even in one book, in a tome, in any form of writing, really. Thoughts are fleeting and the processes that bring them to us are troublesome and difficult to understand. I guess I wrote this one out because it struck me, and as such, has stuck with me.

**Although I referred to this as a 'process' I think, in reality, its more of a breakdown. My breakdown, maybe. Emotionally, immediately? Unlikely. It takes too long for the feeling I have to directly manifest themselves as words on this machine. By then, my fingers have had the time to learn to censor what you ultimately see, they've coated everything in pretty language and flowery images. Is it wrong?
But I guess what I actually meant, was a breakdown of a photograph. Which is way way simpler than analyzing my emotional problems.
-M

Offbeat Ads: Gummy Bear on a Stick

Just look at that man's face. The expression of pure peace and joy is priceless. The thought of the stomach ache he's going to have when he's done bring me a similar feeling.

It Gets Better and Better: Your Television, now in 3-D

Facebook is mostly a way to pass the time between idyll moments of thought. It serves as a distraction, mostly, but on occasion, you come across some tiny morsel of information that really gets your gears moving.

Recently I was on vacation in El Salvador with my father, where I watched Avatar in 3-d (with subtitles, of course) with him and some of his friends. After the movie, my father and I lingered outside waiting for the group to rejoin and discussed the awesome that was that movie presented in 3-d.

Today, rummaging around facebook, I across this heading: "ESPN to launch 3D network in June"

Okay, welcome to the future. Starting in June ESPN is going to be bringing 3-d into your home. How? Well, simple. Remember those nifty 3d glasses that you wore to watch Chicken Little and Avatar? You're gonna need to bust those out. And you know that huge plasma tv you just bought yourself for Christmas? Well you re gonna need to toss that, and buy yourself a better one.

That's a fairly large investment for a recession ridden country, not including the cost of programming, additional hardware and replacement glasses over the months. The challenge to broadcasters will be cost effectiveness. Paul Liao, CEO of the CableLabs consortium of cable operators, says that while 3D movies are paramount to the success of 3D in the home, live sports "will engage the consumer to a degree that has been unprecedented." But the channel plans on being "off-air" when one of the 81 3-d events for 2010 aren't on the air, which doesn't exactly scream 'value-added'.

The rest of the above-mentioned facebook article goes on to say:

Broadcasting live events in 3D comes at an extra cost. Locations where cameras are placed to capture a regular high-definition sporting event don't necessarily translate to a 3D broadcast. If simultaneously broadcasting in regular HD, ESPN needs to employ a second production crew, and different announcers, for the 3D telecast.

ESPN, which is part of Disney, has been testing 3D for more than two years.

In September, it produced the University of Southern California vs. Ohio State football game in 3D, shown on the USC campus and in theaters in Ohio, Texas and Connecticut. In surveys afterward, most viewers said they were "wowed." But some said quick camera changes "were a little hard on the eyes." And the research suggested that willingness to pay for 3D was "extremely dependent on (the) matchup."

"We don't have all the answers," says Chuck Pagano, ESPN's executive vice president for technology. "We asked the same questions back in the HD days. Is this going to be better? Is this going to be worse?"

ESPN likely won't have the 3D stage to itself. The HD Guru3D website reports that DirecTV will launch a 3D channel at CES. Robert Mercer, a spokesman for the satellite provider, wouldn't confirm that. But he says "3D is something we are very interested in."

All in all its forward movement. Although I'm saving my money for hologram TV

Things you may have forgotten

With lives being as busy busy as they are now a days, I understand that its normal and expected for everyone to once in a while forget some things. You lose your keys in your purse, your cup always gets left somewhere in your house, you forget where you put that phone number or email address you jotted on a napkin, all things understandable.

But every so often, I start to notice that people are forgetting some of the more important things on a daily basis. Driving lessons, for example, have gone completely and totally out the window. Common courtesy, another one that's flown right out the door. The word 'thank you' has been replaced with 'sorry' on way too many occasions because some people just don't think. So, since we all know I tend to think far too much, I've gone ahead and not only simplified your life and lessened your mental burden, but also digitized all those life lessons you mother tried to feed you.

Since we're all only human (some are just better humans, right Darwin?) here are some things you may have forgotten:

1. A turning signal is NOT a portable metronome. It's purpose if far greater than merely being awesome when it falls in synch with your favorite Britney jam. In fact, when used as directed, your turning signal can, get this, let people know when you're turning. To attentive drivers, this is incredibly useful. Mostly because it keeps us from smashing out vehicle into the side of yours.
2. Dogs are not children. I don't care how cute your Boston Terrier looks dressed like a sailor, your dog is a dog. Given, some breeds shouldn't be exposed to certain conditions and need sweaters in the cold, now that's understandable. But your dog should never resemble Dorothy, an alligator or, um, a wizard?. And then people wonder why small breeds are hard to housebreak (cough:::revenge:::cough)
3. Not everyone likes your music, so someone explain to me the purpose of getting a speaker installed on the OUTSIDE of your vehicle. Let me ask you something: have you ever been to South or Central America? They have speakers on the outside of their cars there. They use them to announce that the mosquito spray vehicle is coming, so bring your pets inside, and to broadcast inaudible and barely comprehensible political messages into traffic. So, are you spreading the gospel of Pitbull? or just warning the masses of your approach?
4. Most people who open doors for you are not porters. Say thank you, or expect a door in your face.
5. Friends don't get paid for favors. I'm with Larry David on that one.
6. An employee is not a serf. If one were a serf, we would refer to that person as a serf. But we don't; wanna know why? Evolution. The human has evolved enough to understand that people are people regardless of status, wealth, color, or race. Where were you when all this happened? Probably off counting your money somewhere and not giving a shit.
   
7. The internet is not so vast that you can't be found. Most of the people on it know how you make the most of search algorithms. If you don't know what a "search algorithm" is then you shouldn't be trying to hide things online.
8. No one cares about you but you. Your mother tried to tell you this a lot. She did it nicely, telling you instead "You're not good enough for him" or "she doesn't deserve you". Stop trying to make friends, and make happiness, on your terms.

That's all I've got for you today, mostly because I too forget things.

Hooker for a Day.

We weren’t even all the way done with July before the consumer arsenal of Halloween themed trash found its way into my Walmart. More than three months before the day, I find myself amidst an aisle of brightly packed and stacked chocolates and hard candies just waiting to be passed out to the hundreds of overweight kids, who for one fateful day in late October, will actually be walking the streets instead of playing WoW into the break of dawn. The same aisle that showcases all kinds of lays potatoes chips and dip in January and holds notebooks and pens in late July, turns, in late August, into something that almost resembles a mail order bride catalogue of fall flavored beer, gravy mixes and cavities waiting to happen.
It isn’t long after the candy appears that malls start converting their empty spaces into massive hallows eve themed superstores, all the scene kids refill their annual supply of electric colored tights, and stores begin to filling their racks with slutty costumes and cat masks.
Oh, fall, that time of year where the temperature drops low enough for sweaters to be pulled out of storage, the leaves turn brown and the air starts to, wait, what am I talking about? This is Florida, we don’t have that kind of change here. Fall in Florida happens quietly, and mostly in the background, dominated by consumerism. Instead of browning leaves, suddenly, you can find almost anything that tastes like pumpkin (including some things that probably shouldn’t) placed proudly on display at a checkout counter near you. Instead of temperature drops, we get another three months of the beach. We get lots of alcohol, oh, and boobs.
If there’s anything to be said for the fact that’s its 82˚ and humid year round, at the very least, we get to enjoy the best of any trending fashion that requires at least 80% of your body being completely uncovered. It almost seems as if the vast majority of the Floridian populace came to the mass consensus that it was going to use the Halloween season as an excuse to prove to their parents that sending them to church on Sundays was an absolute waste of everyone’s time. And so what if your parents took their time instilling in you the morals of a good girl, you only get this one night a year to go out dressed like the pornographic version of the little mermaid, so why not take advantage of it.
Any Halloween store you walk into will undoubtedly have a selection of costumes that give the skimpiest skivvies a run for their money (with a pricetag to match). It has somehow become okay to walk around dressed (or undressed) in the worlds tiniest sailor outfit, all in good fun.
Sadly though, the world isn’t populated with 5’9 cover models, and the beauty in all this is that, as soon as the air stinks of pumpkins and hurricanes, blossoming beauties of all shapes and sizes are going to squeeze themselves into outfits that no real pirate would ever be caught dead in and body suits so small that most strippers would reconsider, and all in the name of the dead? Who doesn’t want to be drunk for that?
And who would want it any different? That’s why fall brings us Halloween Horror Nights at Universal, why we have our very own Oktoberfest, and why people come from miles just to pass the season here.
At the store, I haul the unnecessarily large 5lb bag of mixed chocolate deliciousness into my shopping cart. I’m sure it’ll melt before I get home. But maybe I can shield it from the sun with my super sexy ‘Alice in Wonderland’ costume, which I’m sure will be a big hit this year, if I can only manage to lose these fifteen pounds.
But I still haul the unnecessarily large 5 lb bag of mixed chocolate deliciousness into my shopping and continue shopping. I’m sure it’ll melt before I get home. But maybe I can cover it with my sexy ‘Alice in Wonderland’ costume, which I’m sure will be a big hit this year.

Recently Read: Snuff by Chuck Palahniuk

Snuff is Palahniuk’s 9th novel of his illustrious career as one of the nation’s best selling fiction writers. The man is a genius, most say, and most days, I would be completely in agreement with this statement. When some of my friends criticized Rant as being illogical, and poorly constructed, I stood by my man Chuck, and defended the clever narrative style, the interesting method in which he developed a character through journalistic style word of mouth profiling. I defended it because I truly believed it. I believed that Rant was a work worthy of praise and defense, one that was and would forever be meritorious of my attempts to illuminate others to my way of seeing it, regardless of their level of agreement.

Today, I find myself still thinking he is a genius, but I find myself disappointed in this 9th book.

Palahniuk’s work is usually rife with originality, in content as well as in narrative style. But in reading Snuff all I could think was that Chuck was rushed by some agent to meet some kind of deadline for a publisher. The book builds on the narrative style that was, to me, such a success in Rant, but drops the journalistic detachment present in the 8th book. The result is a first person account of one event as seen by 4 different people.

The book’s plot is interesting enough, and in true Palahniuk style, you can’t help but walk away feeling as if you know all the deep secrets of the adult entertainment industry, including secrets to obtaining a husky voice, a healthy glow and avoiding a face lift for years. But it all seems rehashed, contrived and forced, and for Chuck, that is just unacceptable.

I think the biggest problem with this novel is expectation. As a Palahniuk fan, I entered into it expecting something amazing, I mean, it’s Palahniuk, sex and death, which should be an almost effortless win. In the end, it was Palahniuk, sex and death that saved the book, kept me reading the end, and not the plot twists, linguistic quirks and gritty visuals that we have all come to expect from the author of Fight Club and Choke.

But then again, that’s just me. Thoughts?

Guest Post: Jasmine...A Short Story by Matthew Lynn

She called herself jasmine and she carried my folding money around in her
panties. She drank cherry dr pepper leaving wounded and dead soldiers
to litter my nightstands and countertops. we played games like hop
on pop, hungry hungry hippos, trivial pursuit, rock 'em sock 'em
robots, and operation. Translated that means we fucked, ate a shit ton
of narcotics, I chased her frivolously, eventually beat her up and she
removed my heart. She loved animals, I loved drugs. I wanted her to
love me.

We got drunk and got tattoos out on the beach one sunny april day,
mine was a tear drop on the inside of my index finger, it cost me
sixty dollars american, the shop minimum. She got something written in
greek, claimed it was some wise old phrase. I told her to think for
herself and she punched me in throat. I couldn't sing karaoke for a
month without collapsing, the rednecks and red-faced suits ate it up.
I was their hero.

The out of shape business world failure with the outgoing bottle
blonde bombshell. Being a hero is a lonely thing to be. Heroes don't
bleed or feel pain or have lives of their own aside from public
opinion which tends to state, "aww c'mon look at your life, it's not
that bad, man. You got it great! Look at everything you've got going
for you! Count your blessings, bro, be thankful."

Yeah, lets. A house in foreclosure, an estranged ex wife who took the
kids and now takes the money, while some square with glasses and a
website kicks his shoes off at the front door and lays his head in her
bed, a driver's license lost to unpaid speeeding tickets for doing 9
over, a father with Alzheimer's taken care of by a mother who believes
only in labels and how posh the name is, and a drug habit that has
claimed every guitar, bass, amp and surfboard that ever took me away
from all this hero.

But I can hold my liquor, I can sing karaoke, and I date a stripper
with great big cans. So to them. I am God.

I, on the other hand, am an atheist.

I believe in waves.
The up and the down in equal undulating perpetual motion. Crests and
valleys, mountains and pitfalls. Just like Jasmine's
unnaturally-oversized chest.

The thing is, these traits that the racing rats idolize me for are the
same things we abandon as we grow from boys into manhood. I have
regressed and anyone who would care enough to point this out and set
me back on the straight and narrow has since been slighted in some way
shape or form and walked away. Now all that's left is the dreck, the
shipwrecks of voyagers whose journeys met with violent storm, the
broken body of icarus who flew to near the sun, bald, blind sampsons'
shackled and humiliated publicly. Which of these has voice enough or
perception enough to rise and say "drop that fucking pipe, dickhead!"?

None.
they say tomorrow, tomorrow. we sing the song of tomorrow, glorious
and high. promises as heartfelt as they come, sworn to, oaths of
camaraderie taken to hold one another up come the rising sun. but it's
heat melts us back into the quagmire and we remember that there is no
crazy glue for our dusted hearts. So make an encore of the pipe, let
the bottles once again take center stage, and in the green room the
scent of artificial Jasmine lingers on yellowed fingers and a crowd of
jackals goes wild while the hero dies, then rises to the occasion.

Story by M. Lynn
Photo by Dylan Hartmann

Help us save Arts & Culture in Miami

A proposed $11 million reduction in arts and culture budgets has the potential of endangering arts organizations in Miami-Dade County, as well as being detrimental to our economy and tourism. Speak up now to your commissioners and get the word out that Miami-Dade County NEEDS arts and culture.

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Even if youre not from, or currently in Miami, help us keeps arts and culture Alive in this beautiful city of mine.

Thank You.

The Cat Owner's Home Veterinary Handbook

I keep a copy of the Cat Owner's Home Veterinary Handbook next to my bed, not because I think am in way qualified to heal my animals at home, but because you never know when you may have to. I live with three cats, my children, and, like children, they dislike each other at varying degrees depending on the day/time/or amount of food they have eaten in a given amount of time.

The three have lived together for going on 6 months now, co-habitating as indoor/outdoor cats in a fairly large house that stays always open, allowing them to come and go as they please from my fairly large, wondrously green neighborhood. You would think with the amount of space, coupled with the infrequency with which these animals see each other, that they would be able to spend a night, one single night, without bringing down hell, high water and the wrath of khan upon anyone who is unlucky enough to get in their way.

But that's not why I keep the Cat Owner's Home Veterinary Handbook next to my bed. You see, they are unique, these animals, in that in their absolute hell-hath-no-fury-like-a-cat-with-an-attitude scorn, they never manage to hurt themselves, nor either of my family memebers, but only me.

The book therefor, serves as self defense, and often I find myself chuckling at the fact that one of my devils has run off yelping after the 300 page tome has been flung at this tail at maximum velocity, the irony too much to handle for even my half asleep brain. No worries, I never hurt the damn things, primarily because in my state of half sleep, I am much more likely to improperly aim and accurately smash the book directly into my own toe.

I'm pretty sure that my cats are going to one day figure it out, they are, especially Ninja, devilishly intelligent, and take the book away from me before attacking.

Until then, I will continued to be baffled by my cat's insatiable desire to eat my feet in my sleep.

Dear Miami,

You were cooler when I was 15. You were cooler when staying out past 2 at a nightclub to watch a group of musicians kick ass was actually the thing to do, and worth doing. You were cooler when we used to go out to the car at 3am, drunk and stumbling, to find the last few coins stuck somewhere in between the car seats with the hopes of buying another drink, and not to add money to the meter, because we knew in our bones that the meter maids were bitter and didnt care if you had one minute or five, you were still getting that ticket.

Now, I know you’re mad. I left you without a lot of notice, for Orlando, for a man, for an education, but that’s no reason to act like a baby and shut down at 2:00, thats no reason to push all the amazing artists out of your streets with your lack of opportunity and competition. That’s no reason to greet artists with distracted conversations and leave them performing to empty dance halls. And its definitely no reason why the same ten schmucks are always at the same place doing the same shit in a city so damn large.

Miami, you have a responsibility you may not be aware of. People think you’re cool. They look at you in your little bikinis and your pastel colors, your famous beaches, your lights and your stars and they think you’re the shit so they come visit. And then they get there and you don’t care. You ignore them.

What makes you think they’re gonna keep coming back? The amazing attitude that each of the stuck up hotel attendants have when you walk past them? The traffic? or are you thinking that its the intense heat and cruel and inhuman humidity? Let me be the first to tell you: No.

None of these things are enough. Miami, right now, to a lot of us, youre like that really hot guy from high school, or that girl that you wanted to bone worse than anything else in your at the time so far short lived human existance. You pursue them for years, you worship their style, their tastes, their legacy. You yearn each night to dip you toes in that pink sand of exstacy that you just know has to be waiting for you at the end of your dreams.

Then you get them naked.

And your left there, staring at a tiny dick, wondering what you could possibly to with something so small in the name of fun. That or you're facing a bush that hasn't been trimmed since 1987, very a-la-Demi-Moore.

The difference is, Miami, youve got sooooo much potential. Your dick is not small, its just flaccid. Underneath that genital mane, are the most luscious pussy lips that you have ever laid eyes on. You just gotta learn how to use it. You gotta realize that pushing out the cool people to spread your good name ain't working for you. Because the rest of here are just bored. and its still so early.

So Miami, I'm back now. I'm back to give you that second chance that i know you wanted, because you know I got a lot of say and a lot of outlets through which to say them, and the last thing you want is to hear that I called you a whore again.

I have a lot of faith in you. Mostly because I've seen what you're capable of, I've seen what you can produce. So please, try not to let me down.

Yours truly,

Miss Melo

I have pets because I hate people

Animals don’t use logic, they act based purely on instinct and survival, they dont complain, they dont judge, they eat, fuck, kill, sleep, and live in response to the world around. The thing that angers me about people, is the ability to think is there, but seldom used properly.

So people dont just do, they think about what theyre going to eat, where they are going to eat it and with what sauces, they ponder the kind of beverage they want ad infinitym, they debate about the best position to fuck, how hard, how soft, whether or not to make eye contact, to be loud. People dream of their kill and how it wouldve worked out, and they wonder where they will sleep, they wonder how long they will sleep, and in what position.

All this fucking time spent thinking…for what?

We still react, we still respond, and we still have basic needs that, despite all this fucking brain ramming, we still cannot figure out. With this amazing cerebrum, comes great resposibility, that we, as people, should act out of.

We have a brain to make thoughts happen. REAL THOUGHTS, not just things you think are important, that tommorow you wont even remember.

We have a brain to make decisions. REAL DECISIONS, the kind that affect you for years, that changes you to the core, not the kind that involve fast food or take out.

and yet, we respond based on our feelings, not our needs, and heres what happens: you fight, you argue, you disagree, you get a bad name, you leave friends behind and you move on, you think youre better, convinced of change, you find new people, you have an awesome time, you get comfortable you start to be yourself, true personalities clash, and you fight, you argue, bla bla bla…..

in the end: you. are. still. empty.

Its like having the keys to a jet plane and opting to go by boat, then complaining about how long the trip took. I want my people to act like my animals, I want them to take what they need and not make excuses for who they are. I want them to see that sometimes, different species of people should not be kept in the same cage. I want them to realize that, and just like in nature, realize that shit can be fucking lethal.

so step back. walk away.

The world doesnt need me, and I dont need you.

That we made it this far is a study in improbability. That I still care is a testament to my humanity. That you don’t see this, is proof that there is too much going on in your head that means nothing, and not enough subtance for all the content (read: crap) you carry around.

sift through it, back to primal. Act as if you dont care if anyone is watching (because you know it doesnt matter what they say). Talk as if you KNOW your words are true (because you thought before speaking).

Forget the lunch order, there are million more important things happening right now.

image via

This is What I Look Like Naked

We are here to put fear in each other’s hearts,
to keep us from fulfilling our own wildest dreams
under the pretense of keeping each other grounded.
I’m guilty of the same. I know the game, I’ve paid so many dues,
still, I am bound to it closely, my faithful lover.
Yet, I want to throttle it cruelly,
Bash it sharply against a hard surface and watch the blood come spilling
from between its lips. It spits out fragments of teeth and I chuckle,
Punch it again, harder, grind my knuckles against that beautiful smile.
I will leave it clutching at my ankles, gasping,
but I will still throw around doing-words without performing their actions
without really considering what happens when it comes back to me.
Love is a doing word, so is good-bye.

My breath is weak. I can barely feel myself shaking in this cold, but I know
I’m here because I recognize the eyes of the zombie in the mirror.
She smiles at me, that bitch, because she knows that she knows better.
She knows I know it too.
I’m wondering who put this fear here in me. I blame you, I blame him,
but in the end I blame myself.
For being open and vulnerable to attacks aimed at the chest.
It was faulty construction from the beginning. It was always,
just waiting for the boom.

words by mgapany
c. 2009

Bring on the dub: An Interview with Dub Trio

A few months ago I got invited to tag along to a Matisyahu concert. Now, I like Matisyahu, I do, I’d heard of him for a few years, but he was never really one of those artists that I had always WANTED to see. But I went, because it was something to do, and because, well, I wanted to hear King Without A Crown. It wasn’t until later that I was told that Les Claypool would also be performing at that show, and that there would also be a little group called Dub Trio playing as well.

Claypool, I had heard of, Matisyahu, I had listened to, but Dub Trio, here was a name that was completely foreign to me, completely unheard of. Yet the little but of research I did in anticipation of the show led to me great things. Not just great; fantastic, amazing things. Here was a band that had Mike Patton perform the only vocals every recorded on one of their records. Here was a band that helped create that recognizable Matisyahu sound, here, finally, after years of waiting, was a band that truly jammed.

They didn’t play a set alone at this show I went to, but instead, played the accompaniment to the headlining act. I really don’t think that the show would’ve been as successful had it gone any other way. Given, I didn’t know it at the time, but I would’ve loved to see Dub Trio perform live, and performing their own material.

A Dub Trio live set is nothing short of epic. In an interview I recently did for Smile for Camera with the band’s Drummer, Joe Tomino, he explained to me how using a series of delay pedals and microphones as well a “sonic arsenal” of other pedals and gadgets that the band has acquired over the years, they aim to “reproduce the sounds they heard on all those early dub records”. And while its not exactly the simplest looking job in the world, Tomino assures me that “its not that mystifying.”

Yet, they have been described as playing everything from Dub, to sludge, to doom, to stoner rock, to math rock (I don’t know either), yet their sound remains genuinely distinct. The band released three albums on the New York City Based ROIR Records before singing onto Patton’s Ipecac label that is also home to artists such as Dalek, The Melvins, General Patton vs. The X-Ecutioners and Tomahawk. They have plans too release their fifth studio album late this year, or early next year, and hope to be able to work on more remixing and producing, as well to continue touring, hitting up Europe, Japan and Australia later this year with Matisyahu, where they will also open most of those shows as dub trio. I suggest you catch them if you can.

Head over to Smile for Camera to read the full interview and watch a video performance by the band, and make sure to keep an eye out for the remix the group recently did for Brooklyn Band, Candiria. Its on an Ipecac mix which features remixes by Dalek, Pole and others.

I'm Baaaack.

Hello, and thank you for your patience.

From now one, please be aware of the fact that this blog will be primarily writing. Things I see, things i think.

Thank you and goodnight.

For The Love Of Advertising.

Entertainment Weekly launches CBS and Pepsi embedded video adverts

Wafer-thin screens in Entertainment Weekly magazine will show video ads to promote upcoming TV shows and Pepsi products

via guardian.co.uk

Here are some more details about the Americhip technology: the screen, which is 2.7 millimeters thick, has a 320x240 resolution. The battery lasts for about 65 to 70 minutes, and can be recharged, believe it or not, with a mini USB cord--there's a jack on the back of it. The screen, which uses thin film transistor liquid crystal display (TFT LCD) technology, is enforced by protective polycarbonate. It's a product that has been in development at Americhip for about two years, spokesman Tim Clegg told CNET News via e-mail.

via Cnet

In the ad, characters from CBS's "The Big Bang Theory" talk up EW and give a how-to on navigating the different buttons that bring up more clips.

A menu of additional spots includes a clip from "Two and Half Men," a sneak peek at the new CBS comedy "Accidentally on Purpose" and a preview of the network's fall drama slate. There's also an ad for the Pepsi Max diet soft drink.

via huffington post

This is just completely the most amazing, mind baffling thing ive read all week. Its an exciting new step in advertising. wow. wow.

It brings to mind images of all the scifi movies i would watch as a git. blade runner and the such, where advertisements would start as soon as you walked past them, geared towards you. I know theres one movie in particular, but i cant remember. Think big brother, think Wall-e.

But here we are, introducing video technology into print. A rechargeable screen that is small enough to fit in your wallet and can store 40 minutes of video.

It a long leap from old quad core here, and truly fascinating. Advertisers have long been looking for new, innovative ways to appeal to masses. Print especially, has suffered, because reading is an actual labor, purchasing magazines seems pointless when there is a limiteless supply of information for free at your fingertips at almost every moment of the day.

I was blown away when Esquire magazine last year, released the first magazine ever to use e-ink technology in a flashing cover, but this goes a ways beyond that.

The company that made these babies, Americhip, has also created magazine technologies that appeals to various senses, including smell.

woo.

All work and no Play

I need a job that actually pays me what I'm worth. Any ideas?