You linked to a song called "Pod Fodder 58", and I can't find the song you're talking about so I'm reviewing this one.
Cool beginning with the guitar and bassdrum. Vocals are not that great. reminds me of Sonic Youth, but not as good.
actually, the vocals are pretty dang annoying..they get more annoying as the song goes on. This song is kinda meandering overall. I like the style of instrumentation and the beat of the song though. but it doesn't go anywhere and doesn't make me feel any kind of emotion.
In her NYT review of 1Q84 Janet Maslin claims"'1Q84' has even his most ardent fans doing back flips as they try to justify this book’s glaring troubles." despite the fact that this statement is plain untrue, I found the glaring troubles in her book review with nominal effort. Her review consistently criticizes 1Q84 for things that are arguably tenants of postmodern literature while never actually giving reasons as to why they are unsuccessful. The first claim Maslin levels against 1Q84 Is that the book itself is too long, or rather, the book is unrewarding. Despite the fact that the mere notion of books following some length/reward formula is childish especially when discussing Postmodernism. This same claim could be made against most novels written in the postmodern tradition, in The Erasers, Alain Robbe-Grillet one of the pioneers of postmodernist literature, famously described a tomato wedge in a salad in copious scientific detail. The mere fact that a novel is long or a novel contains filler has not been a valid argument against a work since James Joyce wrote Ulysses. Maslin's second claim, written as a one sided conversation with herself in which she presumably lays the smackdown on all those ardent Murakami defenders (I don't think I need to point out how this could be construed as a little bias), rails against the novels title 1Q84 and whether or not its a play on George Orwell's 1984 (just as Murakami's earlier novel Norwegian Wood was a play on the Beatle's song). She then asks the defenders whether or not the presence of two moons and a reference to Sonny and Cher constitute the novels classification as science fiction. Not only would I dismiss such claims because they are wholly irrelevant. Maslin yet again foolishly misclassifies the appearance of another tenant of postmodernism as half-assed science fiction (Why she cites Sonny and Cher as evidence of this I have no idea). Postmodernism as an artistic movement is largely based in the juxtaposition of highbrow and lowbrow imagery. Maslin cites both the highbrow twin moons (presumably largely symbolic) and the lowbrow Sonny and Cher (ROSS NOTE: Gravity's Rainbow is critically acclaimed for Pynchon's use of similar juxtapositions). The presence of these two elements really only lend more evidence to the novels classification as another work of postmodernist literature while never actually giving any indication of the books quality. The rest of Maslin's review is largely a summation of the novel punctuated with words like "Ploys," "Unseemly," "Unconvincing," to create the illusion of an unsuccessful novel while remaining firmly grounded in unsubstantiated subjectivism, until she cites an awkward erotic fragment without any context and then uses that as evidence as to why the book makes no sense. In her conclusion Maslin once again steamrolls over any inkling of postmodernist storytelling by openly criticizing the novels ending for not tying up all loose ends and being way more vague than the ending of the Steve Jobs biography. I cannot vouch for the quality of 1Q84 because I have not yet read it but as an intelligent and critical reader, I would never say that a review as poor as this one, clearly written by a person who has no grasp on postmodernist literature, encapsulates why Murakami on the whole is overrated especially when I would profess myself as someone who enjoys the works of Thomas Pynchon and Don Dellilo, two authors whose novels are guilty of all the misguided criticisms made against 1Q84. Janet Maslin is clearly unqualified as a reviewer of postmodern literature. Her review makes it apparent she is neither capable of understanding nor appreciating the movement and when she can find no shortcomings within a novels content she has no problem fabricating them from elements of the artistic movement itself. Ross Barkan is a pedantic dope who sees any permeation of literature into the popular consciousness as a negative thing because he likes the unwarranted feeling of superiority he gets from telling people he's read Gravity's Rainbow. That is how he let a terrible review like this one paint a grossly misshapen picture of perhaps the greatest living asian novelist.
a british woman at cameo gallery once asked me if i was from manchester and thought i was ian brown. i don't see the resemblance, but after watching this can see that we are the same, he and i. spiritually.
So i go to this show last night, no one in the crowd but uggos and fatties. Everyone seems to have gone to Taco Bell beforehand because chrissy's whole house smells like mexi-melts and double decker tacos. Well whatever, the first band goes on and the fatties arent into it, they all start eating white cheddar cheetos because they are under the false impression that they are healthier for you, maybe they are, who gives a shit. The first band does suck, its like the native american leonard cohen or some shit with these two fat dudes who look like dave grohl; both of them. Anyway chief leonard or whatever is rambling about his tribe or some shit and the dave grohls are trying to bum cheetoes from the audience. The audience isn't sharing and the fat dudes are getting bummed out. There is this dude with glasses standing near me and i can literally watch him getting fatter. he went outside to smoke weed and came back 15 pounds heavier. The next band goes on and they are called something else and they are equally terrible in a totally different way. this band actually has fans though because these fat chicks who had been sitting down for the last set all get up and start swaying back and forth. At this point the whole fucking house starts creaking like the floor is going to explode because of all these lardos shifting their weight. At this point i am fearing for my life so i head outside to get away from the danger and someone outside has lit chrissys garbage can on fire and is trying to do harry potter spells or some shit. Not get sidetracked and rail against harry potter but that book has to be pretty close to utter pornography. Hundreds of thousands of kids read those books each year and you could probably count the lessons learned on one hand. Motherfucker drops out of school to kill someone? harry potter never fucking works at anything, hes like fucking scooby doo constantly falling ass-backwards into adventures and splendor. the only difference between harry and shaggy is that shaggy didnt have the same sense of entitlement as harry potter. Harry Potter acted like he ran shit because he had a scar on his forehead; but guess what, you cant have a scar that close to your brain without some of it leaking out (implying...). Anyway the show gets kinda boring so SPOILER: i didnt even stay to see Slothbear; instead i went to brooklyn and ate at this pizza restaurant (lol oxymoron) Fornino's and dude this place was so stupid, people were sitting there ordering pizza of a paper menu (wtf?). Im checking out the menu to see which pizza im gonna get. I settle on this one with mushrooms on it. I take a few glances around the restaurant and realize that the patrons are uglier than the uggos at he american boner. Everyone there is fucking gross and the people across from me are taking pictures of the pizzas and getting drool on their "i love hitler and fat chicks" t-shirt's. anyway the pizza shows up but there is no sauce on it because it is a 'white pizza' which is like a 'red pizza' if it tasted like bread and grease. not to turn this into a restaurant review or anything but the place sucks, dont go there.
I sit in my living room. The very, very lo-fi soft rock (the un-hip kind: this is not Double Wonderful kitsch or that je-ne-sais-quoi that is emnated from Hall and Oates, the likes of which manifests triangle smiles, South Park style, evoke Carlos, MacGruber sex scenes &c.) of my uncle "Uncle Rick" plays from my Grandma's speakers. It sounds like a more soulful and bluesy Randy-Marsh'd James Taylor if he were vaguely interested in wizards. Makes me worry about World of Darkness in more than one capacity.
I am thinking about Infinte Jest, which I completed yesterday. Completed reading, that is. There is a still-too-hot-to-eat Meatloaf TV dinner sitting in front of me. I got home from Stony Brook at 5 AM this morning and this will be the day's inaugural meal. It is nearly 2 PM now, but I woke up at 11 so I don't really feel guilty about sleeping too much or anything.
We will not practice this weekend.
At the tail end of the first chapter there is a part where Hal, narrating from the furthest point chronologically, references John Wayne's not having won and Whataburger and Hal and Donald Gately digging up the late Himself's head (or what's left of it, apparently [via Joelle I think] where the cartridge, the novel's fifth or is it sixth and only lethal titual Entertainment).
As of right now I postulate that Hal dosed himself with DMZ. Haven't read any online summaries or explanations yet. This is unadulterated Ginsberg literary detective work, ladies and gents.
Makes me think about those novels in the works of mine. (Last night inspired by Mike Seminara, my successor at Spoke the Thunder to return to fiction writing) But really it also makes me think about the Harry Potter franchise, those really gratifying plot books &c.
A Tale of Two Cities is one of the most excellently composed novels of all time. Its writing is not particularly enjoyable. However, its plot is more or less unparalleled among works of literary fiction. I remarked all throughout the end of high school that the end of Arrested Development was Dickensian. This should cement just how much I attribute really airtight, complex plot-based writing to the man, whom I only read once and when I was fifteen and probably not a particularly good judge of all things literary. Infinite Jest could have been A Tale of Two Cities and comes closer than any of the other great big postmodern novels (V., Gravity's Rainbow, Underworld) that I've read. The reference to Gately in Hal's chronologically last narrative (the novel's first) was what stopped my vacillation and made me feel for certain that Infinite Jest is a truly Great Novel.
With about two hundred pages to go, I could have outlined a legitimately great, action-packed, skeletal arc of where the book could have gone. Not all of it would have been any good. The AFR assault on ETA could have been something like Death Eaters. Hal's harrowing decision to take DMZ, told from--gasp--Pemulis' eyes... Fighting alonside one another readers and Hal alike chuckle when, somehow, Orin sees Helen Steeply's penis. Perhaps Mario is skilled in the struggle by Marathe's Avada Kedavra. Joelle watches Infinite Jest V or VI and is unfazed, amid womp womp wahhhhhhs and the like.
In all seriousness this is not the sort of gratification I expected. And thank (G/g)od this is not how it all turns out. I trusted DFW would end the novel much better than I possibly could have and he did. But I expected something else, at first.
There are two main points I want to make from here on out and I am not sure how they will be organized. Let me say though that they are points about anit-Pynchonism and Impressionist Entertainment. I think they will weave in and out of one another, because they are more related than I first thought.
I love Thomas Pynchon, which people I know know too well. And I wrote extensively about Thomas Pynchon and the notion of closure in an independent study I completed this fall. Maybe I'll post that here, too, to the chagrin of Craig and whomever reads this thing for entertainment, whomever that may be. In novels like Gravity's Rainbow what actually happens to any characters short of a burnt out and amnesiac Slothrop and an even more burnt out Gottfried (this is a VERY clever joke, sucks no one will get it but a by-this-point-quite-enervated-FDB) is not really alluded to or important in any way. Abundance renders so much obsolete.
I'm going on and on, so here's the point. Infinite Jest is fucking long. It is not a hard read, but it is mammoth. And its 1079 pages could easily crest more like a traditional novel but they do not. Instead of the Deathly Hallows epilogue we get a last vignette, a final fucked up, not at all lucid flash of Gately, a former drug addict, hospitalized and refusing narcotic painkillers after becoming brutally fucked up in an honorable way, waking up on a cold beach after like some seriously like fucked up binge-shooting up and a little Sunshine, in more than one sense. The revelation 20 pages in that Gately and Hal, perhaps the novel's two most central charcters who do not meet at any other point in the novel, are digging up Himself's skull implies something very purposeful, but is ultimately completely superfluous. It alludes to that page-burner plot and the crazy, compositional wild magic that would have extended IJ at least two hundred pages longer, had Dickens been brought in as a consultant toward the end. It reminds the reader curious enough to re-read the first chapter immediately after finishing the novel that DFW is a commericial writer as well as a novelist and, as the entire brunt of the novel's immense statement about entertainment suggests, perhaps the most articulate critic of all entertainment who has ever lived, been published and cared about, that too much entertainment is not good.
What I love about this little impressionistic joke is that DFW is playing with readers interested in what plays out beyond the "fifth wall." I haven't looked for the IJ fan fiction yet, but there's so much room for it to exist. As Eggers suggests in the introduction the edition I have, Infinite Jest suggests that there are readers who could enjoy Pynchon and Elmore Leonard. I suppose he is right, becuase in some capacity that's exactly the audience to whom Infinite Jest is tailored.
DFW's writing does not make me swoon for the poetry of his words. As someone, Eggers again, I think, suggests, there is not one lazy sentence in the novel. His writing is not Pynchon's sublime, as in Edmund Burke, frightening, Andrew Marvell on a bit of DFW's DMZ, comic books and Faulkner mind-obliterating fairweather ecstasy. It is more akin to DeLillo's straighter-forward writing. It is not ravishing so much as it is kind of pretty, pretty potent and, well, sorry T Ruggles P, way, way coherent.
If I were not composing a Spotblog post and were trying to shape this into like an academic paper, I might write something like: Wallace practices what he preaches. He foregoes gratifying his readers with the climax of the AFR's terrorist plot, or the circumstances of Hal's ingestion of DMZ or Joelle and O. sitting together on that porch swing. Gately having a catch with his son, throwing righty and like a rocket. Wallace is not C. He does not guide the needle to your badly bruised forearm and shoot you up with Sunshine. Infinite Jest refuses to give its readers the gratification that Blood Sister, IJ V or VI or Demerol do.
The line "The book Infinite Jest is unlike the film Infinite Jest, perhaps a statement about a difference or two between literature and film" would surely be somewhere in this essay.
I'd probably go on longer, but I'm bored.
When the A.D.A. man comes to Pat, before you re-read Year of Glad, the reader who trusts the shadowplay that DFW casts knows in that impressionistic, intuitive way that Gately will turn out all right and anyone who remembers the basic gist of the novel's first chapter knows that Hal does not. Personally, I like Gately a lot more than Hal, anyhow.
Slothbear has a new EP or some shit coming out soon and I am giving away one copy for FREE signed by the boys with a personalized letter of sincere appreciation from Doug Bleek. That's right, shit just got real. We are taking the concept of Pokemon Snap and integrating fat people and twitter. The rules of the contest are pretty simple but it is a multi step process so let me break it down for you. step 1: follow the slothdudes or me on twitter.( @bearslothbearsl and @Ktomitted respectively) step 2: take a candid picture of a fat person step 3: tweet the picture mentioning either Slothbear or myself and the hashtag #ssafcontest (bonus points will be awarded for a funny caption) step 4: we score the photos based on how funny they are Contest RULEZ 1. photo must be candid, in other words: fatso can't know 2. we are looking for fat randos, not people you know like your fat mom or fat brother. they can however be renowned fat people. 3. obv: no self portraits 4. no shit you find on the internet REMEMBER: we are judging these photos on how funny they are so if you see some fat chick order over 10 tacos at taco bell and eat them inside the restaurant alone take a picture and win something for it. Fatties do funny shit all the time, just look at Ralphie May. GOOD LUCK
the other week i had a solo show in the gallery at my school's art center. it was the first time i ever formally displayed my work, and my aunt cathy (shouuuutouuuuuut) was kind enough to take a few photos. here are the ones that came out the least blurry:
pavo album cover-- i never sprayed the evergreens with any sort of fixative or whatever, so they've kinda wilted. maybe i'll replace em someday.
this is another mixed media thing i did of a basking shark, one of my favorite sharks when i was a kid. i had a dream very similar to this, only with heavy floodlighting.
I just wrote a book im not going to plug it or anything but its titled "Spring Cleaning" and i think its pretty sick. Here is what the press had to say:
"Spring Cleaning's jacket claims it is the story of two brothers, Ding Rames and Ving Rames reunited after the events of the Civil War. SPOILER ALERT: The story is basically a rip-off of Rain Man if instead of Dustin Hoffman having idiot savant counting abilities, he has a 15 inch penis. The author even has the gall to refer to Ving as a savant. The characters are one dimensional and despite this, the author clearly gets them mixed up on more than one occasion. The novel lacks any clear scope besides the author mentioning every three pages that the story takes place in the Marvel universe via the Ghost Rider character who serves for little more than a moral compass for Ding and Ving. The novel is told from both the perspective of Ding and Ving with the final act of the story being told by SPOILER ALERT: Ghost Rider, the effect is extremely obtrusive due to Ving being severely mentally handicapped. Much like the rest of the book ending falls flat in a twist in which SPOILER ALERT Ding realizes that he is also autistic but lacks Ving's endowment and attempts suicide, Ghost rider attempts to intervene but realizes that Ding and Ving are merely projections created by Mephisto. This ending merely raises questions and mires the entire plot in an homo-erotic sub-text. While the book largely plods along at a sloppy pace there is one positive aspect worth mentioning. The author has a very peculiar and vernacular which i found intriguing, until I realized that it was only because he used the word 'negro' with extreme liberality. This inveterate usage of the word leads to some of the most creative and possibly artful usages of the word 'negro' ever conceived, but largely comes of as racist and compulsive." -Doug
I'm writing on this blog, you people get to read it for free, so head over to this website and vote for my girlfriends dress. Its easy to register you just need an name an email address and a password. they don't even verify the email address so you can use a friends email. then after you've registered got to the voting page and rachel's dress is on the bottom row second from the right (make sure it says Rachel Wendling) then click vote. simple. after you've voted you need to do this everyday until voting ends. then sign in below with the name of your favorite teacher if i get 100 comments and 700 votes doug will write the teacher with the most votes a sincere thank you letter.
Today, I get a text from Craig asking if I'd like to start posting on the spotblog. When someone hands you your dreams you take them. For a time in the 08 or 09 ( i am hazy on the details, I may actually still be managing them which says more about them than it ever could of me) i managed slothbear. In my tenure as manager I set strict guidelines like "no fat chicks," this rule proved too problematic and I was instantly terminated. While my time as manager was brief, I still learned some valuable life lessons. The first while it may seem obvious is that there is no pain in life that cannot be cured by the sweet release of death. The second: never get between dbleek and his fat chicks. Ever. Nowadays, I live the lonely life of a recluse. I spend up to ten hours a day excersizing my latent psychic abilities and polishing my wrestling skills. I can stare through a persons soul and follow up with a DDT. When the Illuminati (Jews) make their move and I am forced to wrestle for my life In one of their thunder-gogues you will not want to be In the other corner. I hope the readers of this blog view my addition as a contributor as the first steps into the golden age of spotblog. You are honestly a dummy if you don't, I realize I have been mum on the subject until now but I feel it is worth mentioning that I am a WHITE GOD. There is seriously a church in Asia where Chinese and Japanese people gather to worship me. I typed this entire post on an iPhone, sure It isn't practical, but it is fucking god-like. Later scrubs!
Elijah came across two individuals upon changing his musical incite and all things for that matter, a few hundred blunts later, they some how came together to form a band in the end that would soon follow a mass genocide of your ear pussy's.