Tasty, tasty cannibalism

Under most circumstances, I despise mashup culture. Artistic recombination of older ingredients is fine, but the wholesale cultural cannibalism that's so frequently on display on Youtube and in dance clubs cheeses me off most of the time.

But occasionally the mashup fad produces something that even killjoys like me can enjoy. For instance:

The nuclear option

DO NOT WANT

Sometimes you don't notice that a topic is on your mind until it emerges in conversation. For instance, the topic of procreation--more specifically, the topic of vasectomies--came up for me at least three times.

This is not to say that I am planning on getting a vasectomy as soon as possible. The option is on the table for the future, but going for the snip as an emotional young man seems ill-advised. Regardless, I'm sure it kept coming up because I've been thinking about the decision to (or not to) have children.

Dino Sr

So my Monday post was late, and then my Wednesday post didn't happen at all! I am terrible at this whole rigorous-discipline thing.

In my defense, I've had a lot of non-work-related activities to deal with this week. Last night, for instance, I saw Dinosaur Jr (along with a wild supporting cast) play a show at Terminal 5 in Midtown West.

In fact, the composition of that supporting cast was almost as interesting as Dino's set. Few experiences are so surreal as walking into a slick Manhattan club, complete with $8 domestic cans and bouncers wearing fingerless weightlifting gloves, only to see Keith Morris reliving his early-80s glory days on the tricked-out stage. 

Winter done came already

Boromir Stark of Winterfell

So this is my first late post! I slept way the fuck later than I meant to yesterday, and by the time I remembered that it was Monday and I was supposed to do a blog post, I was already at work. Instead of using my few waking hours at home writing, I finished off A Clash of Kings, the second book in George Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire series (known popularly by the name of the first book, A Game of Thrones).

As I understand it, fantasy mavens afford Martin's work a great deal of respect and have done so for years and years. Like The Lord of the Rings before it, A Game of Thrones recently exploded into the popular consciousness by way of a screen adaptation--an HBO series rather than film, in this case.

A Game of Thrones strikes me as something of an odd choice for such a high-stakes wager on the part of HBO's executives. Not because of the weakness of the source material, mind. Martin's books are brilliant page-turners set in a vivid, distinctive alternate reality. They're intensely character-driven, but don't depend so much on inner life that they seem impossible to transliterate into a cinematic format.

Screens on screens

I watched the last game of the NBA finals this past Sunday. I'm not a basketball fan, but the opportunity to watch the biggest douche in sports go down in ignominious defeat was irresistible.

Professional sports telecasts usually feature commercials for cars, beers, and the latest gadgets. The modern generation of gadgets has given birth to the dread nightmare that is screens on screens.

SCREENS ON SCREENS ON SCREENS ON SCREENS

Apple advertisements especially love inducing vertigo by putting screens on your TV or computer. Sometimes you're just seeing a screen on a screen (an iPhone screen on your TV screen). Other times, you're seeing so many screens that it's like standing between two mirrors set facing each other. You're watching a TV (one screen) playing an ad for iPads that has two iPads on the screen at one point (three screens). Each iPad is playing a movie in which the character is watching a movie on an iPad (five screens) that is playing a movie in which the character is watching a movie on an iPad (seven screens) and SCREENS ON SCREENS ON SCREENS.

This feeling is what my band is about.

Mandatory quiet time

Sometimes I lie there listening to The Residents.

I've been having difficulty sleeping straight through the night for years. My insomnia started during my early teens and continues to this day. For a long time, I thought it was the product of various stress factors. Now I'm pretty sure that it's just a feature of my psyche.

My sleep disruptions adhere to a common pattern. I usually go to sleep without issue after half an hour or so of lying in bed. Two or three hours later, I wake up. Oftentimes I'll wake up thirsty, needing to pee, or with some other mild discomfort. But even when this discomfort has been taken care of, I'm still awake.

I then proceed to lie in bed without sleep for anywhere from one to five hours. Occasionally I'll give in to boredom and get up for some reading or internet-ing, but usually I just lie there and think.

Not a pressure cooker

Fig. 1: Heat stroke victim.

It was extremely hot in the Northeast last week. Temperatures hit an unseasonable 95° on Wednesday, and on Thursday the mercury crept up near an even 100°. As a cavemanly type who prefers cold temperatures to warm ones, I found this situation distressing.

The situation became even more distressing when I considered that I'd have to venture into the subway in order to get to work.

If you've never lived in a major city or relied upon an underground metro system for transport, it's probably not clear why this might be the case. If you have, you are aware of the rather intense sensations associated with venturing below the streets on a hot day.

My band could be my life

Last night I finished reading Our Band Could Be Your Life, Michael Azerrad's punk/indie bible. It deserves its reputation as required reading for anyone playing underground rock music, and I'm somewhat ashamed of myself for not getting to it sooner.

The book is loaded with inspiring passages. It takes its title from "History Lesson (Part II)" by Minutemen, who have long been one of my favorite bands. Bassist Mike Watt explains the intended function of the song during the chapter Azerrad dedicates to Minutemen:

'Plenty of punks thought the Minutemen were mocking them and their scene (and sometimes they were). But as "History Lesson (Part II)" made clear, they were just three guys who had grown up together and were making music they thought was good. "I wrote that song to try to humanize us," says Watt. "People thought we were spacemen, but we were just Pedro corndogs--our band could be your life! You could be us, this could be you. We're not that much different from you cats."'

Coming from one of my favorite musicians, this is an intensely moving sentiment to read. It makes me want to sell all of my worldly possessions (except my guitar, of course) and buy a van.

Playing death, feeling alive

I've now been listening to death metal, or at least music that's closely related to death metal, for about ten years. That's a lot of time spent on blastbeats.

It goes without saying that I really enjoy this style of music. Exactly why I enjoy it so much is a little more difficult to parse, even for me.

Prima facie, death metal faces a lot of damning criticisms. Most well-known death metal relies on simplistic and sometimes reprehensible subject matter. It's often sexist, both in content and in practice. It depends on mindless speed and volume. It worships technique--or, alternately, guitar tone--at the expense of songcraft. Much of it is derivative or self-referential. It's gone for almost fifteen years without any widespread aesthetic developments, despite a number of inventive bands who've played in the idiom. It encourages its fans to focus on the worst aspects of the world. The vocals are dumb. The riffs make no sense.

And yet some of the most joyous, transcendent experiences in my life have come from this music. How?

Greenpoint Santa

Every urban neighborhood I've ever lived in or spent a lot of time in has 'its' homeless person. While there may be quite a number of homeless people who frequently hang around in that neighborhood, it seems that there's always just one who dominates the landscape, usually by way of his or her larger-than-life eccentricity.

In my current neighborhood, the signature vagrant is unquestionably Greenpoint Santa.

Way less charming than this guy.

Greenpoint Santa takes his name from his bushy white beard and the large satchel of 'presents' he totes around with him. He was so dubbed by a few friends of mine whose stoop he likes to sit/sleep on. Greenpoint Santa bears the dubious distinction of being the most revolting homeless person any of us have ever come across.

Real problems that I face every day

I've been running regularly for about six years now. Though I'm not a competitive runner, I do take my fitness very seriously. Running regularly also allows me to eat whatever the hell I want. I get to act like a fat kid and look like an athlete at the same time.

How I feel when I run.

Running is also an important emotional release for me. I've gotten reasonably fast over the years, despite my rather not-built-for-speed frame. Cranking out a few miles in quick succession is an empowering experience in my otherwise rather servile life.

Unfortunately, I can't run right now. There's something wrong with my right heel; I suspect that it's either a minor stress fracture or a bone bruise. Since I work as a waiter and can't very well stay off my feet altogether, I figure it's best to spare my foot the abuse of running. But I also can't stop working out altogether, because I'm now thoroughly addicted to endorphins and would suffer total mood collapse if I didn't get my fix.

So I am faced with an odious choice: the exercise bike or the elliptical.