Man oh man do I want to see this.
"The Ruined Cast" / Dash Shaw - demo teaser from Howard Gertler on Vimeo.
The music alone is really persuasive. Here's the creator's blog. Here's a story about the movie, which is apparently being produced by John Cameron Mitchell of Hedwig and the Angry Inch awesomeness.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Lessons I Learned from Dora
I am back! And I have thoughts, as it turns out. Get ready!
I've spent a lot of time with children on this trip (I have five nieces and nephews and one baby second cousin), and as a side effect I have spent a lot of time with Dora. In particular, I can recite to you the maps for both rescuing the baby jaguar and bringing the baby penguino safely home to the South Pole. I can tell you that in one episode Swiper appears in the poorly conceived costume of a polar bear in the jungle; in the next, he skis down a snowy mountain--always the wrong costume for the wrong place (if only he'd held onto it for another episode).
As tired as I am of it, I have no beef with Dora--I think it's a great concept. The idea, those with children or child relatives probably know, is that Dora stimulates different intelligences, in keeping with Gardner's theory of multiple intelligences--activating language centers as well as mathematical, spatial, artistic, and musical intelligences. Whereas traditional children's shows like Sesame Street isolate these skills (a counting segment, a reading segment, a musical segment, etc.), Dora combines them in an attempt to keep the child engaged the whole time, and in multiple ways. Not a minute goes by without some injunction to the child to move, speak, direct, or think in some new way. (Probably the perfection of this form is in Little Einsteins, where the linkages between math and music, space and art, etc. are made visually and aurally explicit.) And while all this is going, there is a semblance of a story--Dora is introducing us to her cousin Diego, and using animal sounds and knowledge of nature to save the baby jaguar is just an average day as far as he's concerned. In the books, the story is more explicit, though the formula is always the same. Dora must bring a crown and shoes to her sister to help celebrate her quinceaneara, but first she must pull out the Map and navigate between three separate locations/obstacles, avoid Swiper, utilize the talents of the animals or solve their problems, and so forth. There is a plot in the sense that there is a succession of events and that actions of consequence must be taken (often in Spanish: to open, to pull, to jump, to dive). But there is little shape other than that given by the Map--we do anticipate what will happen next, but ultimately we know, based on the outline given at the beginning of each episode or book, when and where the conflict in the story will occur.
What's interesting is that Dora puts the child in charge of identifying and overcoming these conflicts. ("Where do you see Swiper?" "Tell the penguino to swim deeper!") What's also interesting is that the conflicts in Dora must, due to the show's specific brand of interactivity, be resolved according to a single, predetermined response. Not only does the episode lead the child to a narrowed down input to solve the problem, but it ultimately makes irrelevant whether or not the child decides anything at all, as the situation will be resolved regardless of the presence or lack of input. If you wait, Dora and Boots will continue in their path; they will solve the problem; they will conquer the obstacles with or without your help. In this way Dora , particularly in its form as a TV show, is profoundly non-interactive, in that it limits the possible ways in which a child can respond to and influence the course of events, and indeed, makes it as possible (though less enticing, due to the power of its formula) for the child to zone out and not participate as with all the other televised mind-rot parents want badly to avoid.
Even with all this, I'll still advocate for Dora. If you're going to let your child watch TV, it should probably be TV that teaches and engages on such a regular basis. But it does make me wonder (as a non-mother, and thus an easily challengeable entity) why many parents who fear the negative influences of television have seemed to lean further toward TV shows, albeit TV shows like Dora and Little Einsteins, and further away from full-length children's films.
I've spent a lot of time with children on this trip (I have five nieces and nephews and one baby second cousin), and as a side effect I have spent a lot of time with Dora. In particular, I can recite to you the maps for both rescuing the baby jaguar and bringing the baby penguino safely home to the South Pole. I can tell you that in one episode Swiper appears in the poorly conceived costume of a polar bear in the jungle; in the next, he skis down a snowy mountain--always the wrong costume for the wrong place (if only he'd held onto it for another episode).
As tired as I am of it, I have no beef with Dora--I think it's a great concept. The idea, those with children or child relatives probably know, is that Dora stimulates different intelligences, in keeping with Gardner's theory of multiple intelligences--activating language centers as well as mathematical, spatial, artistic, and musical intelligences. Whereas traditional children's shows like Sesame Street isolate these skills (a counting segment, a reading segment, a musical segment, etc.), Dora combines them in an attempt to keep the child engaged the whole time, and in multiple ways. Not a minute goes by without some injunction to the child to move, speak, direct, or think in some new way. (Probably the perfection of this form is in Little Einsteins, where the linkages between math and music, space and art, etc. are made visually and aurally explicit.) And while all this is going, there is a semblance of a story--Dora is introducing us to her cousin Diego, and using animal sounds and knowledge of nature to save the baby jaguar is just an average day as far as he's concerned. In the books, the story is more explicit, though the formula is always the same. Dora must bring a crown and shoes to her sister to help celebrate her quinceaneara, but first she must pull out the Map and navigate between three separate locations/obstacles, avoid Swiper, utilize the talents of the animals or solve their problems, and so forth. There is a plot in the sense that there is a succession of events and that actions of consequence must be taken (often in Spanish: to open, to pull, to jump, to dive). But there is little shape other than that given by the Map--we do anticipate what will happen next, but ultimately we know, based on the outline given at the beginning of each episode or book, when and where the conflict in the story will occur.
What's interesting is that Dora puts the child in charge of identifying and overcoming these conflicts. ("Where do you see Swiper?" "Tell the penguino to swim deeper!") What's also interesting is that the conflicts in Dora must, due to the show's specific brand of interactivity, be resolved according to a single, predetermined response. Not only does the episode lead the child to a narrowed down input to solve the problem, but it ultimately makes irrelevant whether or not the child decides anything at all, as the situation will be resolved regardless of the presence or lack of input. If you wait, Dora and Boots will continue in their path; they will solve the problem; they will conquer the obstacles with or without your help. In this way Dora , particularly in its form as a TV show, is profoundly non-interactive, in that it limits the possible ways in which a child can respond to and influence the course of events, and indeed, makes it as possible (though less enticing, due to the power of its formula) for the child to zone out and not participate as with all the other televised mind-rot parents want badly to avoid.
Even with all this, I'll still advocate for Dora. If you're going to let your child watch TV, it should probably be TV that teaches and engages on such a regular basis. But it does make me wonder (as a non-mother, and thus an easily challengeable entity) why many parents who fear the negative influences of television have seemed to lean further toward TV shows, albeit TV shows like Dora and Little Einsteins, and further away from full-length children's films.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Reading, writing, and DDR, pt. 3
At the highest levels of DDR play, choice has nothing to do with it. In the most difficult songs, at the most challenging difficulties, it's generally understood that you may have to play with the bar. You can lean on the bar with your arms to hold yourself up while your legs flail wildly, barely supporting your body at all. You can never not be stepping on things, and there's very little time for style. To even have a chance, you have to memorize the arrows -- let them live in your body -- such that you can perform the song, from beginning to end, without looking. Anything less might be impressive, might in fact be amazing, but it won't win you a prize. Which is, apart from a personality disorder (or perhaps I should say including a personality disorder), just about the only reason you would learn to play at that level in the first place.
This is not to cast aspersions on personality disorders. I've got one or two myself. They treat me pretty well, all told.
But this is perhaps the endgame of all art, isn't it? You keep upping the demands on your audience until there isn't any air left in their lungs -- squeeze and push and pull them until it's all they can do to stay afloat. A person reading Finnegan's Wake may understand what I mean. A person really listening to Mozart may know what I mean. The mind struggles simply to really perceive the thing, let alone participate.
This is not to cast aspersions on personality disorders. I've got one or two myself. They treat me pretty well, all told.
But this is perhaps the endgame of all art, isn't it? You keep upping the demands on your audience until there isn't any air left in their lungs -- squeeze and push and pull them until it's all they can do to stay afloat. A person reading Finnegan's Wake may understand what I mean. A person really listening to Mozart may know what I mean. The mind struggles simply to really perceive the thing, let alone participate.
Gabriel Blackwell is our second contributor
Guys!
Today I went to Andele's Mexican Hot Dog to get an Andele's Mexican Hot Dog with the works. (This was to reward myself for sitting through a haircut, and also for spending the 4th alone while everyone was out of town.) Andele's Mexican Hot Dog was, sadly, closed. :(
But I'm still excited! Because Gabriel Blackwell has just given us permission to run his story-essay-thing (apparently we're into that) "An Interpretive History of Addition," which is about counting, and cannibalism, and hands. You'll have to wait a while to read that, but he's got plenty of work available online.
He first published "The Behavior of Pidgeons" at Conjunctions, where he later published "Untitled (Sid Vicious, New York, 1978). But I first became aware of him through The Collagist, where his story "Play" lives and laughs. You can hear him reading it (with remarkable clarity) here. His blog, of course, is here. You'll hear more about him soon, I'm sure.
Looking forward to finding out who our next will be, and enjoying our slush quite a lot. Keep it up.
Today I went to Andele's Mexican Hot Dog to get an Andele's Mexican Hot Dog with the works. (This was to reward myself for sitting through a haircut, and also for spending the 4th alone while everyone was out of town.) Andele's Mexican Hot Dog was, sadly, closed. :(
But I'm still excited! Because Gabriel Blackwell has just given us permission to run his story-essay-thing (apparently we're into that) "An Interpretive History of Addition," which is about counting, and cannibalism, and hands. You'll have to wait a while to read that, but he's got plenty of work available online.
He first published "The Behavior of Pidgeons" at Conjunctions, where he later published "Untitled (Sid Vicious, New York, 1978). But I first became aware of him through The Collagist, where his story "Play" lives and laughs. You can hear him reading it (with remarkable clarity) here. His blog, of course, is here. You'll hear more about him soon, I'm sure.
Looking forward to finding out who our next will be, and enjoying our slush quite a lot. Keep it up.
Monday, July 5, 2010
Order of Tales Complete
The brilliant Evan Dahm's comic Order of Tales is complete. I kept up with this one for a while several years ago, when it first started, but ultimately decided I'd just rather read the whole thing at once. Now I can! And so can you. Recommend this strongly if you like inventive comics.
Really curious about what Vattu will be.
Really curious about what Vattu will be.
Who should we publish?
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Vouched Books
I would like to bestow the official Uncanny Valley Magazine Uncanny Valley Award for Uncanny Excellence upon Vouched Books, Christopher Newgent's traveling open-air bookstore based in my hometown. The concept:
Publishing today largely depends on the (rapidly diminishing) perception of books as status symbols, proof of education and class. A mixture of guilt and class/educational aspirations is about all we can count on to get people to read outside a very narrow spectrum of entertaining but not especially good books. And, really, we can't count on that anymore either. The problem with major publishers is that, outside the several fashionable categories recognized at any given time, they don't actually believe people want to read. They don't try to grow the market, largely because they don't seem to believe it can be done.
Small and independent publishers are often afflicted with a very similar disease, in that many don't really believe they can sell to anyone other than writers who would one day like to be published themselves. They use guilt and constant, brief cycles of hype to manufacture a sort of pyramid scheme -- buy these books, whether you want these particular books or not, so if someday your turn comes to write and publish one of these books, people will have to buy it. This is not a sustainable model, and it's certainly no way to expand reading, community, and bank accounts (all of which are important to me; I make no apologies for wanting to make some cash, if not a living, on my writing, and to help others do the same). There is a collective failure of imagination, a failure to believe in our work, and often, as a result, a failure to write our best.
Finding new ways to reach new readers won't only allow us the opportunity to show people what they're missing, it will make us better writers, because we will again imagine what our writing can be, what it can do in others' lives, what it can mean to perfect strangers. Projects like Christopher's are an essential beginning in reaching out, in reminding people how much they can love reading, and, in turn, how much we can love it ourselves.
Classy stuff. One of the great challenges of publishing right now is finding a way to spread the word beyond people who already know about and love great words. The truth is I'm enough of a capitalist that my troubles with the New York publishers aren't principled -- I don't care if they're "corporatist" or even sort of evil, really. The ones that sell good books well are fine by me, and most of them manage it a fair amount of the time (not that I've got the time or energy to care). What bothers me is how crap their business plans tend to be.Vouched is here to spread and promote small press literature by peddling literary wares at art events and farmers/flea markets around Indianapolis. Every book on my table is a book that I’ve personally read and enjoyed and want other people to read and enjoy.Most of all, Vouched is about talking about books. Small presses are putting out some of the best and most artistic literature out there. I want to talk about these books. I want these books to be talked about.
Publishing today largely depends on the (rapidly diminishing) perception of books as status symbols, proof of education and class. A mixture of guilt and class/educational aspirations is about all we can count on to get people to read outside a very narrow spectrum of entertaining but not especially good books. And, really, we can't count on that anymore either. The problem with major publishers is that, outside the several fashionable categories recognized at any given time, they don't actually believe people want to read. They don't try to grow the market, largely because they don't seem to believe it can be done.
Small and independent publishers are often afflicted with a very similar disease, in that many don't really believe they can sell to anyone other than writers who would one day like to be published themselves. They use guilt and constant, brief cycles of hype to manufacture a sort of pyramid scheme -- buy these books, whether you want these particular books or not, so if someday your turn comes to write and publish one of these books, people will have to buy it. This is not a sustainable model, and it's certainly no way to expand reading, community, and bank accounts (all of which are important to me; I make no apologies for wanting to make some cash, if not a living, on my writing, and to help others do the same). There is a collective failure of imagination, a failure to believe in our work, and often, as a result, a failure to write our best.
Finding new ways to reach new readers won't only allow us the opportunity to show people what they're missing, it will make us better writers, because we will again imagine what our writing can be, what it can do in others' lives, what it can mean to perfect strangers. Projects like Christopher's are an essential beginning in reaching out, in reminding people how much they can love reading, and, in turn, how much we can love it ourselves.
Saturday, July 3, 2010
Don't be Nervous Talking to Girls
The game these guys are playing is one of those things that would be incredibly brilliant if it had any idea how stupid it was. It's called "Don't be Nervous Talking to Girls" or possibly "Don't be Nervous: Talking to Girls." The idea is that an ostensibly beautiful woman looks you dead in the eyes and reads an unconvincing script. You then have a choice between two responses. Sometimes one is obviously wrong and the other is obviously right, which, because this game was designed by cretins, means that often the obviously wrong choice turns out to be right. (They are teaching you "counter-intuitive" lessons about how women like it when you play hard to get or project overwhelming manliness in their direction, I think.) Sometimes both seem fine, or at least equally appropriate. If you choose the wrong one, she freaks out and you have to try again. It doesn't matter how relatively bad your decision was, she's always really offended. If you choose the right one, you get to talk to her longer.
Sometimes she quizzes you about math or birth stones, and you only get five seconds to memorize her number. She WILL NOT WRITE IT DOWN ON A NAPKIN.
If it meant to be, this could be a very avant garde short story.
There's a small industry devoted to teaching frightened men how to talk to women and this game demonstrates nicely how it works. The game tells me not to be nervous about talking to girls, but in fact everything about it is nerve-wracking. In this world, in this vision of womankind, every woman is ready to furiously end any conversation the second you make the tiniest mistake. She will quiz you on math and obscure trivia, and if you get anything wrong, she will be horrified. Worse yet, the game teaches us that there is always the knowledge that there is a correct sequence of steps -- very precise, very obscure -- that will lead, in any conversation with any woman, to the receipt of a phone number. Presumably this logic continues through the first date, and the entire relationship, such that if you do things right you will inevitably take her to bed, you will marry her, you will have three beautiful children, she will love you forever. If only you can do all the right steps. And if you don't, the haunting knowledge that you could have.
The game -- and "the game," the system by which pick up artists train each other to date and bed women -- teaches men that women are terrifying aliens by building up an incomprehensible set of rules and rituals surrounding the most fundamental human impulses of friendship, connection, and sex. In their attempts to teach us not to be nervous around each other they teach us precisely how frightened to be. It's a self-perpetuating cycle that makes them both viable and necessary. We wouldn't need pick-up artists if we knew that women were people. I don't think this is a cynical strategy. Rather I think it's a reflection of our collective insanity re: gender, re: love, re: friendship, re: humanity.
Here is how to talk to a girl: remember she's a person very much like you.
Here is how to hook up with a girl at a bar: Go to the bar. Talk to some men there and also some women. Some of the women will be interested in sex when you talk to them, and some won't be. Don't worry about it too much. Some of the women who are interested in sex will be attracted to you, because some people -- not all, but enough -- find you attractive. It's true. Some of the women who aren't interested in sex on a particular night will discover that they actually are when they realize they're attracted to you. Again, don't worry about it too much. Be nice. Sometimes it'll all work out and you'll go to bed with someone. Maybe you'll want to spend some more time with them afterward, and maybe they'll feel the same way about you, because of how nice, attractive, and interesting you are (to some people, sometimes).
It's that easy. And there are lots of other ways to do it. Women are people. Remember about that. Be nice.
Friday, July 2, 2010
Addendum to the Guidelines
With thanks to Tin House for their brilliant pay-to-play strategy. These are not a joke. They are legally binding guarantees.
Anyone submitting to Uncanny Valley a manuscript accompanied by a receipt showing five hundred dollars spent on hardcore pornography will be automatically accepted.
For soft-core, it's a thousand.
Anyone submitting a manuscript accompanied by a picture of themselves performing a minor act of heroism (bringing a kitten down from a tree, helping an old lady across the street, eating an extra large deep-dish pizza without help) will be moved to the top of the slush.
For major acts of heroism (averting natural disasters, protecting children from bears, killing foreign US enemies, multiple orgasms) publication will be automatic.
Anyone submitting a manuscript accompanied by a certificate of third place or better in a hot dog eating contest will be automatically accepted. Certificate may be photo-copied, but not digitally scanned.
Anyone submitting a manuscript accompanied by a receipt showing the purchase of two thousand dollars worth of anal lubricant will be automatically accepted.
Anyone submitting a manuscript accompanied by definitive evidence of Bigfoot will be automatically accepted.
Anyone submitting a manuscript accompanied by a five-figure check will be automatically accepted.
Anyone submitting a picture of my own loved ones tied up in the back of an ice cream truck will be automatically accepted and paid the ransom in full.
Anyone who guesses the number in my head will be automatically accepted, declared a witch, and burned.
Anyone submitting a manuscript accompanied by a detailed, thoughtful book report on one of Tin House Books' Tin House Books (tm) will be automatically moved to the top of the slush, especially if the author can demonstrate the book was purchased at an independent bookstore in a rural community with three or more lesbian employees.
Anyone submitting a manuscript accompanied by a photograph or video featuring sufficiently attractive/large/wet/engorged primary or secondary sexual organs or characteristics will be automatically accepted and entered into a drawing for my own erotic portfolio.
Anyone submitting a manuscript accompanied by a picture of their skin touching the surface of the Stanley Cup will be automatically accepted.
Anyone submitting a manuscript accompanied by a groveling essay explaining why they can't meet any of the above requirements as well as a photo of them eating a bowl of their own shit will be considered, with considerable acrimony, for publication.
Anyone submitting to Uncanny Valley a manuscript accompanied by a receipt showing five hundred dollars spent on hardcore pornography will be automatically accepted.
For soft-core, it's a thousand.
Anyone submitting a manuscript accompanied by a picture of themselves performing a minor act of heroism (bringing a kitten down from a tree, helping an old lady across the street, eating an extra large deep-dish pizza without help) will be moved to the top of the slush.
For major acts of heroism (averting natural disasters, protecting children from bears, killing foreign US enemies, multiple orgasms) publication will be automatic.
Anyone submitting a manuscript accompanied by a certificate of third place or better in a hot dog eating contest will be automatically accepted. Certificate may be photo-copied, but not digitally scanned.
Anyone submitting a manuscript accompanied by a receipt showing the purchase of two thousand dollars worth of anal lubricant will be automatically accepted.
Anyone submitting a manuscript accompanied by definitive evidence of Bigfoot will be automatically accepted.
Anyone submitting a manuscript accompanied by a five-figure check will be automatically accepted.
Anyone submitting a picture of my own loved ones tied up in the back of an ice cream truck will be automatically accepted and paid the ransom in full.
Anyone who guesses the number in my head will be automatically accepted, declared a witch, and burned.
Anyone submitting a manuscript accompanied by a detailed, thoughtful book report on one of Tin House Books' Tin House Books (tm) will be automatically moved to the top of the slush, especially if the author can demonstrate the book was purchased at an independent bookstore in a rural community with three or more lesbian employees.
Anyone submitting a manuscript accompanied by a photograph or video featuring sufficiently attractive/large/wet/engorged primary or secondary sexual organs or characteristics will be automatically accepted and entered into a drawing for my own erotic portfolio.
Anyone submitting a manuscript accompanied by a picture of their skin touching the surface of the Stanley Cup will be automatically accepted.
Anyone submitting a manuscript accompanied by a groveling essay explaining why they can't meet any of the above requirements as well as a photo of them eating a bowl of their own shit will be considered, with considerable acrimony, for publication.
Tin House's receipt mistake
Look. I like Tin House. As Tracy said below, we bought an issue not too long ago because often they publish really excellent work in a pretty gorgeous format. Their Fantastic Women issue is, well, pretty fantastic.
And I would also like to be published there someday. I think they'd be good for me, I like to hope that someday they'll feel I'm good for them. But stuff like this really, really makes me question my esteem for them. It seems that if you want to submit to them in the next few months, you've got to send them a receipt showing you've bought a book at a bookstore.
This is so condescending it just makes me ill. There are two reasons to do this: 1) You think the writers who submit to you are genuinely the sort of morons who try to participate in writing without reading, or 2) You want to make submitting to your magazine a big hassle. I imagine it's a bit of both. Like many magazines today, Tin House likely believes they are besieged by too many undeserving writers, the sort of people who submit too frequently, too carelessly, and without buying a sufficient number of books from them. Long-term financial success of the sort they're seeking would require them to market their product outside the world of hopeful writers, but that would be too much work, and so they attempt to guilt and shame those writers into buying their magazine, giving up on submitting, or, ideally, both.
And I would also like to be published there someday. I think they'd be good for me, I like to hope that someday they'll feel I'm good for them. But stuff like this really, really makes me question my esteem for them. It seems that if you want to submit to them in the next few months, you've got to send them a receipt showing you've bought a book at a bookstore.
This is so condescending it just makes me ill. There are two reasons to do this: 1) You think the writers who submit to you are genuinely the sort of morons who try to participate in writing without reading, or 2) You want to make submitting to your magazine a big hassle. I imagine it's a bit of both. Like many magazines today, Tin House likely believes they are besieged by too many undeserving writers, the sort of people who submit too frequently, too carelessly, and without buying a sufficient number of books from them. Long-term financial success of the sort they're seeking would require them to market their product outside the world of hopeful writers, but that would be too much work, and so they attempt to guilt and shame those writers into buying their magazine, giving up on submitting, or, ideally, both.
Reading, writing, and DDR, pt. 2
If you're wondering where Tracy's been, she's still quite active in reading submissions and behind the scenes decisions, but at the moment she's visiting (and traveling) with family, and as such too busy to blog. She'll pop back in when she can! Until then, you're all in my care.
*
I think I was thirteen when I first took an interest in music. For my life so far, I'd found music embarrassing as a subject and an experience -- as far as I could tell, everything anyone had ever recorded was A) boring, commercial pap or B) about why I should consider sleeping with the performer(s). As one grows older one becomes inured to the come-ons of both individual celebrities (Sting, Bonno, Britney, Xtina, Pink, whatevs) and society as a whole (imagine wrapping yourself in this moist, pink flag) but when you're a certain age and someone or something intimates he/she/it might want to bed you there's a voice in your head that immediately cries out, "Yes! Yes! A thousand times yes!" regardless of whether we're talking Jewel or Fitty. It's an awkward time in a boy's life. He avoids popular culture. Or I did.
But then I found proper music. As I recall the chain went something like (don't judge me, remember that I'm very young) John Mayer --> Power Man 5000 --> Everclear --> The Strokes --> Smashing Pumpkins --> Modest Mouse, with Modest Mouse being an essentially perfect endpoint. Keep in mind that when I say "Everclear" I mean the one that made Songs from an American Movie parts One and Shite. It would take me a little while to discover the good Everclear. There were brief periods of rest in Taking Back Sunday (now most famous for their contributions to the Denny's menu) and Atom and his Package. (Remember him?) I borrowed my tastes from girls I dated.
As it turned out the issue was less that the artists were coming on to me and more that they weren't using the right moves. As a teenager (and still now, as a proper human being) I couldn't have felt less slick or cool or self-assured, but the whole strategy of popular music is smothering to death any other feelings than those of being slick and cool and self-assured under an auto-tuned pillow. In short, they were trying to kill me. That they were also trying to bed me, or rather to convince me I wanted to bed them, didn't make things any less confusing.
*
I think I was thirteen when I first took an interest in music. For my life so far, I'd found music embarrassing as a subject and an experience -- as far as I could tell, everything anyone had ever recorded was A) boring, commercial pap or B) about why I should consider sleeping with the performer(s). As one grows older one becomes inured to the come-ons of both individual celebrities (Sting, Bonno, Britney, Xtina, Pink, whatevs) and society as a whole (imagine wrapping yourself in this moist, pink flag) but when you're a certain age and someone or something intimates he/she/it might want to bed you there's a voice in your head that immediately cries out, "Yes! Yes! A thousand times yes!" regardless of whether we're talking Jewel or Fitty. It's an awkward time in a boy's life. He avoids popular culture. Or I did.
But then I found proper music. As I recall the chain went something like (don't judge me, remember that I'm very young) John Mayer --> Power Man 5000 --> Everclear --> The Strokes --> Smashing Pumpkins --> Modest Mouse, with Modest Mouse being an essentially perfect endpoint. Keep in mind that when I say "Everclear" I mean the one that made Songs from an American Movie parts One and Shite. It would take me a little while to discover the good Everclear. There were brief periods of rest in Taking Back Sunday (now most famous for their contributions to the Denny's menu) and Atom and his Package. (Remember him?) I borrowed my tastes from girls I dated.
As it turned out the issue was less that the artists were coming on to me and more that they weren't using the right moves. As a teenager (and still now, as a proper human being) I couldn't have felt less slick or cool or self-assured, but the whole strategy of popular music is smothering to death any other feelings than those of being slick and cool and self-assured under an auto-tuned pillow. In short, they were trying to kill me. That they were also trying to bed me, or rather to convince me I wanted to bed them, didn't make things any less confusing.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Brian Oliu confirmed as first contributor to Uncanny Valley
Guys, I already know Uncanny Valley is going to be awesome. How do I know that? Because Brian Oliu just gave us one of the weirdest, most brain-burning, beautiful little essay story poem things I've ever seen in my life.
Here is something Brian wrote for Arch Journal. Here is something he wrote for The Collagist. It's about Castlevania. Here is something he wrote for Diagram. Here is something he wrote for Conjunctions. It's about Zelda II. Here's a YouTube of him reading what he wrote about Zelda:
When she first read this thing that we're printing, Tracy cussed. That's how good it is. And you'll only have to pay a little to read it, and so much more.
How excited are you? I'm already so excited.
Here is something Brian wrote for Arch Journal. Here is something he wrote for The Collagist. It's about Castlevania. Here is something he wrote for Diagram. Here is something he wrote for Conjunctions. It's about Zelda II. Here's a YouTube of him reading what he wrote about Zelda:
When she first read this thing that we're printing, Tracy cussed. That's how good it is. And you'll only have to pay a little to read it, and so much more.
How excited are you? I'm already so excited.
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