Wednesday, June 30, 2010

The greatest Tee the Internet will ever see


dun dun DUN

Friday Expirimental Fiction (BONUS ROUND!!!)

“We are here live at the Democratic National Headquarters where Presidential Candidate E, who has recently retired from a lucrative acting career to act in politics, and her strategist, M, are expected to announce their campaign strategy any moment now as they set their eyes on the White House.”


She turned around, disappearing in the host of reporters and cameramen, heads all wrapped in bandages in the shape of towering dunce hats. The mass of reporters was packed between the fence at the end of the lawn and white chairs surrounding the podium. All attention was focused on the door where the candidate would emerge from and walk to a podium set halfway down a path cut through the middle of the lawn. Around the podium were special reserved seats for very important and honorable members of government like family members, civil servants[1] (whose very title is a blatant mock and testament to the stupidité of their plebian “masters”), and friends who were owed favors for their unwavering loyalty.[2] One man came striding along the sidewalk outside the assembled mass, quite different from the rest, for he had no swelling and no diadem of white wrappings on his head. Those packed against the fence—the fringe of the scene—were the only to notice him. They pressed their faces up against the high black iron fence:


“Hey!—hey you! Why don’t you have any bandages? Did the doctors find a cure?”


“Yea I thought everyone was afflicted with this thing now.”


“What do you do?”


“What’s your name?”


“Phil—” he began.


“Looks like a scientist. What science do you study?”


“Well that’s nice Phil but did the doctors find a cure or what?”


“No, the doctors did not find a cure, but I can help you with that problem—and others…” he began.


“Scientists, these guys know it all. Can you tell us the meaning of life yet?”


“Sure—”said Phil.


“What?”


“What is it?”


“Yea tell us!”


“Come on now, out with it!”


“What do we need to do to get cured? Tell us, Jesus Christ!”


“W——” Just as Phil opened his mouth, a reporter shouted, “OH MY GOD! There they are! They even brought out A[3] the Democratic Donkey for this!”


The reporter fixed her blue-shaded contact iris on what could be the story of her career. “Screw his stupid little answer!” She reared her head back, threw her dyed blonde locks over her shoulder and marched toward the trio at the podium with a Stair Master gait. She was followed by all the other reporters and cameramen; they swarmed forward in a swell of bouncing silicon and rattling plastic Viagra bottles.


The trio came to a rest at the podium. The two women smiled at each other and waved to the cameras, faced one another, and with a steamy look in their eyes they opened their mouths and swatted tongue with tongue. They paused for a moment, illuminated in flashes and camera lights, then knelt down and set to work on A the ass with equal zeal.


There were cheers and whistles zipping out from the crowd of reporters. One man looked back to his cameraman saying, “Are you getting this? Its spectacular!” while another woman shrieked, “OH GOD! Its like being back at my old Sorority House! I LOVE COLLEGE!!” She threw her shirt off, darted past the podium, and joined in.


Another cheer went up accompanied by whistles and shouting. A reporter looked into his camera, tucked his two middle most fingers under his thumb so that his pinky and index finger stood straight up and roared into
the camera: “YEA BABY! FLOCKS NEWS!!” The reporter’s face flushed with blood and as his neck veins
swelled and throbbed the bandages bulged and he began to nod uncontrollably. His stitches ripped down the center of his head and his brain blasted out in a spray of crimson dots and wavy white bandages. Thin folds of scalp-skin fell in where his brain had been, leaving a collapsed crater in his head. The reporter’s eyes rolled back in his head so that only the white showed, and he began blinking so fast that his eyelids could be heard smacking together. His jaw dropped and his tongue fell out over his lips and shook all about the sides of his mouth as his frame was wracked. The reporter crashed to his knees, then fell on his face into the grass.

Everywhere reporters were hurling themselves face first to the ground. As the Hebetudinous Head-banging struck again, one man, standing too near the fence, impaled himself on it; as his head was racing toward the pointed iron post he opened his mouth to scream but was not sure which one to use, for now he had two: the mouth in the back of his neck drooled blood in place of spit, and his life left through it instead of words. Such is the fate of all reporters, speaking enough for two mouths yet never thinking enough for even one brain. Another reporter bashed his face through the post: his initial scream dropped to a gurgling groan as the post erupted out of the back of his neck accompanied by tomato-skin-red spray that drenched the nearby corpses. Chin sunk to chest, body shuddered, and then was still; his eyelids rested half down across his eyes, gazing lazily into the abyss.


The ass, startled by the sudden outbreak of the Hebetudinous Head-banging, began to stomp and kick in a paroxysm of panic. Just as it stomped E’s face she tried to pull away, and lost her head. The ass stomped the head once more, and shook its leg as though it had a bucket stuck on one foot and was trying to kick it off. M was on the upward swing returning to a kneeling position when the donkey flung its two hind legs back and up, hitting M in the face with E’s head, which should have snapped her neck and even back, but M was a talented politician, so her neck and spine merely bent a little more than usual. She landed on her back, with arms and legs spread wide, ready to negotiate.


Though the collision had jarred E’s head loose, it was now being dragged and tumbled on the ground by A’s legacy, as the ass kicked wildly and ran in circles. A finally gave up and stood idle with a bewildered ass-stare among the field of bleeding bodies.


Phil turned his back on the chaos and gore, and slowly walked away.







[1] Civil servants, who have more houses, cars, and luxury in general that they masters they “serve”; civil servants, whose record over the course of history is anything but civil, and is rather a catalogue of vice in general and sexual deviance in particular that even the Marquis de Sade would find twisted and nauseous. One must ask—are civil servants anything but convenient jokes for satirists and philosophers?


[2] Political Loyalty—Not revealing all the nefarious deeds that a member of government is involved in until it becomes profitable; that is, where such a revealing might yield an increase in votes, notoriety, or money.


[3] Bill. Apparently names were a last minute addition and subsequent subtraction (Cf. note 1 from the “Blogger Chic(k)” section below), along with the gender of characters which seems to have been kept, though certainly uncomfortably. Many places in the MS are littered with “he/she” preceding actions or following dialogue and nearly unintelligible railings concerning d’Lingua’s all-out assault on their lack of identity.

Male Subvertisement (Friday Expirimental Fiction!!)

Guys, a recent study found 4 out of 5 women prefer men with brown hair!  But don’t take our word for it; listen to what these women have to say!

“Nothing’s hotter than a guy with brown hair.”

“I feel so much more comfortable approaching guys with brown hair.  Me and my girlfriends do it all the time.”

“A date with a guy who has blonde hair—some fast food restaurant and a lame movie.  A date with a guy who has brown hair—picked up by his limo and driven to the symphony, great seats I might add.  Afterwards?  We took the Porsche on a wild midnight ride all the way to his private beach “cottage.”  Guess who I’m going out with now?  Guess who’s got tickets to Paris?” 

Friday, June 25, 2010

The Official Scholarly Soundtrack 4 v0x p0p, Or, If Rhymes Were Valium I'd Be Comfortably Numb (I Lud eesh $hit)




My pockets on creatine.../
Big balls and they jangle like a lotta keys./

Bad Cover (Not Bands)

"Oh those Greeks!  They knew how to how to live.  What is required is to stop courageously at the surface, the fold, the skin, to adore appearance, to believe in forms, tones, words, in the whole Olympus of appearance.  Those Greeks were superficial--out of profundity.  And is not this precisely what we are again coming back to, we daredevils of the spirit who have climbed the highest and most dangerous peak of present thought and looked around from up there--we who have looked down from there?  Are we not, precisely in this respect, Greeks? Adorers of forms, of tones, of words?"

Nietzsche, The Gay Science

A cover should beckon; it should invite the reader to stay (and a great one will remind the reader to return, to revisit)--it should provide a dwelling for the reader.  Nothing could be more baleful than a disquieting, repulsive cover: for it will not find a reader for its signs and signifieds.

A cover should touch, be touching, and in turn, should be touched.  If a cover is not touching it will not be touched; except, perhaps, in a harmful way.

The Name of the Wind (Kingkiller Chronicles, Day 1)

This is not a fantastic cover; I know Scandinavian death metal bands that wouldn't allow this to pass for a cover.  This is not a ponderous, poetic cover that summons pale, brooding Romantics either.

The hooded figure is not striking, but forgettable and misplaced.  He looks like he should be on a Star Wars cover, not an inclement plain.  Moreover, the plain scene seems like it is a lost slide from the Lion King, and not a novel sort of high fantasy.

The dominant color scheme vividly washes the cover in Shakespearean "pale fire" and the blues, grays, whites, and blacks play with and off of each other to an aesthetically delightful effect.  However, this is ruined by the hideous font and font color of the title.  The title font is slender and pointed, and is reminiscent of the most bland and boring font ever made, and which haunts tepid high school term papers: the villainous Times New Roman.  Few fonts have the stifling power of Times New Roman, and this font is one of them.  Times New Roman must figure prominently in any ode to boredom, mediocrity, and the quotidian, and the title font selected for The Name of the Wind must read such odes with large envy.

Ultimately, the cover is for wraiths and shadows, but even such things must find this cover too ghoulish to tolerate.

Tuesday, June 22, 2010

Books You SHOULD Buy For Their Covers

After becoming engrossed by the imagery of the cover for Scott Lynch's Lies of Locke Lamora, I decided to do some digging for books that I would buy simply because of their covers.  There are a lot of interesting pictures for Science Fiction and Fantasy covers, but many of them are forgettable, confused, or simply boring.  To my mind, this is a really terrible artistic loss, or loss of artistic opportunity, since I would imagine of all the readers, Science Fiction and Fantasy audiences are in the most ideal position to fully appreciate imaginative cover art.  The few titles I have listed here are by no means exhaustive, but range from the comic (Sense and Sensibility and Sea Monsters) to the pensive (Lies of Locke Lamora).

I was hoping to find some really potent, high fantasy covers, but the closest I could find was Robert Jordan's Wheel of Time series.  To my dismay, many of the genuinely fantastic covers from the Dragonlance series that I read as a child have been reissued with new, less exciting (less fantastic) covers.

Sense and Sensibility and Sea Monsters

Sense and Sensibility and Sea Monsters

Jane Slayre

Jane Slayre

The Lies of Locke Lamora

The Lies of Locke Lamora

Before They Are Hanged (The First Law: Book Two)

Before They Are Hanged (The First Law: Book Two)

Lamentation

Lamentation

Canticle (The Psalms of Isaak)

Canticle (The Psalms of Isaak)

The Dragon Reborn: Book Three of 'The Wheel of Time'

The Dragon Reborn: Book Three of 'The Wheel of Time'

Crossroads of Twilight (Wheel of Time, Book 10)

Crossroads of Twilight (Wheel of Time, Book 10)

The Eye of the World (The Wheel of Time, Book 1)

The Eye of the World (The Wheel of Time, Book 1)

Saturday, June 19, 2010

Smooth Criminal

yes.

"A debt-ridden man hatched an extraordinary plot to make over £1m from a stolen First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, a court heard today."

Monday, June 14, 2010

My Very Learned Review of The Road (Film)


Mom commits suicide then father and son walk along meandering road with grey skies above while viewer begins to suspect that he or she should commit suicide, more walking and more grey skies, further increases the suspicion in the viewer that this is really going to not be worth it, father dies with ten minutes left to go in the movie and then Guy Pierce picks up the kid, confirming the suspicion of the viewer (formed nearly 6 hours ago) that he or she should have committed suicide with mom.  Or pressed STOP.  END.  HORRIBLE.  Based off the novel by Cormac McCarthy.

Saturday, June 12, 2010

Preface to the Second Edition

"Writing a preface is like bending aside a branch in a bower of jasmine and seeing her who sits there in secret: my beloved.  Oh, this is how it is, this is how it is to write a preface; and the one who writes it, what is he like?  He moves in and out among people like a dupe in winter and a fool in summer; he is hello and good-bye in one person, always joyful and nonchalant, contented with himself, really a light-minded ne'er-do-well, indeed an immoral person, since he does not go to the stock exchange to feather his nest but only strolls through it; he does not speak at public meetings, because the atmosphere is too confined; he does not propose toasts in any society, because this requires notice several days in advance; he does not run errands on behalf of the system;"
Kierkegaard, Prefaces

Vox Pop is a post-care, post-earnest, ateleological blog: it is inherently goalless.  Twitter, science fiction, fantasy, Derrida, Postmodernism, hot conservative blogger chix, and the art of criticism, are just some of the topoi one will find in this hypertext of experimental fiction.  Above all, it is the chronicle of one lost intergalactic cynical android, especially fond of postmodernism, trying to make its way on the internet to twitterstardom, and therefore--home.

SPECTACULAR! (Friday Experimental Fiction Bonus Round! Part V)

“SPECTACULAR!”


            The Flocks News building was the tallest in the city; many who tried to look up at it from the street swore it actually twisted up into the sky—with tinted black windows glimmering like serpent scales in the sunlight—at least until the upper region of the building was eclipsed in gritty black smog clouds.  Above the foul ebony vapor tendrils that wrapped around the building, the sky was a mixture of toxic waste-dump green smeared with infected mucus yellow.  Here even the Sun was sick.  In this toxic atmosphere, a group of executives sat down in their boardroom to examine an application for a new anchor; and while they were doing that, the never-false accountants were busy upholding the companies ethical culture of honesty, excellence, and innovation by correcting financial errors to keep their benevolent executives out of jail for giving away too much money to charities.

“OK gentlemen, let’s get right to it—the new anchor position is going to this…lady.  Why? Well let me begin: she’s part African American, Hispanic, Asian, American Indian, Arab, and Anglo Saxon.”
“Amazing.”
“Incredible!”
“Spectacular!”
“Wait there’s more.”
“Lets have it then.”
“She’s even handicapped.  Lost one leg to an SUV.”
“We’ll identify with everyone simply through one person!”
"No more lawsuites!"
“OK.  Gender?”
“…She’s got both.”
“What!? I can’t believe that!”
“My God this is brilliant!”
“She’s got it all!”
“Spectacular!”
“Education?”
“Who cares, she could go anywhere with those skills.”
“True, I bet every top school was after her…him…it…”
“What are we waiting for, call down to HR and tell them to notify the candidate that…he, she, it is accepted.”
“What a dream: being able to have a person identify with all races and genders at once.  Our viewership and ratings are going to skyrocket.”
“And lets get her started on a book, dig up one of our ghost writers.  Make sure the little bastard writes it so it can easily be converted to a movie and go ahead and call some of our contacts in the movie industry.  Damn, a story about a one legged, African American, Hispanic, Asian, American Indian, Arab, Anglo Saxon hermaphrodite who through hard work and dedication both in life and school rises to become the world’s leading news anchor is a New York Slimes Best Seller and blockbuster hit!”
“It could win all the of awards.”
“Damn right.  Everyone’s life is a fascinating story.”
“Especially if you inflate it.”
“Man this lady-man-man-lady is genius!”
“Get some other companies on the phone for strategic product placement in the film, I’m sure they’ll all be interested.  I’m thinking soft drink corporations, underwear, clothing, fast food chains, car companies…should do the trick.”
“I concur.”
“Absolutely.”
“Agree completely.”
“Spectacular!”
“OK.  Now…this government Equal Opportunity Quota Report is in.  We are seriously lacking in some areas and we have too much of a thing in others.  So first up, we have too many people with the last name “Smith” and the first name “John.”  Some of these John Smith’s have got to go—the John Smith factor is killing our success potential.”
“I’ve got at least 5 on the 30th floor that I am cognizant of.”
“Jesus Christ…Five on one floor?  It’s a miracle we haven’t gone out of business!  I want those Smith’s gone before lunch!”
“Oh my…!  My name is John Smith!”
“Get the hell outta here!!”
“You bastard!”
You bastard.”
“I knew we were slowing down because of you.”
“But I’ve been here since day one of this company!”
“And now you have to be out by lunch.”
“I’ve got some more Smiths too—at least 20 spread across floors 16-28 and I’ve seen some slinking around on the 67th.  Consider them gone sir.”
“Think I’ve seen some around the 14th.”
“Can that whole god damned floor.”
“This is only the beginning gentlemen.  The Equal Opportunity Quota Report says we need to increase marginalized executive employment by .03 percent.  Too, they report our average age needs to be reduced as it ‘discriminates against younger employees by isolating them, making them feel disconsolate and like spokespersons for their age.’”
“How the hell are we supposed to increase marginalized executive population by .03 percent??”
“A baby!”
“Two birds with one stone!”
“Brilliant!”
“We’re already doing better with out those bastard Smiths!”
“The child will bring a whole new perspective to this company!”
“Spectacular!”
“Ok what else?”
“Right, lets get down to business.  We’ve got spectacles to create and ideas to propagate.  First off, blonde is out; by the end of this week the only thing I want to see on our anchors, commercials, and even billboards and advertisements we don’t own is long brown haired models.”
“Goes for pop-singers too sir?”
“Yes—as a matter of fact, go ahead and start rounding up some talent and throw ‘em in the gym for six weeks, assign them the necessary surgeries and lets get them an album.”
“We’re actually going to let them write it themselves this time?”
“Jesus Christ how long have you been here?  That’s what the writers are for.  We’ve got pop hits down to a formula; we’re not going to let some moron or group of morons with good looks, trendy clothing, and a surgically and digitally enhanced voice ruin our investment simply because they can’t think or write.”
“Got it.”
“Wait they’re just making an album, that’s it?”
“Initially.  After its release, we will get the lead ‘singer’ a line of shoes, clothes line, perfume line, and underwear line.”
“Excellent.”
Brilliant!
“Spectacular!”
“Wait so are we focusing more on a dance group or a band?  I say dance group or even just a solo personality.”
“We’ve been fronting dance groups and solo personalities for a while now, I think that market is saturated.”
“Right.  Lets make it a ‘band.’  Kinda gives it more of an edge for the teenagers and college kids.  We’ll just hybridize and diversify and front the solo personality as the lead singer, that way we don’t even have to come up with a genuine band name.”

“Ok then.”
“Sounds excellent.”
“We’re on a roll.”
“Spectacular!”
“Sir, I usually support you one hundred percent, but I’m not so sure about this whole brunette thing…”
“Its simple, it’s the same thing we’ve always done.  Marketing blitzkrieg.  Blast them with the image we want them to buy—make them consume it, stuff it down their little throats.”
“They always take it too, those idiots.”
“I’m not sure if they are idiots, or if they simply don’t have the time to ask questions anymore, and I don’t care.”
“We know them better than they know themselves—that’s the secret.”
“What about the movie?”
“Yea grab some dumb actor or actress to get it some publicity.”
“Why an actor1?”
“God newbie…”2
“Someone bring the gnub up to date later.”
“Alright, what do we have for news?”
“Soldiers are building schools now in Iraq and giving them school supplies.”
“Trash.  Won’t sell.  Are the terrorists blowing them up?”
“No, no reports of violence or threats.”
“Forget it then.  Well, we could make it sound like they are getting threats.  Yea lets inflate some numbers, death toll, wounded, and whatnot, and get some select shots from our archives with angered foreigners burning flags in a large crowd.  Now that story has a chance.”
“Spectacular!”
“Where’s an Osama video when you need one?”
“Yea really…we’ll I guess I don’t mind too much as long as he gets another one out by the time sweeps come around.”
“We can only hope.”
“What else?”
“The Head-banging, we gotta cover that.”
“What the hell are you talking about? We barely survived the first round of that crap.”
“Yea but its so spectacular.  Ok so that’s another story, we need more.”
“Celebrity trials.”
“Say no more, go with it.  Round the clock coverage.”
“Kind of a related note, more and more celebrities with a massive age gap are dating now.  It could be a trend worth exposing.”
“I love celebrities and the people love celebrities; find them at all costs and get an interview.  Sounds like a good trend to create for a bit, I’m sure it will cause some shock, stir everyone up a little, get us some ratings.”
“I think some museum uncovered the actual Holy Grail during a dig.”
“Trash.  Next.”
“There is a small antiwar movement in the South.”
“You mean the entire nation is against the war, OK, we can run that one.”
“The Democratic candidate for President is seems to be gaining in the polls with the people, and if she wins the primary, she could win against any Republican.”
“Mmmm no she isn’t and no one needs to know.  The leading Republican has a clear edge and a victory is inevitable, we’ll go with that one.  What else.”
“Is it lunch time yet?”
“No.”
“Next up.  We need a slogan to get our brand out to more people.  Maybe a younger, more hip demographic. And I want you all to keep in mind that this not a task.  This is a journey.”
“Writers on their way up?”
“Yea.” 
“Whatever we do, we can get the band to jazz up an old classic to play in the background of some ads, or intro to our shows and make it hip and trendy so people will remember our product.” 
“Or we could just get the writers to make a new trendy song for the band to sing.”  “Should have some sex, some of that too.  I’m thinking girls shaking their asses in some clubs, shaking ass as they walk down the street, and shaking ass out by a giant pool.  As many as possible in every shot.”
“Sex sells.”
“Sure does.”
“Great idea.”
“All for it.”
“Exploit those sluts for money!”
“Haha, no no, they are just using their assets to their benefit!”
“Haha, good one.”
“Heh, funny.”
“He always has the best jokes.”
“Spectacular!”
“Back on task.  I mean lets continue the journey.  We need a high powered, bleeding edge slogan.  So lets here some.”
Live richly.”
“—thus say the poor.”
“A most vacuous merchantism: it is drenched in fat merchant sweat, and has hot, filthy fingers, tacky gold necklaces, false gemstones, and mendacious grins.”
“Facially absurd.”
“As pathetic as it is uncreative.”
“I know! Uncommon Wisdom.”
“The very saying proves you have none.”
“A common statement from a common mind.”
“I’d be restrained by my sense of pity if only my sense of scent wasn’t so offended.”
“Ok I got one: The world puts its stock in us.”
“Wormèd nonsense.”
“Anemic.”
“Grasping.”
“There’s a great abyss in your little head.”
“Had a bath in Salmacis have we?”
“You’re a clumsy-lipped babbler, a hack-tongued mangler! Leave language be, she never injured you!”
“Incredible.  With such little wit you do such great damage.”
“How about this one: Integrity.  Excellence.  Innovation.
“Did you say something just now?  I know I saw your lips move, but—no sound.”
“Needs more Latin.”
“You birth the most hideous backside nonsense and inflate it with sticky, hot, rancid, southern-cheek’d air.”
“I got it!  Our Praise of the Written Word.”
“A phrase like that is so rancid even the nostrils of a most sulphurous devil quiver; for sure, its origins could neither be heavenly nor chthonic; the one too beautiful and the other not frightening enough.  What then, have the heavens been unordered?  Where is the new Hell that this stench flows from? Where, this new low?”
“Ok I got one!  World-class worldwide.”
“You think so much of gold but can’t find it in yourself.  Buy! Buy! Give the philosophers more to laugh at.  How many of their grins are at your expense?” 3
“You will go barefoot before long; not as a virtuous wise man or divine muse-dancer, but as a wretch, a ragman, condemned by all with fiery glares.”
“You are a fortress of ignorance.  All attacks by the generals of knowledge are repulsed by your walls; but which is the greater feat: that you built such walls through idleness or that the greatest of men cannot breach them?”
“This can be said of all so far: you try to fly without wings, and though you use the tallest mountain peaks to jump from you simply lengthen the fall rather than heighten the ascent.  No springs of wisdom lie in your dark, hollow caves; no warrior-virtue rides trumpet-blown wind to announce itself through your actions; you are like delusional beggars, digging through dumpsters and overturned trashcans with shaky eyes and false beggar-grins, jumping with beggar-glee when you find rotten, slimed food that you mistake for gold.  Is it any surprise that this beggar-digging always leads to fool’s gold?”
“Oh Jesus Christ get these guys outta here, we’re getting eaten alive.”
“Get the hell out!”
“Man those guys are annoying.”
“Worthless bastards.”
“They think they’re so smart but they’ve got nothing to show for it.”
“I bet they wouldn’t even like the ass joke.”
“So…anyone got anymore ideas?”
“Lets call it a day and go play some golf.”
“What a great sport.”
“Yea I’m getting 128 million regardless of what happens, I could give a god damn.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
“Lets take the company jet too.”
“And some hot models.”
“I fully support this resolution.”
“I concur.”
“Spectacular!”
“Wait! the kid exec—he’s trying to say something.”
“Everyone listen.”
“…noobisimo!”
“It’s hip.”
“It’s trendy.”
“It’s uncommon wisdom!”
“It’s world-class worldwide!”
“It’s brilliant!”
“I’m lovin’ it!”
“Just do it.”
Spectacular!




1 “What does an actor do?”
“He acts.”
“More specifically.”
“I’m not sure.”
“Wouldn’t you agree that most acting now relies on speaking?”
“Yes.”
“And when an actor speaks—are the lines his own or are they usually written by someone else?”
“Written by someone else of course.”
“So the actor’s words are not his own?”
“No, they are not.”
“Excellent.  But these words surely belong to someone?”
“They must.”
“Could we say they belong to the writer?”
“Yes.”
“So if the words belong to the writer, how do you suppose they get into the mouth of an actor?  Would you say that the writer must put them there?”
“Yes.”
“And when they speak with words put in their mouths, do they do so convincingly, do you believe what they say, or do you seldom believe what they say?”
“I believe what they say, they are most convincing.”
“Now words convey thoughts, do you think this is true or am I wrong to believe such a thing?”
“What you have said is true.”
“So we can say that not only do an actor’s words not belong to him, but neither do his thoughts?”
“Sure.”
“Now, what would you call a person who owns neither their thoughts nor their words?”
“I’m not sure.  What?”
“Would you agree that a creature with no humor is called humorless?”
“Yes.”
“And a creature with no arms, armless?”
“Yes.”
“And a creature with no legs, besides a bad argument, might we call it legless?”
“Yes.”
“And a creature with no head, headless?”
“Yes.”
“And a person with no thoughts, we could call thoughtless?”
“Yes.”
“You are an excellent executive.  And if that person has no words, then what could we call that person?”
“Wordless.”
“And people who are wordless, can they speak?”
“How could they? They have no words.”
“You’re right.  People who are wordless, cannot speak; don’t we have a name for that? Don’t we call them dumb?”
“Yes, they are called dumb.”
“So it seems that actors are both thoughtless and dumb.”
“What you have said is the truth.”
“So if actors are thoughtless and dumb, wouldn’t they be the perfect group for us to use to speak with our words and think our thoughts and since they are convincing when they speak words that are not their own and think thoughts that are not their own, and the people are infatuated with them and will listen to them, well then, don’t they propagate our thoughts even though it appears that the thoughts are their own?”
“You have spoken well.”
“But are we the only group that uses actors in this manner?”
“I doubt it.”
“And you should.  Couldn’t any group or organization use them, or others like them in this manner?  Or don’t you suppose that there are many more people who are thoughtless and dumb, just like actors, or are actors the only people who are thoughtless and dumb? ”
“Surely actors are not the only people who are thoughtless and dumb.  I’m with you comrade, many people are actors and are thoughtless and dumb.”

2 Expanded History of the word "Newbie": The MMORPG Context
Pronunciation: 'nü-bE, 'nyü-
Function: noun
Etymology: early 133t sp33k.
1 archaic: Beginner, Novice.
2: Moron, Idiot; often prefaced with the words "Dumb" "Stupid" "Worthless" and "Gay." 

Growing up in the early '90s, the first online game I got to play was Diablo -- where there was a healthy amount of teens like me out to murder, plunder, and dishonor everyone I came into contact with, and of course the 35 year old guy living in his basement who felt like injecting morality into virtual life usually under the righteous paladin image.  The image of the noble paladin would quickly expire in the MMORPG community, as calling someone a "fucking roleplayer" was almost as bad as a "fucking newbie." Anyways, there were also an abundance of college kids playing Diablo -- mostly to mess around with Assembly (ASM), (to make God Mode, Res-Kill, Ear Creation, and Duping and a host of other shit I can't remember) propagate their .dats, and play with various flooding techniques that would nail Blizzard's Servers. If you were not a member of these elite Diablo Technomancers (Enigma, BoBa FeTT, TechWarrior, Levi) then you most likely used WinNuke to settle your channel disputes or kick other clans out of their channels, and the .dats provided by the great hax0rs to kill victims.

Not all of us PKs cheated or used .dats to kill people, but that’s a different story.

In Diablo the first place I ever heard the word newbie was in the channel Bounty Hunters, where the hacking college kids would aggregate from time to time. BoBa FeTT was there pretty regularly I think (though I did hear at one point he was a 16 year old aussie).  People were trying to figure out how to make their own hacks, and just “letting the text fly,” asking questions without doing any research what so ever (there was no Google at this point, but I remember Alta Vista being big, and also Yahoo and Lycos), and every now and then one of the notable hackers would preface a statement with "Look newbie..." I never used it as an insult, it seemed to lack the verbal pyrotechnics that I relied on to inflame opponents, sucker people into "honest" duels (removing God Mode), or just to damage their ego.

It was not until I went into Ultima Online that the term "newbie" really started to be used in force (and it kept that spelling for most of the time, it wasn't until about 1999 that the "l33t sp34k" spellings of j00, newb, n00b, etc permeated the online circle I was involved in). Even at this point it wasn't employed all that often, as being a "roleplayer" was the more common phrase to express someone's inexperience (because you weren't jaded as shit with four other characters that were 4-5x GMs). But as more people realized that the same guys they were fighting alongside with against the evil Dread Lords were just as likely to loot their corpse as the Player Killers were, the more people made Player Killer Alts and their disdain for newcomers (un-jaded and trying to roleplay the Noble Lord) increased.  So in the "virtual context of my cyber-youth" "fucking newbies" were as bad as "fucking roleplayers." Of course there were still some good guys who roleplayed well, and PvP'd well (Chris the Avatar comes to mind); but overall roleplaying was looked down upon as naive, and the people who participated in it, skill-less. I lament the loss of roleplaying though really, there were some great personalities that flowed from it and the practice enriched the community; now all we are left with is "fucking n00bs" who join the MMORPG community hurling gangsta slang and leet 5peek all in one giant clusterfuck.

Then you have fucking EverQuest (EQ). MMORPG creativity DIED with this game. I can't discern whether or not everyone was jaded as hell by the time all the murdering, looting, raping, and shit talking of UO had concluded, or if a new generation of mmorpg players flooded the community and local communities around the U.S. are missing their abortion campaign poster-boys. The people one encounters across the spectrum of EverQuest servers categorically BLOW. In EverQuest the term "newb" "n00b" "noob" "newbie" "nub" “gnoob” “gnub” was abused beyond all fucking belief: you had angsty 15 year olds saying it; you had jaded paladins on Erollisi Marr saying it; and you had 31337 p3k4yz saying it. In EQ roleplaying was almost completely dead after about the first year; its absolutely dead now, and the grave has been urinated and defecated on. The 35 year old in his mom's basement from Diablo was now a 35-45 IT worker or computer programmer who wanted nothing but the respect he was denied daily for 8+ hours; there were still fat ugly roleplaying chicks masquerading as 115lb super models, but there was also the 35 year old wife trapped in suburban hell raising 2 kids and driving a mini van (who often enough might have been (a) married to the IT worker/Computer Programmer or (b) simply got involved in EQ because it was dragging her husband away from her, and was the only way to save a marriage from Ruin[ed]). In addition, there was the 12-17  year old kid talking shit--except he wasn't creative at all; his vocabulary of smlak tkalk was calling others a variation of the word newbie, pressing the yawn or laugh emote, and contrasting gear (which usually was just saying how much of a newb quality the gear was of the person he wanted to insult).  The vehicle to their release from their awful lives turned out to be EverQuest and its “phat_l00tz.”

The upside of this turned out to be the tough-guy attitudes that all these players (IT worker, angsty teen, IT workers neglected wife) carried around, because when a tough guy dies in PvP online due to some lag, or because he dropped his daughter and had to pick her up (yea I’ve got a screenshot) or because he forgot to bring his pocket druid for thorns/regen/heals/sow/etc you know he’s going to have some angry things to say.  Especially if you kill his wife who plays next to him.  And bindpiont camp them.  Afterall, he is the #1 pvpr, “biach.”  I don’t see the need to go into much detail here, because if you have killed or trained just one person in EverQuest you know exactly the types of comical responses you get when a not-so-smart-but-very-angry-person-reaches-deep-down-for-an-insult-and-comes-up-with : “FCUKING N00B!!1”

3 There once was a merchant
Who acted like a dog:
He had to piss
On everything he saw;
And in that golden stream that came
Were golden letters that formed his name.
C H U M P
Was this merchant’s name
And with a yearn to urine did he spray his claim.
He went and wet on buildings tall
He alone enough urine for them all.
And because his piss did every building stain
The people loved him, and his source of fame
C H U M P
Was this merchants name
He loved his pissing wand so much
He outdid Midas in all his touch!
O Midas! Midas!
This Chump has trumped your stunts!
But you will have company now
With a pissing mutt!
C H U M P
Was this merchants name
His hair was terrible—an awful dew!
Because he pissed on his own head too!
He bought beautiful women, to bestow his gold on them,
But when his font produced a golden stream
Merchant and model loose a horrible scream.
For in filthy gold is true human nature seen.
Their life to many seems a dream
But a life of gold is quite obscene.
As to us brilliant few
We know better
And won’t give gold to you.

Friday Experimental Fiction!!!! (Part IV)

He stood on a crumbled monument atop a hill, a small shadow against a vast, soft, ruby mourning sky, staring into the sun with wire-stitched eyes that were spattered with dried anguish-tears and crimson flakes.  Messy black hair spilled down over his forehead where it used to frame his eyes, like a nest of ebony snakes resting around thin slices of emerald ice.  He wore the indigo robe of a midnight monk, a far-seer of dark truths, and around his neck hung an old, frayed, yellow-black, severed noose that trailed down his back like a ponytail.  His wrists had fresh puffy pink scars from where he tried to dig trenches in them with a rusty kitchen knife; his palms were etched in inky heretic glyphs—circles, triangles, squares, and dots that he recited now from memory in arcane, sulphuric whispers.  He muted:
His prelude is announced in these pages!
The unaccounted for—the Sage of Sages!
            These head-ringing rhythms He doth spout
            Turns loud shouters into slumping pouts
            And throws their necks all about
            Till red stupidité
            Hath been hammered out!
It brings silence and brooding breezes!  The Hebetudinous Head-banging!  Destroyer of time-stained edicts!
Stale values it demolishes with spectacular candor
So that canned order can order no more.
O! What a tragedy it is to be ruled by mere shadows and glass!
Noxious green clouds of fetid gas
Now as knowledge, no longer pass.
It brings silence and brooding breezes!  The Hebetudinous Head-banging!
Destroyer of time-stained edicts!
Youth of today, full with known tomorrows
Full too of untold sorrows!
Your life is to be had
None of you know this though—
So maybe it won’t be so bad.[1]
Ignorance is bliss!  Ignorance is bliss!
Until philosophers decide to write like this!
It brings silence and brooding breezes!  The Hebetudinous Head-banging!
Destroyer of time-stained edicts!
Thus the wise men greet it.


[1] Probably corrupt.

Friday, June 11, 2010

Locke Lamora: An Amazoning Review by an Amazoning Writer of another Amazoning Writer

The Lies of Locke Lamora

The first great reason why you should be interested in The Lies of Locke Lamora is because of the cover: it is the sole reason why I bought this book.  The cover is imbued with oneiric, effulgent colors of the looming towers, the looming towers themselves, and is complete with a dusk-dreaming thief.  There is a deftly done double entendre at the formal level of the book's cover that is worth pausing to take note of: at one level, the cover is simply a dashing rogue looking out onto a fantastic, fabulous, city, but on a more cleverly inferred level, it looks like this charming yet unsavory day-dreaming theif is also quite full of ambition, and is dreaming about his own castles in the sky, which we are witness to.  Also, the midnight blue at the top of the book along with the crepuscular saffrons and golds mix lazily together, which echoes the overarching theme of the book's cover.   All in all, this is a really great send off, as it puts one in a mirthful mood at the opening of the reading experience.

The formal structure of the book consists of four parts, each with a (much welcomed as far as this reviewer is concerned) literary opening (i.e., a quotation from a Shakespearean play and even one from none other than the very roguey Jean Jacques Rousseau).

I am traditionally a proponent of "pacy" writing, but from the start of this book I knew I was stepping onto unfamiliar ground.  This text is not a "quick" read:  one should not consume Lynch like a soda, but more like a relaxing coffee at midnight.  Lynch takes a great deal of time to construct his world and his characters, delving deeply into their past, dwelling at length on the customs of the lands, its theological system, sporting and holiday events, and notable foods and wines.  Lynch is particularly adept at describing meals (he shares this ability with Keats), and the reader is in for a feast whenever his characters stop their schemes and sit down for a meal.  Lynch has created a thick world in which the reader can ably move about in (though one should always have one's wits about in a pit of thieves!), but for some readers, the detail will undoubtedly be too much, and too dizzying or very encumbering.  I will quote, in extensio, a description of the description of the tavern, the Last Mistake, where Lynch gives a virtuoso performance of descriptive scene setting:

The Last Mistake was a sort of monment to the failure of human artifice at critical moments.  Its walls were covered in a bweildering variety of souvenirs, each one telling a visual tale that ended with the phrase "not quite good enough."  Above the bar was a full suite of armor, a square hole punched through at the left breast by a crossbow quarrel.  Broken swords and split helmets covered the walls, along with fragments of oars, masts, spars, and tatters of sails.  One of the bar's proudest claims was that it had secured a memento of ever ship that had foundered within sight of Camorr in the past seventy years.

The text is a little over 700 pages, and about 460 are spent building plot, character history, and constructing the world.  The reader is not privy to many interesting particular moments of thievery, but becomes very intimate with one grand scheme that is threatened to suddenly fail after deep planning and an initial grand execution of its opening phases.  On the whole, Lynch masterfully sets the pieces in their proper positions, and goes about the climax with less vigor than your average porn star, but is nevertheless methodical and satisfactory.  Said another way, the pay off is not sudden, though it is thorough.

At the level of style, Lynch will take a risk every now and then, but for the large part he sticks to very well choreographed scenes; in fact, much of it is so very well realized that one feels like he or she is reading a movie.  The tone of the book is erudite throughout, and taken as a whole the text can be considered an intellectual triumph, rather than a show of force.  One thing I will mention that is for (my purposes) a stylistic concern, but to most will fall within the realm of forgivable Homeric noddings:  Lynch is terrible with names.  With the exception of two occasions, (Locke Lamora and a popular thief tavern, the Last Mistake) Lynch stumbles again and again on his naming opportunities (though not as terrible as Abercrombie): there is a nemesis, the "Gray King," and the nemesis's wicked "Bondsmage" named the "Falconer" who has a "scorpion hawk."  Other transgressions against the art of naming are ones like "devilfish," "wolfshark," (yes that is really a name), "Father Chains," and a host of forgettable Italian names.

Finally, so as not to end on a negative note, perhaps one of the most remarkable traits of Lynch's bonmotist writing style is the persiflage between his characters (more than a few clever phrases or "smirk-lines" crop up in his narration too).  I will simply list a few examples in closing:

"That's that.  Put it in your hat and wear it to town."

"Good.  Because the only negotation we'll be doing is with bolt, blade, and fist."

"And so I give you permission to court my daughter."
Let's start wobbling, shall we? said Locke's knees.

"Rejoice!" cried Calo as he appeared in the kitchen, just as Locke and Jean were moving the dining table back to its customary position.  "The Sanza brothers are returned!"
"I do wonder," said Jean, "if that particular combination of words has ever been uttered by anyone, before now."
"Only in the chambers of unattached young ladies across the city," said Galdo...

"This city has more gangs than it has foul odors, boy."

"How very comforting.  If reassurances could dull pain, nobody would ever go to the trouble of pressing grapes."

"As Father Chains had once said, the best disguises were those that were poured out of the heart rather than painted on the face."

"Quiet as guilty husbands coming home from a late night of drinking."

"Thanks for deep pockets poorly guarded," said the Sanza brothers in unison...
"Thanks for watchmen asleep at their posts," said Chains.

"...I am the soul of caution."
"La, sir, if that is the case, I should hope never to meet the soul of recklessness."
"Ibelius," groaned Jean, "let him alone; you are henpecking him without having the decency to marry him first."

***

Saturday, June 5, 2010

The Mythopoetics of Hot Chicks on the Internet: S. E. Cupp

y is there a gurl blogger (bloggette?) with a bra name? I will follow her personal brand until someone reveals that she is not real (probably an angry lonely dude in the space).

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE: COMMENTS POLICY

VERY AUTHORITATIVE LENIENT RULE SYSTEM WRITTEN AKIN TO A VERY VERY SERIOUS BINDING LEGAL CONTRACT: OR, THIS IS THE INTERNET, THIS IS SERIOUS BUSINESS. (NO JOKES ALLOWED EDITION)

After long, ponderous paragraphs in which many excellently expressed explications of my/your views and "thoughts" regarding the ribald behavior of other commentators' views and "thoughts" that will conflict with my/our own are deftly laid out, I then write a list of hyperserious rules which one should have en mente while engaging in the post-textual act of posting (even while texting or "txting"). In order to post a comment to this unsightly post-site, (ab)users and (non)frequent readers must adhere to this extremely draconian policy masquerading as a pliant, tolerant set of genteel guidelines expounded from a rational frame of mind willfully valorizing (and excluding a law of ludic (lawless) logic), upholding, and holding up the law of the gen(d)re :

1. You must not read this blog.

2. You must not be familiar with the topic you are commenting on.

3. Thou shalt troll.

4. Anonymity will be greatly appreciated.

5. Be a beautiful playboy model, not a fat trucker or hunchbacked academic masquerading as a beautiful playboy model.

6. Have a fluid, Protean identity.

7. Observe paradoxes; engage in dissemination; decenter heirarchico-hegemonical textual structures.

8. You must have the TV on.

9. You must be watching the "news."

10. You must do neither (8) nor (9).

11. You must do both (8) and (9) and neither (8) nor (9) yet (10) and (11), preferably simultaneously.

12. Engage in a multiplicity of styles. At once.

13. Nuncle Clause: use foul language, but language akin to the parliament of fowls and Learian foals will also be appreciated.

13. The Sciolism Clause: Use foul language, but we prefer you to also be using a thesaurus, wikipedia, and an online dictionary to increase the perspicacious gloss of your posts.

26.a. Disregard linearism.

14. You must have read less than one book of Literature* and no Philosophical texts. (No exceptions!)

15. Relatedly, you must have read a plethora of political "books," particularly those by celebrated blog "authors," and pundipshits with talk shows on cable networks, or talking heads who make many appearances on cable news shows.

16. Be naturally fractious or intractable, and vigorously engage in excoriating rants all across the vast demesne of the internet.

17. Have many opinions and little knowledge. (In fact, no knowledge is preferable, but we are not fond of ideals!)

18. Your wit must be a tedious mimetic exercise of The Daily Show and Stephen Colbert, gleaned from assiduous viewing of those mercurial pensuers. Man those guys are hilarious.

19. You must be wearing a skinny tie.

20. Glasses make you look smarter, even on the internet.

21. txting 1 sec plz

22. You must be following all your favorite "celebz" lol on teh twitterz.

23. Be promoting your personal brand generally, or some god awful "new book" you have just "written."

24. Once I save up enough $$$ I'm moving to my own dot com.

25. Don't ever let them prove you wrong.

26. How many times has bad satire on the behavior of the internet been written? +1

27. Jersey Shore mentioned, to sucker bots. The Hot TV Clause. (Subject to change.)

28. Sex in the City 2. Iron man 2. The Hot Movie Clause. (Subject to change.)

29. There will be frequent and superfluous bannings.

30. Those who are banned will be allowed back under only after a huge apology that satisfies my/our wild egomania

31. No one on the internet has an attention span this long.

32. Be enrolled in a creative writing program (oh yea, the MFA will get you published!)

*not to worry; if you have read J.M. Coetzee, Maya Angelou, any american fiction or poetry, or are enrolled in a creative writing program you are still safe and even encouraged to post!