So I'm currently sitting in SEATAC airport and let me tell you something, I am terrified of flying. Let me tell you something else, I am also fascinated by the idea of flight itself. Such a life of paradox- of contrast-of juxtaposition (and other $3 words) On one hand, I think that if humans were meant to actually fly and move at such a fast pace, we'd be able to. However, since we cannot it is absolutely amazing that we invented a way to do so. Thumbs up for human advancement.

So this morning, as I was taking off, I looked out the window and realized that the whole idea of space/time totally got fucked when flying started becoming prominent. I guess what I mean by prominent is really just the middle class and their access to flying. After a heated discussion on whether or not I should go greyhound-- I've learned that flying is a middle class ordeal. And I'm middle class (Thanks mum 'n dad) I would not go home greyhound. Let me tell you why:

My friend visited me three years ago. Her visit was awesome, her ride home was not. While sitting in her seat, about the middle of the state (while she was trying to sleep) the man sitting next to her tried to put his hand down her pants…several times. I'm not going to go into detail here and there's not going to be any imagery. For this reason and this reason alone, I do not want to go greyhound. I also think most greyhounds look bulimic. However, this is besides the point.

So back to the idea of space/time (as both ideas bask in their intangibility)-- post-Globalization (And yes, I would argue that the world has hit a post-Global stage, but that's for another blog, another drunken blog) So think about the idea of space before flying. Space, in its its ideal form was larger. To get across country it took at least a day. Ok, let me explain, traveling over space in relation to time was also larger. Space=distance (stagnant) but the time was longer. While the numerical miles still remained the same the rate of travel decreased, greatly.With this lessening rate, the whole idea of space/time got fucked. (But, historically with travel space/time is kind of a whore, so I don't think they minded really). This is what happens at 650am when the plane is flying the sun is rising and you're thinking about human progress.

As I'm sitting here, now, in the airport I'm noticing that a)there are mostly white people in the airport b)the white people look bored, even though they know they'll be waiting around c)half of the people are holding Starbucks cups and d)even the people who seem to know one another are not speaking to one another, but people who seem to be complete strangers seem to want to strike up conversation. Example: A very hip kid, wearing buddy holly glasses, with tussled light brown hair, tight jeans, looking very greyhound bulimic chic came up to me and started talking about a blog I was reading. It was 8 am. I've had 2 hours sleep and I don't want to talk to him. Like most of the people in this airport who are sitting there, I don't have a friendly face on. I have the fuck-I-wish-I-was-in-bed-goddamn-the-idea-of-space/time look. Even while I was typing this a man come up to me and wanted to talk about my Macbook. I answered him. Nicely! Such facades! Such obligatory social nature!

Sadly, now, however, I'm not resembling a greyhound bohemian, bulimic chic hipster and I'm not very good at telling people to fuck off, but I hear space/time is pretty good at it, or perhaps rather just fucking with travel as its whore tagging alongside.

Time for a nap.

That new Beck/Charolotte Gainsborg song has been driving me nuts. I don't like to NOT understand (or at least theorize) the use of rhetoric. So a little time and with a a little wine (a lot) and I've finally figured out what the fuck is going on in the video. Or what I think is going on.

I know, I know you don't care. But come on! Theorizing things that are not tangibly real is so fun! No seriously! Come on!

It's a complex video with the simplest message just about life-- in its everyday form. Sure, they show the absurd, but the lyrics focus on images that you see everyday, greyhounds, escalades, elevators... so it is really just about existing between heaven and hell, which is well, here. It seems so simple! The contrast of the video/lyrics really created so much juxtaposition I became confused.

Which leads me to reaffirm that beauty is found in the everyday. I know, I know, glass half full bull, but, I drank the other half. I'm a firm believer that if you surround yourself with beautiful things/places you will be happier. Aesthetic movement++++ totally rad and leads to happiness (with a side of consumerism and Orientalism at its finest!)

http://www.buffaloah.com/f/fstyles/aes/aes.html

Sidenote: I think Charlotte is particularly pretty, in a very French way.... as is Alain Delon. This should be noted only because I was talking about aesthetics and his subtle sexuality. Thanks France...

Music Video

This video was obviously very well thought out. I personally, have no idea what it really means. Leave it to Beck (and Charlotte, the woman from the Science of Sleep1) to create something vaguely resembling avant garde. Or rather, something with bathtubs full or cereal and milk, cops tackling spongebob and other such random occurances

The songs chaotic lyrics match the chaotic video.

Thumbs up.

1- In a recent interview Charlotte described how she received her motivation and inspiration from an MRI machine's noise. I'll leave the judgment up to you.

The story of El Gato Negro

I’m holding a painting for my friend in my trunk. He has deemed it “El Gato Negro” which literally translates from Spanish to English as to “The Black Cat.” It is cumbersome, probably about 3 feet by 2.5 feet. I cannot describe its utterly awesome ugly aesthetic properly. It’s velvet. It’s a bobcat. He placed it in my trunk this past weekend while we were out as to not have to carry it around the city. There is nothing like black velvet with a yellow bobcat oversized art piece to capture attention as we meander around.

I then insisted he put it in my trunk. With much hesitation and a five minute lecture on the importance of El Gato Negro, he succumbed, closing the trunk, the black cat stored safely inside. “If anything happens to my El Gato Negro, I will never forgive you.” We walk away from my car, forgetting about El Gato Negro for the rest of the night.

I had not thought about El Gato Negro until it popped open my trunk on 1-5 and almost fell out onto the freeway this morning. Let me explain.

I was driving, carelessly really, (I’m a self-prescribed ‘bad’ driver). I’m staring straight ahead, singing along to E.L.O. It was cloudy, I was tired, the drive is practiced and redundant. I notice that people are looking at me as they drive by with panicked faces; the kind of panic that is both incredibly hilarious and confusing. One man with a mustache in a truck looked at me, looked down and stroked his mustache and pointed at my car. The Semi truck behind me flashed its high beams.

At this, point I’m trying to figure out what the hell is going on. My car is ok, everything is running smoothly. I look in my rear view mirror. I see El Gato Negro hanging over the edge. Oh. Shit. Literally, the large velvet is snagged on a part of my trunk and is just hanging onto the trunk. “If anything happens to El Gato Negro I will never forgive you.”

I slow down, there is a fine balance that has to happen so El Gato Negro does not fall out and cause chaos on 1-5. People pass. I can only imagine what must have been going through their mind, on route to work as they see El Gato Negro dangling from my trunk, its ugly magnificence out for everyone to see.
I take the nearest exit and park in McDonald’s parking lot. I get out of my car, stare at El Gato Negro and take it and shove it in my backseat. At this point, I’m pretty sure I’m going to donate it to Dot’s café in Portland. The décor there is textured velvet, as are the walls. I also hate El Gato Negro. Yes, you heard me, hate.

Moral of the story, don’t take prized art possessions and say you will keep them safe. A bobcat is fierce, a 3x2.5 ft velvet bobcat dubbed, “El Gato Negro” is fierce enough to try and escape the confides of my secured trunk.

People LIKE Lady Gaga?!

Ok, I'm not going to be a pretentious music snob. But, I just don't get it.

She's trashy.

If I were her father, I'd be ashamed.

She doesn't have strong lyrical content! Ah! It's like reading an 8th graders diary.

I don't even think she'd sound good if I was high....

On an aesthetic note, one of her outfits reminds me of a post-Wizard of Oz-tin-woman-porno gone awry.

Harsh Words, maybe.

But, she could pick attractive men to objectify in her videos (not that it makes it right...but it would be a lie to say it doesn't help, a little) Hell, even Gwen Stefani got that one down.

So Lady Gaga, I just don't see it.

How Furry

Dirty Laundry

I should probably be putting away my laundry right now. However, thoughts are distracting and so is blogging (note: rant on blogging to come, soon)

It was five years ago I was fighting through the whipping wind (alliteration, nice eh?) to class at EWU. I'd walk down the hill from my dorm, past the PUB, past the library, past the strange artistic fountain at the 'campus mall' (other feelings of nostalgia) and go to class. I'd sit there and then go back to my dorm and eat greasy food. That feels like a different lifetime (other cliche coming of age statements)

(I found this picture I took- a View Science Building EWU)

I'm going through a deep seeded nostaglia, only because I am rebuilding my music library from scratch. I have a terrible personal memory, I often wonder how do I distinguish reality from memory, or does that even exist? I think that is one of those deeply troubling questions that I will always struggle with.

So I was putting away my laundry today. I recently downloaded Rogue Wave into my music library. Aside from seeing them in concert (so good) I had forgotten how much I listened to this, how much this album saw (if in fact, music could see things).

As I sit here, my clothes piling up on my bed, the same clothes I had in fact, five years ago (I hate shopping) and I can't help but realize that music is one of the only things that makes me remember things I've forgotten.

Highly egotistical blog/end.

Ta-da

Fragments.

Preface: A Dialogue I recently had. Also, I think the prefaces I am writing are kind of pretentious.
Sorry. I will stop doing them, because they are kind of pretentious.

-
"I don't know why we stay in one place"

"Comfort.Predictability, the idea of being safe. It's easy to be stationary"

"Oh my god. The walls are soft!"

"what?!"

"You know, safety is overrated and comfort is an allusion"

--

Ok, so picture a bar dimly light with blue hues.
Picture 5 girls sitting in the said bar drinking beer.

Picture Jimmy Hendrix playing above. Picture soft walls that are gold with velvet texture. The walls are literally faux velvet, so are all of the pictures in the bar.

The more beer you drink the more you realize that a) safety really is overrated and comfort is an allusion b) Jimmy Hendrix is really fucking good c) You can't stop feeling the walls and people probably think you dropped some E.

---

Fast forward 18 hours, picture yourself in a 'gun library' (w.t.f.) the demographic is mostly all white-- the middle aged men roam around upstairs with the camo gear, hunting supplies, camping essentials, a wide array of bullets. Suddenly you (or I) realize that a) guns kill things and that is a weird moral dilemma b)I am the only unmarried female between the ages of 20-35 in the entire store c)There are dead stuffed animals everywhere and suddenly, you have a strong urge to go to a zoo and take pictures of everything you see.

So while wandering around Cabela's in Lacey, WA, I decided that I don't like hunting (killing things for the sake of killing things as a game is a weird concept) and that I am also going to the zoo, am going to take pictures of things I see and I will never, really understand people.

Speaking of photography and things people see-

http://triangletriangle.com/

Hey, thanks Sun.

Preface:
Fuck prefaces.

Driving home the other day I couldn't help but notice how fucking beautiful my surroundings are. There is an old saying, "Nature is perfect."
I think it might be the closest to perfection we can obtain,
Ok, ok, I think I'm going to go hug a tree.
Grow a beard
Smoke a Joint
Talk about hemp

La blogotheque

Preface: It's no secret that la blogotheque is *amazing*--beyond description of words. But, just in case you have yet to see these videos, well, here's your chance....

Yo La tengo - A Take Away Show - Part 1 from La Blogotheque on Vimeo.

Yo La Tengo - A Take Away Show - Part 2 from La Blogotheque on Vimeo.

And, finally, my favorite song from 08... it's one of the most honest pieces of art I have witnessed in a long time, goddamn Bon Iver.

Oh, Romania.

Preface: Because that’s the new pattern I’m trying to start here. I figure if I’m going to write a blog, if I’m going to allow complete strangers (faux strangers, people I actually know via REAL social contact, random robots, etc, etc.) I should at least, try to create a format. Preface to Preface: I will start a format.

Real Preface: This article reminds me while I have vague flickers of being a stereotype,(Vice magazine! Sooo hip!) Despite me reading hip, cool, white people magazines, I will never, ever, be as culturally insensitive as this person.

http://www.viceland.com/blogs/en/2009/11/02/hitchhiking-through-video-game-territory-of-romania/

After reading this article; a clearly affluent white male traveling to Romania to discover the inner landscaping of …Zelda (but is really more of a narrative of his adventure) I am completely stunned that this would actually get published. In fact, I’m a little offended. The jokes are only comedic, based off of age-old Post-Cold War stereotypes, communism/capitalism, poverty, a primitive culture (lacking modernization and pushing the ideal of the ‘modern’ on to other cultures) and finally, the complete lack-of respect for the ‘punk’ women he hitchhikes with and the Romanian culture in general via language, history, politics…
One positive aspect, his photos, probably taken with a snap and shoot automatic digital camera, are decent and capture, an honest glimpse into Romanian life.

Luddite II

Preface to reader: This blog sounds incredibly materialistic. A dash of a whiny tone, repetitive rhythm and a word choice that has the effect-- reminiscent of the lulling cry of a teething baby *you know, the way in which you become accustomed to a certain sound, and don't recognize it anymore--I think this blog has the same effect*

I have no music. My Luddite tendencies are out in full force, stronger than anything physics can prove, including gravity, even in its simplest Newtonian theory. (Physics, pff!)

Let me paint the picture, with words (Imagery!!)

I was sitting in my room, on the floor. I have this amazing 'oriental' style carpet (1), the patterns a dream for anyone tripping on acid. A dream for me even when I'm not.
So as I was laying and thinking and thinking and then laying, I realized that it would be perfect timing for The Who's "Tommy." Note, because this album is largely, ( all) a concept, album, it is hard to find the right 'time' to listen to it.
I mean, some records you listen to just one or two songs, strictly side A or side B. I cannot do this with The Who's "Tommy."

I grab the vinyl, place it on the turntable and wait. Ok, I sound like a hipster douche- but I mean, you know when the music is just right with your mood. I was so excited to hear the opening of 'overture' and its blend into 'its a boy'. I wait. I wait. I wait some more. I look down at the strangely patterned carpet.

Silence.
I see the needle touch the record, I see the record spinning. More silence.

I get up. I look at the record. Again, I see it spinning, I see the needle touch the record. I don't know anything about my record player or why it's not working. I wonder why I continually hear nothing. (if nothing itself actually existed)

So, in a vain attempt to troubleshoot, I grab my computer. Not only to lull the silence, but to, somehow find the "lexmark" record player model on google.

I go to turn on my computer. My legs sitting criss-cross (jump jump!) ontop of the carpet, the computer in front. I press the power button. Nothing, not even a glimmer of technological screen. I spew a slew of expletives! My computer is dead! (dead implies it actually had to be living... but in this case, and after several late nights, my attachment to my computer, which I've dubbed, Toshiba, and characterized it in many of my essays, is so strong, I believe it is fair to say, it is dead. I mean for Christ's sake, this computer help me write my thesis!)

Now, this not only means that
a) I have no computer, thus no last-resort itunes music
b) No record player
which means,
c) no music. nada. sounds of silence? No, not even Simon or Art can save me.

And now, you might be thinking, "Why, how are you writing this blog?"
Magic.


And, yes, I might very well be sitting on my floor ontop of the oriental, drug tripping carpet.

(1) I hate the idea of calling anything Oriental, because that words is incredibly culturally loaded. I used it anyway just because its part of the greater cultural collective memory. And yes, that explanation makes me sound even more like a bigger hipster douche. But hey, my grandma still refers to anyone of asian descent Oriental and Said's ideas of the "Orient" and "Orientalism?"-- totally legit.