On my cat

On constructive repetition in contemporary music

Perhaps I spoke too soon. It seems that there is engaging, contemporary children's programming that rivals, nay, surpasses the Philip Glass clip I discussed in my previous post, at least in terms of challenging our preconceived notions of what music should be according to our conservative social- apologists. The clip below uses repetition and tribal/Gregorian-ish chanting to evoke feelings of celebration within the viewer. But this music takes the underdeveloped ideals of Glass and actualizes them in a way that is much more successful and important to all audiences, young and old.

I'm not sure what the title of the piece is, but if someone wants to go to KU's music library and research this remarkable music further, please post your findings in the comments section below.

On the problem with kids today

The video is three segments spliced together from 70's (?) Sesame Street. The music is by Philip Glass. Allow me to decry the state of the world: dammit! Sesame Street used to be beautiful! When I was a kid, I used to watch BEAUTIFUL ART on TV!

On donuts and demons

"Hey, Elliott, let's go get some donuts!"
"No, Ted. I don't like donuts."

GUESS WHO ELSE DOESN'T LIKE DONUTS!

On a bet I made with Elliott

I'm supposed to be working on my masters' thesis. Since my major is creative writing, I'm supposed to be writing a book or something. I hate writing. I don't know what I'm doing anymore. Everything is falling to pieces around me. Instead of working, I take long naps and make jambalaya. I wish I had Guitar Hero here at the house so I could play that instead of working on my masters' thesis.

Anyway, Elliott suggested a couple of weeks ago that we make a little bet. We were both going to write for two hours each day. The first person to not write for two hours would pay the other person twenty dollars. We were allowed one day off per week. I lost the bet after two days.

I cried and cried that night. How could I let Elliott beat me! I'm a MAN, DAMMIT!

So, two days ago, I reinstated the bet. Today, I worked on a short story from 7:30 until 8:00, and then from 9:00 until 9:30. So that's one hour. I hate the crap I'm writing. I'm working on a story about SUMMER CAMP, for goodness sake!


I got really mad about the story I was writing. Also, I got really mad because I can't control how many times I write the word "really." I just like that word. It makes sentences more intense. WAY more intense.

"This sucks. I'm writing such crap. I use the word "really" so many times," I said.

My beautiful girlfriend, Corinne, was working on some homework in my room. "I can't concentrate when you say stuff like that," she said.

"This is how I work," I said.

"You'd better win that bet against Elliott," she said. "And you'll do it fair and square. I'm going to make sure you don't cheat."

I knew I was doomed. I went over to Elliott's room to talk to him about the bet. "Hey Elliott," I said. "What if we change the bet to only being one hour per day?"

"No way, scumbag! If you don't write for two hours today, your ass is grass. And I'm the bad-ass cow that'll eat that grass for dinner. Ding ding! Come and get it! Supper time!" Then he fell out of his chair and got on all fours. "I'm Elliott the cow!" he said, and started kinda crawling around the room.

"Chill out, dude," I said. He was really freaking out. Every so often he would rear up and start rubbing his hands together like a villain in a silent movie.

Then Corinne crawled into Elliott's room on all fours. "I'm a cow too," she said.

"NO!" I cried. "You're a beautiful woman, sweet and kind! You're much too smart to be a cow!" But she couldn't seem to hear me. She and Elliott began to chant, "Your ass is grass, your ass is grass, your ass is grass..." Then I woke up. It was all just a dream!

I went back to my room and started writing on this blog. This counts as writing, you see. We never stipulated that the two hours had to be comprised of useful writing. This counts. Except now I've kinda reached the point where this blog should end. Crap. Back to camp, I guess.

On teenagers and getting drunk with them

Good evening. This is Sir Fluffington von Fluffix, writing for your perusal and stimulation. The topic I wish to discuss on this occasion is one of particular import in our current social clime. Let's talk about getting drunk.

Now, I'm a kitty that likes to partake on occasion. And yes, sometimes I do enjoy pushing the limit of good reason, even sanity. I feel like I can be frank with you. I like to get really plastered. And what's even more fun is getting wasted with some hot teenage girls. Sugary, skanky babes with something to prove. Does the kitty want his tummy rubbed? Meow Meow! That means yes.

But, my baser instincts can lead to bothersome consequences on occasion. Sometimes, I just want to curl up on top of Mr. Kritikos' printer and take a nap, but the girls won't be satiated. "Come down to the barroom and take a shot with us!" they clamor. "We want to do shots off your tail!" It can be a bit overwhelming, night after night.

So, I'd like to take the opportunity in this forum to remind all you limber ladies that read this blog that I am just a cat. I can't hold my liquor very well. We can go out and get smashed tonight, and whatever happens, happens. But tomorrow night, I'm staying in. Don't pester me. I won't return your call. Please don't think I'm trying to be rude. Just distinguished.

On Iceberg Lettuce

I feel bad that I have to keep blogging about this, but Elliott just won't let it go. He claims that he hates iceberg lettuce. I think that he just hates poor people.

There's nothing wrong with iceberg lettuce. It tastes just fine. There's nothing inherently better about freaking romaine lettuce. I bet if I prepared one-inch-square pieces of iceberg and romaine lettuce and administered them to Elliott in a blind taste-test, he wouldn't be able to tell the difference.

If you want to know the truth, it makes me want to cry. Some people can be so non-understanding of people with lower socio-economic standing. I feel sorry for those people, so blinded by their own gleaming piles of gold bricks, that they can't see the truth: that poor people, the people who eat iceberg lettuce, are human beings with real emotions.

Let's put an end to vegetative discrimination, people. Let's do something about it. Everybody, kill Elliott.

On real life, nicely

I like Guitar Hero. I played it today for the first time, and it was fun. In some ways, it was more fun than playing in my real-life band sometimes is.

But at the best of times, playing in my real life band is much more fun than playing Guitar Hero. I'm talking a lot more fun.

I just got done looking at some message boards for Guitar Hero and for the soon-to-be-released Rock Band video games. A typical post exchange looks like this:

Person 1: Does anyone know how to unlock the sunburst strat?
Person 2: U guyz suck. Go join a real band and get laid.
Person 3: We're so tired of hearing this post. Why don't you go play professional football? It's a simulation, stupid.


Listen up, all six of you who read this blog: I don't want to get involved in any sort of flame war. If I could somehow emote my tone across the internet better, you would know that I mean this in a very encouraging, non-sarcastic way. Here it is - please friends, go start a band!

And keep playing Guitar Hero! It's a great game, from what I've seen. The parts I enjoyed most were:
1. The potential to unlock ridiculously overpriced Gibson guitars with fake money.
2. Jumping around in my socks.
3. Pretending to play the guitar parts of some really, really awesome songs. All with friends!

I'm going to go out on a limb here and say I bet that the above list summarizes what most people dig about the game. I mean, nobody really enjoys pushing buttons in the right order at the right times as a stand-alone action. It's the context that makes it all fun, in a living-room, masturbatory sort of way. And also, I guess people get pretty good at the game, and it's fun to be good at something.

Ok, here's the hopeful, encouraging-people-to-go-join-a-band bit. Playing in a real band is, at the best of times, a million times funner than playing Guitar Hero. Even playing in a really crappy band that goes nowhere is much more fun. And, it is extremely easy to play in a real life band. You know that band, The Killers? With the exact same amount of effort that most casual players of Guitar Hero 3 put into the game, anyone could learn to play a real instrument as well, if not better than anyone in that band does in real life. Oh my God, they suck...

Playing in a band requires slightly more initial monetary investment than outfitting your virtual band. (I believe the full Rock Band video game equipment will sell for $400) It'd wouldn't be easy, but it would be within the realm of possibility to put together a three-piece band for that amount of money, with used instruments, of course, and some really ghetto P.A. equipment. I bet that most real-life bands are started with less than $1000 worth of gear, which isn't so bad split three ways.

Pplaying real guitar is extremely easy. In many ways, playing Rush's YYZ is much more difficult on Guitar Hero than in real life. Guitar players learn patterns that build progressively, which make playing solos second nature. With a moderate amount of work and self-discipline, most folks could learn to play the rhythm guitar part from most rock songs within a year. Bass is even easier to learn. I could teach my extremely beautiful girlfriend to play the bass part to that awful Killers song in a week. (In fact, bands members are notorious for teaching their extremely beautiful girlfriends to play the bass in the band. See: The Thermals) Any three people in the whole wide world that do not possess a debilitating mental or physical disability can start a rock band and be ready to play a crappy show within 6 months. With a year of hard work, they might even sound pretty good.

Here's my final point: playing in a crappy-to-moderately-crappy band is so much freaking fun and is 30 times more rewarding than Guitar Hero. Most bars will give you cheap or free drinks. Your friends will feel obligated to come out and watch you play, but they'll end up having fun in spite of how terrible they think you guys are. And you, if you have any sort of desire to express yourself and the things you love and hate, you can do that in a way that might connect with one other person eventually. No, you won't ever play in a stadium, and your band won't be the next The Killers. But, trust me. You do not want to be in that band, or a rock star in general. Those guys are depressed. They hate their lives. Seriously. Or at least, they would if they possessed the ability to self-reflect. Being a real life guitar-hero is, by in large, lonely, infinitely shallow, and doomed in every way you can imagine: financially, emotionally, artistically. Make real music for your real friends, and when you're done lugging your gear back home after your gig, play Guitar Hero if you want to. But, it'll be late. Those freaking bar owners want you to play until at least 1:45 here in Lawrence...

On Pizza Street and poison

Never let it be said that I won't admit when I make a huge mistake. I was soooo wrong about Pizza Street.

After days of constant pressure applied to Elliott in the form of the Pizza Street jingle, he finally caved. Actually, he lost a bet. I demanded payment in the form of pizza buffet.

I had a piece of "baked-potato pizza" which was pizza with unbrowned hash browns, cheese, sour cream, and bacon bits on it. Elliott had "spaghetti pizza," which was pizza with leftover spaghetti from the pasta buffet on it. For desert I had the cherry pizza, which was pizza with cherry pie filling on it. Everything tasted ok, but I kinda wanted to leave.

Driving home, I realized that I wanted to throw up. At the intersection of 19th and Iowa, I realized that I really wanted to throw up. Unfortunately, there was a cop car right next to me, so I didn't allow myself the pleasure of vomiting. I had to wait.

Somehow I made it home, and with some careful pacing and resting, I managed to avoid throwing up. Perhaps I should have. Perhaps I was poisoned.

In conclusion, Pizza Street Buffet puts poison in their pizzas. Ok, that's not true. But their pizzas are really, really bad. Do not go there to eat, even if you think that it'd be a fun, ironic story.

On fashion and wingtips

I have to put this delicately. Please don't misunderstand my tone -- I don't mean to make you feel guilty. But, let's face it, you've had the pleasure of reading this blog for quite some time now, and you really haven't given anything in return. I'm not saying that you need to; I'm just saying that a person with a modicum of selflessness would want to buy me these shoes, just as a way of saying thanks.Logistically speaking, you might want to get a pay-pal account started in my name to collect funds from like-minded freeloaders. I mean, awesome people. I did some of the legwork and found the best price at www.zappos.com -- $799.00 -- a bargain, considering how awesome I'll look in them.

On cultural eliteism

One of my roommates is really great. His name is Mark, and he plays the pipe organ. My other roommate, Elliott, is a different story. He's a cultural elitist.


"Hey Elliott! Let's go get lunch at Pizza Street!"
"I'm sorry. I don't care for prole food. I must admit, I shudder at the mere thought of iceberg lettuce."
"Dude, you're being kind of a cultural elitist. I'll even pay for your pizza."
"Never! I'd rather drink imported sparkling water and eat the finest blood sausage on bone china saucers!"
"Look buddy, I'll even drive."
"I am NOT a BUDDY! A BUDDY sounds like a miniature bud, like one would see on a rosebud bush or something of that nature. I am a GENTLEMAN, and I simply won't eat pizza in the so-called 'buffet' manner, no doubt conceived of by heathens and barbarians."
"Fine. I'll write about you in my blog. People will know about your cultural elitism!"
"LET THEM COME! EN GARDE! I'LL COAGULATE THEIR GUTTERBLOOD INTO SAUSAGE FOR MY CAT!"

On changing a tire

You should really know how to do this. You're big enough to do it. Your clothes will get different kinds of dirty, depending on what your automobile is parked on. You might be a girl or a lady, and maybe you really don't want to get your clothes dirty. Sometimes it's bad to get your clothes dirty, regardless of your gender. It only makes sense to take advantage of the times that it doesn't matter if your clothes get dirty and you have a flat tire. You will be ready to feel wonderful.

Before you get a flat tire, you should get a new jack. Your jack is terrible. You have to crank on a wobbly thing and it keeps tipping over. You should purchase one that is hydraulic. These can be expensive. Don't get the one that looks like a bottle. Get one that looks flatter. It's called a floor jack.

Also, while you're buying a new jack, buy a thing called a 4-way wrench. It looks like a big letter X. It's way better than the wrench that came with your automobile. That thing makes me want to cry:


Once you've bought all new stuff, go to some other website and learn how to change a tire. They tell you how. It's really easy. I really only want to discuss the highlights:

1. When you drop a lug nut onto a gravel road, there's a tiny bit of inky black oil on the threads and the dirt from the road gets in there. You think, I shouldn't put this back in there with dirt on it, so you wipe it on the sleeve of the shirt you're wearing, which is a pink teeshirt you bought because you thought it might be ironic or something. The grit and oil make weird tiger-claw slashmarks on your sleeve.

2. When you spin the 4-way wrench, hunched over with your hands smeared with black tire stuff, you think, The tire is wearing off on my hands. These hands will never come clean.

3. When you sit on the ground and lift a tire with your toes onto the bolts and it slides into place and you put that first lug nut back on and it holds, and you put the other ones on and spin the wrench, just getting them the perfect amount of tight.

4. When you tighten the lug nuts in the proper order, you make some sort of star on your tire, and you think, It looks like a pentagram. When you go back around them and make sure they're all tight, you think, I'm drawing a circle around the pentagram, like devil-worshipers do to contain the evil spirit.

On persons and electrons

This is my first blog entry. I'm keeping it short and devoid of any sort of interesting content. I can't wait to look at it!

I'll write lots of interesting things to come. Don't worry.