It’s all a Cakewalk, baby!

In a previous life, I was totally interested in music, played in a band, wanted to be a “rock star”, etc. As time went on, I soured on the idea, reality set in, etc. But that’s not the point of this entry.

This entry is really about the positive effects that technology has had on making music: recording music, in particular.

Looking back 8-10 years ago, starting up a band and having it go anywhere was very difficult, when you take into consideration the startup costs of going into the studio and putting together a CD. At that time, EVERYTHING was a “bulk deal”, so if you wanted to produce a CD, then you’d have to produce 2,000 at a time (unless you knew somebody who’d make a small batch for you), and this would cost you $4000. And given the way that most bands end up, you’d probably end up being stuck with 1,990 CDs when the band broke up. Don’t even make me get started on how much it cost to go into the studio for a few days (to record your stuff). It was simply impractical, to say the least.

With the emergence of technology for the home, and the presence of the masses on the internet, it’s really helped the cottage industry that’s an integral part of a band starting up. With a $3-$4K investment, a band can build their own multi-track studio (with some kind of recording software), buy custom sound devices for computer-based recording, CD-RW media for the end product, and for the computer itself. Sure, the startup costs are a bit steep, but look at how much product you can create with this one investment. And if you know what you’re doing, the product sounds amazing!

This might sound like a sales pitch, but it’s not. While I’m not really interested in doing the “band thing” anymore, I really do like making and recording music. I think that it’s a fun hobby. I’ve provided the links for what I’m using below. If you’re interested, you should check this stuff out.

CPU (computer): Dell

Soundcard: M-Audio Delta 66

Mixer: Mackie 1402 VLZ-PRO

Software: Cakewalk Sonar 2.0 XL

Dildon’t II

I love my Mom. She’s a genuinely good person who’s got a heart of gold. That’s what makes it so difficult for me to scream my head off at her when she knowingly irritates me. Oh, and she does go out of her way to get on my nerves at times. There’s no doubt about it.

As she’s gotten older (she’s really not old at all!), she’s become insanely religious, praying, watching televangelists, attending religious conferences, etc. And she’s also of the mindset that the world is “going to hell in a handbasket”. When she says that, she’s not talking about the Taliban; she’s probably talking about the entertainment industry! This includes: movies, music, stand-up comics, news programs, sitcoms, and sporting events.

“Oh?” you say?

Yes. We always have to be careful when we rent movies when I’m visiting my parents. This past weekend, my father made the following statement to my mother: “I’m sorry, but they don’t have any movies about God here (at Blockbuster), so you’ll have to find something that bothers you the least.”

Allow me to add that we had another “run-in” this past weekend when a similar “offensive” situation played itself out. Word to the wise: don’t ever try viewing “Not Another Teen Movie” in the same room as your mother, no matter how liberal. After the opening scene that featured a vibrating phallus, my mother stormed out of the room, and had to be reassured multiple times that we did NOT — in fact — know that the movie contained such a scene (with a phallus).

Dildon’t, my friends. Dildon’t.

It’s a Shame about Dre.

Most of you know that — outside of a few artists and songs — I think that hip-hop has gotten pretty crowded, cluttered, and stupid. The images are assinine and the music, if you’re so bold to call it “music”, sucks harshly.

But for whatever reason, I still get a huge kick out of Dr. Dre. Ignore for a second that Dr. Dre and Shug Knight used to be involved with some form of criminal activity in South Central Los Angeles. Further, ignore the fact that Dr. Dre used to be drawn to pot, 40-ouncers, and 9mm pistols like a baby is drawn to its mother’s teet. Okay, overlook lots of stuff when it comes to Dr. Dre. But the fact remains that he makes some really killer music.

Now, given all of the jizzing that I’ve just done over Dr. Dre, I can’t fathom why the fool is hanging out with Eminem. Eminem seems like the kind of cat that you hang out with when, well, all of your cool & sane friends are busy with other tasks, like working, dating, not abusing their spouses, and other non-dysfunctional endeavours. Sure, he can rap like a madman, but then again — he is a madman, so that’s basically cheating!

Further, it seems that Dr. Dre himself is aware that Eminem is kind of whacked. When Enimen is gesticulating, rapping, cursing, crotch-grabbing, whatever, Dr. Dre frequently gets this look on his face that he’s utterly perplexed, appalled, or both. And why might that be? Is it because he likens Eminem to someone that you’d see freaking out on the subway? Is it because he’s aware that he’s the one to blame for victimizing the masses by introducing us to Eminem? Is he aware that he’s being out-ghettoed by a loopy white man?

Or, is it that this picture is telling us at least a thousand words?

The Crying Game?

I hate it when I’m so pissed off that I can’t do anything but watch tv and feel miserable. I’m in a bit of a rut, I’m afraid. It happens every once in awhile. In fact, I haven’t really been in a rut this big for 6 years, so I was “due”.

So, this morning I was watching “Maury”. Remember, I said that I was in a rut. Anyways, the show was about women who had excessively long hair. And the crafty Harvard grads who produce the Maury show decided to add a couple of twists to this “plot”. Not only would the longhairs parade around the Maury stage, high-fiving the other longhairs, they would bring along loved ones who would do the haircutting. And these crafty producing ones also worked the angles to bring out — get this — raw emotion when the hair was cut. These ladies and (in some cases) their mothers had to turn their heads so we didn’t see their tears. Now, what’s THAT about?! If somebody wants to get a haircut, what’s the big deal? It’s only freaking hair. Now, if your daughter’s hair magically created dollar bills or something like that, I could understand your grief. But since it doesn’t, why all the fuss?

It’s better, it would seem, that you daughter is cutting her long hair than “dressing sexy” or being a “teen gone bad”. Right, Maury?

So, to sum up: longhairs, lovers, crying mothers, haircuts, tears, makeovers. Wow. It’s like attending one of those “all you can eat” places, but only to spectate. Like I said, in a rut.

Hatin’ fashion and the hairy fishnuts.

I admire people who decide to throw all caution to the wind for the sake of reflecting their true selves … by way of fashion bashin’. This includes, as I’ll label it: colored (or multi-colored) hair, ugly sunglasses, slutty clothing, and piercings.

Of course, these fashion statements are really a diversion. From what I’ve seen, the wearers of said faux fashion are usually smart and friendly people. And that’s what makes it so interesting! If you’re a smart and fun person, why would you want to have a green mohawk and a tusk through your nose? Fine if it suits you, but I’m just curious.

And of course, I kind of think that green hair is cool, too. So, each time I see somebody who’s got green hair, I run down a checklist:

1. Would I look better with green hair?
2. If I wore leather pants with a dress shirt and tie, would anyone notice? What about assless pants or chaps?
3. If I opted for a new hair color, style of pants and noisy-looking glasses, would I become smarter?
4. As a large man, would I draw even more undue attention to myself if I grew a blonde mohawk and came to work with a shirt that read “Sid Vicious Ate My Balls”?
5. Would I have more sex if I dressed a part?
6. In my occassional fits of smartness, would I just be better of staying anonymous and boring in my chinos and oxford cloth shirts?
7. Would you rather be frightened by my temper or my choice of shirts?

Hunger correction, neither.

Aside from the usual crap that I blather about here: snacks, porn, UNIX, system administration, hatred, bad language, loud televisions, obnoxious animals, etc., I really have varied interests. But enough about them. I’d rather talk about snack machines, and my new idea for a business. You’ll laugh. You’ll think that it’s stupid. And then I’ll sit here covered with dollar bills whilst you search your couch cushions for

Oh. Excuse me.

Last week, in a hungry and delirious state, I tried to buy something from the snack machine… that wasn’t there! What was that? I put money in the slot, pushed E4, the spiral behind E4 spun, and there was no food to drop, so the machine spun a little extra, then failed to give me my money back. I was pissed. You see, not only is item E4 my favorite afternoon treat, it was troubling to me — what, working in a professional where fault tolerance is a must — that something as simple, stupid, and delicious as a snack machine could perform so unforgivingly.

It’s not like I think there’s some kind of cartel who take the money of some unexpecting snack-buyer when they pick a snack that isn’t there. But I do think that with the simplest addition, snack machines could offer snacks through a highly available infrastructure. With songs? No. Dance? No. Blinking lights? Well, maybe. My goal would be to deliver snacks without failure, and warn the buyer if a snack is sold out before returning their change.

This would involve a simple module to replace the existing on-board module that takes your money, spins the wheel, then rolls you over. Oh, you want me to describe the snack ACK to you? NACK. NACK, I say.

Straight out of suburbia, yo!

On one hand, I have to laugh when I consider the effects of hip-hop “culture” on suburban America. I mean, it’s really curious how you can see a white-bred family in a restaurant, and all of a sudden their teenage kids start spouting things like “hell yeah, beeyotch”, “word”, “off the hizzy” and “shiznit”. To call this behavior ingenuous would be an understatement.

But there’s an even funnier undertone to what’s going on here. It’s that hip-hop has taken a form far more over the top than its roots. Yeah, I can see where hip-hop came from 20+ years ago. But you’ve gotta laugh when you consider some of the stuff that’s gotten built into its “culture”; this stuff isn’t patterned behavior, like something you’d learn by growing up piss-poor in Queens or Compton. It’s part of the marketing menace that’s been cashing in on hip-hop: the entertainment conglomerates.

Oh, don’t get it? Pay careful attention next time you see a hip-hop-related video on Mtv where the “artist” bemoans life in Compton whilst wearing a $1000 suit, and appearing in a music video that cost nearly $1M to make. Bono of U2 fame, and Zach (formerly for R.A.T. Machine) did the same thing after they charged us $150 for a ticket to see their shows.

(Dammit, Beavis, if I wanted to hear preaching, I’d like, go to that place or something.)

Okay, so what’s the point of this bitching? Well, there are two.

First, I’m sensing that the current incarnation of hip-hop will disappear at some point. Trend-wise, in 2002, it seems like we’re at a similar place as we were 10 years ago when “metal” died. That is, everything is overblown, overdone, and overpriced, and everything sounds the same. Sometimes it appears that the last gasps are the noisiest.

(Not to say that the entertainment industry will let hip-hop die that quickly; it will probably rename and repackage the same stuff as hop-hip or hop-sing or hop-into-the-chinese-laundry-van or whatever.)

Second, I’ve noticed that white trash gravitates to hip-hop, just like they did to “metal” a decade ago. Last night, for instance, my neighbor’s daughter (yeah, this is the neighbor with the noisy MF of a dog) had some people over to her “crib”. Smart money says that her parents weren’t home, and if they were, then they’re the worst parents EVER. At around midnight, when I couldn’t sleep, I went out to my front porch for a smoke and some juice. Well, from out of my neighbor’s house poured a bunch of hooligans (no! not the hooligans!) in baggy pants, wife-beater t-shirts, and with dialect chock full ‘o’ ebonics. More amusing? All of these people were white, as I could tell when their 200000000 watt floodlight was shining into my porch. Apparently, one of my neighbor’s daughter’s guests decided to misbehave, and was asked to leave (by my neighbor’s yelling daughter), a request that he didn’t take kindly to. So, he launched into this ebonics-laden tirade, and eventually squealed his tires before “leaving”.

Lo and behold, the misbehaving guest didn’t actually leave. See, I knew that you’d figure this out! He drove around the block, waited for everybody to go back inside, and then returned on foot with his sidekick. “How nice”, I thought. “I can’t wait to see how this goes down.” Sure enough, cars were keyed, tires where slashed, and I heard him doing other damage to the cars, such that I could hear things being broken and thrown in the street. I was tempted to call the police, given that this kid was prowling around, but hell, I’m not the freaking neighborhood enforcer, and I didn’t want this halfwit to damage my own property if I’d intervened. And I’m afraid of white trash, and I don’t like my neighbor, so they were on their own.

For the next several hours, cars kept speeding by, and my neighbor’s daughter’s friends were having loud discussions about “fucking assholes” outside of their house, which projects nicely through my window. I almost expected Ice Cube to drop by in a bouncing Chevrolet Impala and discharge a sawed-off shotgun in their direction. But, sadly, God is Dead, and “Boyz ‘n’ the Hood” is just a movie.

It was more fun before hip-hop made white trash so angry. I used to have lots of fun discussing bigotry, adultry, World War II, and wage garnishing with them. Now, I’m trapped in an expensive Compton in New England.

And that, my friends, is off the hizzy.

Spider-Meister

Okay, Spider-Man kicked major ass. It was a very entertaining movie. But aside from the plot, I’ll offer this classic sequence from the movie.

Son of the Green Goblin enters the mansion (not knowing that his father is the Green Goblin), and hears loads of maniacal laughter in the background:

Son: Dad, is that you?

(Me, making narrative: I dunno, kid. Does your father ordinarily laugh like that?)

Realty Check.

I’m having a problem understanding my realtor.

Consider the meaning and magnitude of that statement.

My realtor is driving me mad. Really. I mean “batty”, “nuts” “cuckoo”, “looney”, and the whole lot.

It’s not that she’s a bad person or anything like that. I mean, she’s been in “the realty biz” for a long time, and I’m sure that she knows how to make a sale. But for whatever reason, dealing with her is like watching the second half of A.I.. You know what I mean if you’ve seen it: it’s the part of the movie when Spielberg decides to speak for Kubrick (who’s died during the making of the movie, so Spielberg is compelled to finish it), and does so in such a bad and clearly-un-Kubrick way. In fact, it’s almost like Spielberg is trying to apologize for Kubrick going over the top, and intentionally making movies that people don’t understand. Spielberg frequently makes movies that the general public understands, but sometimes these films tell great stories that clearly aren’t true at all!

I mean, really… had E.T. crashed his turd-like body into my backyard, I wouldn’t have invited him into my house for Coca-Cola and penny candy. My E.T. movie would be really short. And E.T. (oops, here crashes the sentiment!) would be very dead very quickly.

So, what does this all have to do with realty and realtors?

Dealing with my realtor (or realtors in general) makes it feel like I’m stuck in some weird place between Kubrick and Spielberg. Sure, there’s some kind of plot to the story. In this case, it’s a plot to sell my house. But somewhere along the line, the linear nature of this story goes astray, and we end up with pure and simple confusion. For example:

Me: So, you think that there’s a good chance that we’ll get some interest after the open house this Sunday?
Realtor: Absolutely. It’s very likely that you’ll get a few offers right after the open house.

The reality?

Me: Did we get any offers after the open house, or any serious interest?
Realtor: No, lots of people showed up — it was incredible — but I NEVER put any faith in what comes out of open houses.

Uhhh, wait… then why have an open house at all?

And it goes on and on and on like this. Had Spielberg written the script, it would have read:

1. House on market.
2. Open house, but sales not likely.
3. People come through house.
4. Offers come through, but not until after there’s been a messy divorce and anti-Semitic behavior in suburbia.
5. An alien drops by for tea and biscuits, and promises not to take over your house or mother Earth if you give it some chocolate that’s filled with peanut butter.
6. The alien leaves in time for your house closing, and you wish it well, regardless of the fact that it stole your Handspring and record player.
7. The end.

Smell the Glove.

People watching is one of my favorite pastimes. Just find a place where there are people, and pay attention to what they’re doing. You don’t even have to listen to what they’re saying to one another. You don’t have to start any conversations with anyone. You don’t have to move your body at all. It’s fascinating. And most importantly: it’s free!

Of my people-watching fascinations, the most prevalent has GOT to be common gestures: hand movements, facial expressions, stances, etc. It’s weird that — without really any teaching of these behaviors — that people just do them. My personal favorite? The finger under the nose.

Generally, I see “finger under the nose” in the context of a person sensing a bad smell. Aside from the purpose that it clearly doesn’t serve, “finger under the nose” is an interesting tendency. It’s when you decide that your own finger probably smells better than the outside world, so you decide to sniff it instead of whatever else. It’s very weird, yet sublime.

One of my other favorites has got to be “the shift”. “The shift”, as I’ve named it, is when a male or female “shifter” “shifts” their thighs or hips to — apparently — re-adjust their undergarments to the contour of their bodies. Since most people, I’d guess, don’t want to overtly grab their crotches in public, they just need that temporary relief. Hence, “the shift”. I’ve seen “shifting” from coast-to-coast, and it’s always the same: stop, re-position body, wiggle hips to initiate the shift, commence shifting, start.