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Hi kids. I thought I might as well write something as it is the last day of January, and my beloved is currently busy. Instead of doing another short story/personal experience sort of saga, I've gone for another topic I am a great fan of: The Internet. Or rather, a great percentile of it. Me and Wombat are avid World of Warcraft players, along with a good (coming up on) seven million people from across the globe. Of course, around a third of these are Chinese gold-farmers, selling their pixelised wares on their sites for in return for 'a few Amerikn dolla'. The other two thirds of this great number, however, are usually just normal, living players. Most are elitist, sly, overly-dramatic and somewhat scary at times; but living all the same. Now, of late, there's been a lot of speak about how WoW is the death of society, and how 'addictable' it is. Well hold your horses there, sensationalist media! Stop spreading 'dem lies to the thick, gullible populace will you?
Now, of course Warcraft is going to be 'addictable' to a very small minority of people. But these people are the types which will get addicted to anything which involves time. From making paper dolls to working themselves to death. These sorts of people have been in our society for generations; and they're not much of a problem now as they were two hundred years ago. It is just now, the focus of their addiction happens to be a video game. AND WE ALL KNOW WHAT GREAT CRIME THAT IS. The same things apply as if it was any other medium. It's just how things are with these sorts of people. The end. However - you may be thinking - 'Mel, what about those kids who play for 18 hours a day? Surely that's unhealthy!' Certainly, it is unhealthy, I am not denying that - but these people (or at least, the majority) are not addicted to Warcraft. Yes folks, I've really pushed the boat out this time. So, I suppose I have to justify my means of thinking. You see, to be 'addicted' to something suggests it is chemical. There is nothing chemical about Warcraft. It is a computer game, and is probably as petty as you think it sounds. You cannot (unless, of course, you are one of the exceptions mentioned earlier) get addicted to World of Warcraft (or any other video game, for that matter) the same way you get addicted to drugs or sex. The aforementioned examples are 'addictable' because, if repeated enough times (the former only a few times depending on the drug, the latter depending on your libido), one's body will come to rely on that 'fix' you get from taking drugs or having sex. Sure, Warcraft can release 'endorphins' (forgive me for lack of better wording) that makes you gain pleasure from playing, but nothing on the scale of the two above factors. I believe, that only if you stared at the monitor for six or seven hours a day, for a month, playing Warcraft, you may get addicted from the 'rush' on playing. No different, than, for instance, playing extreme sports. When have you ever heard anyone compare skateboarding to being on crack cocaine? You haven't? Oh, funny, that. Neither have I.
So, what makes people play Warcraft so much? Especially if I 'claim' that it is not addictable in any medical sense. After all, it is not the greatest game on the planet, surely. Since discovering World of Warcraft I've played PREY, WarRock, Oblivion and Half Life Two, and, in a lot of ways; all of those games have been better and more fun for me to play (gameplay wise) than World of Warcraft. So, why do so many people continue playing WoW? Well, reader, I'd like to demonstrate by point by providing some commentary on the following videos. The first, is from America's (somewhat femninazi) 'Tyra Banks Show', featuring a great whale of a woman talking to 'Tyra' about her husband's 'addiction' to 'a video game'. Hahaha. Watch and read at the same time:
For a start, the 'woman' is a great... monster. If I had her for a wife: Snobby, uptight and downright ugly - then I would be blameless for finding distractions. Ignoring his baby girl? Yeah, 'cause kids cry all the time, you silly bitch. Of course he's gonna ignore it if it's just whining for attention (which it probably was; heck, I wouldn't be surprised if the camera crew purposely provoked it in order to make such a 'strong' point) - especially if he's in the middle of somewhere important. Am I saying the value of a digital world is going to be greater of that of an infant child? Of course not! I am saying if it's a baby, and crying all the time, he's gonna want to find means of escape, and WoW has worked. Now, after that little sadistic clip has finished, I just love Ms. Banks' comment:
It's just a video game.
Actually, you're wrong. Space Invaders, is just a video game. Heck, I wouldn't play Space Invaders for more than an hour nowadays; I doubt anyone actually would. But when Tyra says she's been ignored before because her (probably 'real nice jock boyfriends' who just wanted to sex her up back in ZEE GHETTO) ex-lovers ignored her for other friends and then goes on to say that World of Warcraft is different; SHE IS ABSOLUTELY WRONG.
AB. SO. LUTE. LY.
If anything, there hasn't been a situation so similar. What these people fail to realise is that when 'Sean' plays World of Warcraft; he's probably playing in a guild, filled with fifty+ of his friends. WHO ARE PLAYING. AND TALKING TO HIM. ONLINE. AT THE SAME TIME. Surely, though! These 'friends' cannot mean anything! They are on THE INTERNETS! Well, you'll be wrong. These are the people that will praise you if you make a good pull in Scholomance, or absolutely kill you if you wipe the raid before Ragnaros. These are the people which you will share good times, and bad, trying to kill monsters which it takes every single one of them to be absolutely focused to take down. Sean will be sharing feelings of excitement and depression with these people, over the Internet. Of course, nowadays these people have become that bit more real - with Voice Over IP communications (alright, they were invented in 1997, but the idea has only really just caught on) and other such devices. You can hear these people. Talk to them. See them. They are not simply 'pixels on a computer screen!', they are real people - friends. If Sean choses his friends over his family life - that's his decision. Let's continue:
Ah, the poor girl gives the great example of his birthday and her labour. Well, to be honest, no one gives a shit. First off, it was his birthday, and if dear old Sean wanted to spend it downing Onyxia (or whatever else he was doing) with his guild; Then I don't personally blame him. Heck, it would of made for a rather stunning celebration, I'd imagine. Around ten times more rewarding than another typical lunch with an overweight... thing. As for the labour? Again, his choice. It does not prove addiction. Heck, she may of already been in labour for a good twenty-four hours, maybe he felt stressed and wanted a break. They wouldn't of critised him if he went out and did a few laps around the block to cool off; so why pick at him for that? 'The biggest thing in the world'? Tyra, she's sat right next to you.
The good doctor is barking totally up the wrong tree. He was thinking far, far too deeply into things.
I used to play into two in the morning, in summer. That was nice.
Oh, yeah, and I wouldn't want to sleep in the same bed as that, either.
Again, the doctor barks up the wrong tree. Then she goes into self-denial, seeking the pity vote. PARTY.
Let's move on, my dear reader:
Sean, is looking rather healthy. No idea what he does for a job; but it must be very demanding and possibly exhaugsting? Go figure, reader. Sean talks a load of crap when he comes on, about his 'fears' and whatnot. The doctor, I believe, is right for once when he says that the dear boy is using the game as an escapism from real life; and is not actually 'addicted'. But then... ugh... the prat then goes on to talk about how video gaming can be an addiction. Well done, doctor - but I think you'll find I've already addressed that issue further up this article. 'Addicted to the relationship with the monitor'? You're fucked, doctor. His definition of 'addiction' is also flawed beyond belief. Now, after this, it gets good.
Notice that Sean is smiling, somewhat, when his single CD is shredded? I love this part. You know why? You can play the game without the discs. Hahahaha! Probably for this very reason, no doubt. Good thinking, Blizzard. The doctor is right. Sean is also right when he says 'that's not a friend to me'. 'Cause the blokes he plays it with are his friends; not the actual game. FOOLS.
...there. That's where I can go. Best Big Brother video...EVER. Great Dirkisms and Jermaine Jackson proving his worth for a second place position! I would like to think I have enough power to get a petition, full of names, wanting and willing to buy Jermaine's Single..."Shake it". If you would like Jermaine to release the single just comment this post.
Shit. I looked it and felt it this morning. Utter shite. I'd come down with a fever in the middle of the night, scratched myself a hundred times whilst shaving roughly, had both sets of friends I will planning to go out with cancel on me, and could not really think of a reason to go get up out of bed. At all. But I did. After all, on Friday I had just purchased myself a GeForce 6600 GT graphics card, brand spankin' new. Now, considering my previous card was a Radaeon 9600, the newer hardware was a considerable step up for me. Naturally, I wanted to test said card on some meaty, graphic-branding games. Oblivion or Prey, perhaps. Hence why I ended up going into town, alone, at eleven o'clock on a freezing, winter Saturday morning. To buy shit. Besides, personal events of the night and the night before had gotten me down-in-the-emotional-dumps, so I believed I needed some 'me' time. And what better way to spend such periods of time wondering around the local city centre, venturing into gaming shops for no apparent reason? Sure, in hindsight, it sounds slightly sad, but I was still pissy due to the above reasons and it was probably best I didn't go with anyone I knew asides. It would of ended in bitch-fights and other such unpleasantries which I will not care to go into detail about.
But I made a friend today.
Ian. He's 54, 55 in a month and likes computer gaming. I spent half an hour in the small GAME in Leeds just... talking to him. All because I had picked up Oblivion, he had stood nearby and said 'That's a good game,'. Of course, this led to me explaining to this balding, aging man how I had owned Elder Scrolls: Oblivion before, but on a shitter system. Within half an hour, I knew he is a house-husband (his wife is a consultant pediatrician), has three daughters, two computers, and probably has some form of epilepsy problems when he plays first person shooters. On the side, he teaches old folks how to work PCs (The line being: 'I charge like, ten quid an hour for tutorials,' 'We're still talking about computers here, right?') and fixes them. This led us to both complaining about (what he called) PCMoneyWorld and how shit their repairers are. He had purchased Dawn of War: Dark Crusade in the week and was now struggling to find a new PC game to play with.
What am I getting at here? That Ian was probably a balding paedophile with sinister intent and just started talking to me because he wanted to get into my pants? I doubt it; All the time I saw him eying me up and down; trying to guess my age. We made eye-contact a good few hundred times. This, folks, was not a paedophile. Ian was just a good-natured guy (slightly smelly, but I'm sure he only smells like that in work clothes) who was looking to have a nice, sophisicated conversation about gaming. That was all. Nothing to it. Now we're mates. I'm friends with a guy who is like, almost half a century older than me, related to one another by our love of gaming and ability to be computer literate and other such views regarding the two. Nothing hidden about that. In fact, if you ask any of my usual town posse; you'll find I get along with a load of random strangers. From the black guy (and the stoner, too!) who work at the Vue to these random blonde girls who work at LA Fitness. Simply because I either have an approachable personality, or that conversation is so easy (Bragging, much?) with strangers. Refreshing, new (usually older) people.
Now, reader, can you guess where I'm taking this?
I must admit, I get a little high from meeting new people randomly. Or discovering new things about people. A some sort of twisted altruist, I suppose. But that's fine. I can sense sad-acts or agressive wannabes from a mile away. I enjoy a comfort zone, but I love to step outside it and discover new things at the same time. Knowledge is only gained, socially, by breaking ignorance. 'First impressions' my arse. How are we supposed to further as a race, heck, even meet new people if we all balently ignore each other in public? "Don't talk to strangers"? Who the fuck are we supposed to talk to, then? Family? Let's just all become incestual and keep to ourselves, shall we? Yes, I'm certain that will solve all of society's problems. So, you say, 'teenagers and children shouldn't be doing it!' doing what? Socialising?! Not everyone out there is a fecking kiddy-snatcher. And if we do not learn to speak up, have discussions with new people and whatnot whilst we're young, what on Earth are we going to do when we 'grow up'?
It's not racially motivated in any way, shape or form. It's all about social class as said by Jermaine a mere few minutes after the argument. Am sorry isn't a HOUSEMATE good enough? Isn't someone who is EXPERIENCING IT good enough for you?
I hate those damn liberal do gooders who make racists of those who ask for a "Black coffee."
Also Shilpa even told Big Brother it "wasn't racial" so where does that leave all those liberal fat cats in the houses of Parliament, trying to be noticed by the younger generation? Thinking Big Brother is documentary on the BBC!
I would also like to add that saying something is racist, ironically, spreads racism.
So your trying to tell me that Jade and Co wasn't bullying Shilpa? - Generic Forum Member of Digital Spy
Before I start I would just like to say...Come on man that is a great title, how insightful and deep is that title? Back on Topic.
Unwanted Ends
Well one end.
Lost.
Everyone knows that I love Lost, seriously I would make hot love to it. And today Producer Carlton Cuse talked about the end of Lost, finally an end to all those fucking retards who say "It's never gonna end,""How long can they drag it on for?" (And for those who "'Ant they been found yet?" Well the answer is YES, Penny's found the Island. SO FUCK YOU! OK?) Basically he said they want to end at Season 5, but obviously ABC want more those money hungry bastards! Read More...
Failed Starts
Back int' day Me, Scott and Jordan (Well just me and Scott, Jordan was in Japan) had an idea to create a story of which would be the backbone to this blog. Some one would start the story with someone else continuing the story. Basically, in literacy terms, a main arc of the story made up of smaller story arcs, with a few knocked up paint pictures to help. Well it never happened. Main problems being my inability to write stories not in script form, but dag nabit, I could have and would have tried and improved. The opening 2 paragraphs of my creative writing coursework was at B level, (According to Mr. Lawrence, for the record it was marked a D because once again my script-ual nature took over.) and my creative writing the trial exams was an A so I could of done it. So now I make the plea to Scott and Jordan to bring back this idea, a true sci-fi drama with the tension of a mystery and the light hearted feeling of a comedy. The truth is I edited this blog initially so much because it was the main reason, for me, to make this blog.
It is only now, a good five minutes after I finally complete my last post, that I realise I forgot to mention something. That 'something' is the result of the asterisk I posted next to the solemn mention of a certain toasted sandwich maker I received for Christmas. If you have no idea what I'm talking about, I suggest you go and read the post which dwells beneath this one and find out. If you remain clueless, I do not blame you and wish the best of luck to you with your life. But before you continue with the 'life' you apparently have (although we all know that you only read this blog because you either post here or are a victim of one of those shitty MSN screen name advertisements which we all have), I will ask you to read on. To the great story of the toasted sandwich maker. As presented to you in MONOCOLOUR. Or something. I don't know where I was going with that. Let's move on.
This is probably almost certainly grammatically incorrect on a few basic levels, but I shall from hereby refer to said electrical kitchen appliance as 'Toasted Sandwich Maker', or 'Bringer Of Limby Deaths'. I am unsure as to the actual accuracy of 'limby' as a word, but regardless, it does what it says on it's hard, steely cover. It kills limbs. Or at least, parts of limbs. Like, let's say, hands for example. Now, I've been in many an embarrassing situation in my lifetime. And a good percentile of those said situations have been violent. Either resulting in the back of my hand being cut in various places by a set of keys, having a brawl with someone who can (and probably did, explaining a lot of things) break my nose, being chased around by dogs after freeing my own canine from a few nasty situations, et cetera, et cetera. But the day after Boxing Day (That would be the 27th of December, for you Yanks out there), I faced my most unflattering sequence of events to date. For I had just claimed property of the said BRINGER OF LIMB DEATH the previous night, where I had casually toasted a cheese sandwich for personal consumption. But that morning was different. I was hung-over, and angsty due to the lack of milk and/or Cookie Crisp as a morning snack.
So, I booted up the thirty by fifteen centimeter toasting machine that had been slowly steaming on my countertop from the following night. Inside the great folds of the grill, I found myself putting another few slices of randomly buttered bread, I brought himself around to switching on the plug to the said toaster. And that, reader, is where my problems began. For the steaming I mentioned earlier did not cease at any stage during the process of setting the bloody food up. If anything, the said 'steaming' must have increased during the various levels of building my desired sandwich (it was gonna be cheese again folks. So, so beautiful) up. But when I hit the 'on' button at the plug in my somewhat cracked kitchen wall which connected to the toaster, all Hell broke loose.
Well, that was not too much of an extrageration. 'Hell' did make loose. A great, raging flame spouting from the soon-to-be-food-maker was the perfect rendition of Hell. I think Dante would of been proud of the great seven layers of sinfilled goodness that presented itself upon my quickly burning kitchen counter. The smell of roasting metal and over-cooked cheese quickly reached my nose, much to my disappointment and shock. Now, reader, let me ask you an obvious question:
What would you do if you found a quickly-roasting, newly-acquired, flat-toaster upon your kitchen table... thing? Take the precious, finger-licking food from inside? Probably not in hindsight. But, as it happens, that is exactly what I attempted to do. With quite amusing results. For the toaster, upon being pryed open gingerly like a great virgin's legs by yours truly, was now satisfyingly sticky. As I quickly discovered as the thing clamped itself shut around my over-curious right hand.
Now, my right hand has gone through all sorts of abuse during my lifetime. For a start, I had never mastered actually how to hold a pen normally. Those of you who know me 'IRL' will realise this if you look closely during my work - but especially when drawing. I hold my pen/cil at an almost 110 degree angle, as opposed to 45 degrees. It is probably a bad thing, as I discovered at a later date, but can allow for added accuracy and detail in art and rather appalling handwriting. Anyway, this angle was utter pain upon my right hand in early years, but this was only the beginning of the hardships my right hand went through. I must of cut my fingers at least three times by accident with various steak knives and during other... activities. None of the emo variety, I assure you. Then there was the strange incident with the rampaging drunkard and his set of keys... ugh. Then there was the strains of puberty! Don't get me started!
Of course, now, my right hand has had another mental (and physical!) scar added to it's small, simple life. The searing pain of two red-hot (literally, as I discovered later) irons rubbing against my creamy (if not slightly too white and scarred) skin. So, by accident rather than design, I ripped the toaster from it's plug in the wall, clasping my hand as I ran around the kitchen shouting (not screaming! Women scream!) randomly, with this mighty, steel clamp stuck around my wrist (is this turning you on, reader? IS IT!?). It didn't take long for the dogs to catch on, and thus they both took simple measure to jump about around me for no apparent reason, barking over my shouting as I ran around in circles, my hand scolding against the burning texture of crumbling bread and shitty cheese.
Now, you may be thinking, how did I come out of this sticky (Hah) situation alive? Well, luckily the great lords of our planet spared me an ugly fate (Too late for that?) and blessed me (only for a moment) with the HOLY SPIRIT OF INITIATIVE. Initiative, reader, is a great thing. It inspires us into new, original action out of desperation and adrenaline. Of course, what we do with this new feeling is entirely open to human nature. For instance, it could of inspired me to go out and get a job! And to tell my beloved that I want to go and date her! And for me to go out and get a really active social life! And make a living out of the thing which was sincerely fucking my hand over, passing it off as 'cheap tanning'!
But that would be out of character.
Instead, I grabbed the nearest knife available and - despite my past relationships with sharp objects - treated it as my saving grace. I did something completely foolish and irrational. I jammed the knife in the small gap to the side of where my arm finished and the toaster began. With a quick flash of silver and a flick of my wrist (Seriously, I could of got away with saying 'WINGUARDIUM LEVIOSIA!' if people had been around), the two sides of my-new-worst-nightmare came away from my hand. The limb-end in question had come out quite well. A few scars from the ridges where the well-fried bread had cut into my skin, but nothing too bad. The toaster, however, was in a lot shitter condition. It lay on the floor, smoking. Yes, smoking. I should of used that to describe the gentle flow of air which had been coming from it earlier in the morning (as opposed to 'steam'), but that would have ruined the surprise.
I spent a good half an hour after nursing my sore hand, whilst the dogs were more than happy to consume my burnt sandwich, and probably half the toaster if I had given them the chance. Greedy gits.
The problem, however, lies in what exactly to write about. I could sketch out another five-hour-writing-time rant to fill the void. Or perhaps another 'how to be' guide from the days of En Masse. Or I could simply rant on talking about nothing in particular; just jotting things which randomly spawn from my head. Which is exactly what I am doing now. But of course, that wouldn't be very entertaining, would it? Perhaps I should just mush together a few words about what has happened recently, and hope they make sense to my audience. Who is reading this, by the way? Oi! Reader! If you're reading this! Leave me a comment or something complaining about how shite the post was. Seriously, I strongly recommend you criticise me. I'm on an awkward natural (or rather, unnatural) high at the moment; which surely cannot be right for my usual mental state. Whatever. On with the show.
Regarding T'Internet business, I have been up to little astounding business at the moment. The great sequel to John Dies At The End (http://www.johndiesattheend.com) was supposed to keep me occupied for a while. And that it did. The problem with the text.... novels produced by a Mark Wong (Is that his name? I forget the author) is so addictable (to me, at least) that it is hard to put it away. To simply close a window. With usual books I read and 'get into', the flow can be delighting for a time, but only whilst things inside the said few pages remain interesting, tense and exciting. With John Dies At The End (Or JDATE, as I fondly call it. Although a quick Googling of JDATE will bring you to a Jewish dating site, but meh) the entire book (well, it isn't actually a book, but rather a digitalised novel. Although you can buy a book version of it from Cafe Press, but I wouldn't recommend it actually - much more, if you excuse the pun, novel to read it online) is like that. Every click of the mouse leads to another heart-stopping adventure of mischief and dry comedy. If you have a few hours spare, I demand that you go read it. The sequel (which arrived last October) is not, however, as extensive. And, although the same formula is used, the ending of the said successor (which name I will not attempt to type out expecting success) is left at a bit of a 'eh?' moment. Not like in Silent Hill, where the end sort of cuts off expectantly, but still leaves obvious plotholes ready for a sequel, John Dies At The End 2 literally cuts off the story mid-chapter. I expect that this will be fixed later, or at least hope it, as the original was entirely, wholly satisfying. No, I will not attempt a plot summary for either book; for if I did, it would probably put you completely off reading them. Oh, and I suggest you ignore the prologue of the first, as it is really not an absolute reflection of the duration of the entire book. Now I'm rambling. Woohoo.
Leading nicely to my next subject, I suppose. Today, I went to see Smokin' Aces. Yes, that new, awkwardly advertised movie which Joe told me: 'It's supposed to be a good comedy!' How wrong he was. But in a slightly good way, too. Smokin' Aces is the portrayal of, as the subtitle on the promo poster says: 'How many assassins does it take to kill one man?' Alright, that was probably incorrect, but it is a good conclusion regarding what the film actually is about. No, it isn't a Kill Bill-style epic where one man takes on hundreds of 'deadly Japanese assassins' which are sent against him. Rather, in fact, the opposite. It is a movie of plot twists and emotional loops. An old, famous Vegas magician act gets involved with the mob (via the way of his father, but we're not told that until the end). Then, the said magician feels it's in his own rights and orders the deaths of a few hundred people. The FBI want to take him in and give witness statements at the trial of his own head mobster. Israel (the name of the ex-magician - looks Jewish, too) strikes a deal with the FBI, then realises how much shit he'll be in if the mob finds out, and stakes out at a hotel off the outskirts of Nevada. This is where most of the (very) bloody action takes place, in a luxury hotel. No, it isn't Ocean's Eleven; but rather Hitman 47 crossed with Mission Impossible. You see, the mob catch onto Israel planning to give his (literal) old man in at his trial. So they go to kill him. Or rather, hand out a contract to several agencies with a death warrant of one million dollars. All the killers have to do, is murder Israel and bring his heart back to the mob. Literally, his heart. The reason for this is explained at the end of the film, where we find out that him and his father (who also happens to be the don of the local mafia) are blood-type compatible. Oh, sorry. That was a spoiler. Bah!
The duration of the film is made up of the few sets of assassins trying to beat each other to killing Israel, Rat Race style. The characters are diverse and somewhat unpredictable as the story line. All Hell breaks loose when the FBI then try to intervene in attempts to bring in Israel alive for the trial. It is a brilliantly complied, with the build up of events leading to one intense battle scene at the end, involving all kinds of weapons. And when I mean 'all kinds of weapons', it is no lie. Even chainsaws are included. Chainsaws. Yet despite the fantasy-like selection of arms used, Smokin' Aces seems to pull it off very well and realistically (well, as realistic as possible). Unlike some movies. The only qualm I had with Smokin' Aces was with the very beginning of the film, where the two FBI agents are stuck in a truck, listening to a conversation on a tapped phone in a house across the street from them. This conversation is full of the most dire knowledge the audience need to know about the plot, and it is skipped through vaguely and hastily. Aside from these few moments, however, the plot is fairly easy to pick up through the drama and action, leaving a full, whole-heartily good movie.
Wow. This post is turning out quite well. So far I've gone through two topics of recent nature. Perhaps I should move onto a third? Well, let's see: We've gone through reading things (JDATE), watching things (Smokin' Aces)... so I suppose it makes logic (Haha! Logic!) to move onto something... audible. Is that even a word? I'm sure it's disputed. Was that 'it's' the right form? How many shitty questions can I keep asking before I have to move onto the next topic? Do you know? Do I? Is it because I don't really like talking about musical tastes? Surely it is too personal? What is more personal than personal music tastes? Personal relationships? Surely I won't go into that? Was that even a question? Does this class as 'brainstorming'? Can I even use the word 'brainstorming' any more? Isn't it 'politically incorrect'? So what, am I supposed to use 'mind mapping' instead? But surely that could be considered worse? The mind cannot be mapped? Oh shit; That wasn't a question.
Three bands have been haunting my playlist of late. The first, is The Spill Canvas:
Indeed, that is a link to their MySpace. Or rather, TheirSpace? Haha! Alas! The joys of butchering the English language. Then again, there is a book I have been reading of late (Romance of the Three Kingdoms, Volume One) which dates back to 1920 (Well, translation date, that is) and suggests the use of the word 'alas' to be as follows:
alas! the woes!
Great going, fellas. Just but in exclaimation marks everywhere for not reason other than to spice up your text. Heck, if that actually worked, we'd all be doing it!
...
!!!
What was I talking about? Righty, The Spill Canvas. To be honest, I cannot really comment about how their music reflects modern society to the bitter finest and their lyrics are the greatest thing since that toasted sandwich maker I got for Christmas*. Those factors go without saying. It is simply the passion that er... the lead singer... guy (Wow, that was appalling) puts into the words that makes it so enjoyable to listen to the Spill. Or is it 'Canvas', shortened? I'll stick with TSC. The songs are so simple to sing (although it helps if you have a similar range to the keys, but yeah), yet so effective. In a sadistic sort of way, the lyrics could be compared to my infamous 'Lesbians' song. They are simple. They are easy to remember. They are effective. They are appropriate (we used to form hippy-circles on the school lawn and sing it whenever a certain Kate Rose went by) and personal (as it gets with me. Hah!). In a similar way, TSC's songs (Polygraph Right Now for definite) follow this simple, yet effective trend. Obviously the song isn't about homosexuality in women, but the point and similarity remains. The same goes for Lodger, in many ways.
With Lodger, the lyrics are not as personal as TSC's, but remain catchy and effective. If anyone actually goes on their website (http://www.lodger.tv) and views the lyrics for the songs, you'll realise how short, word-wise, these songs actually are. They are only a few lines long (well, in the High Hi-Fi Lights Down Low collection, anyway), and the lines are not exactly the greatest of intellectual achievements (one great line from Fickle is 'Fickle human, always a liar. Fickle human, now for hire,') but they somehow remain remarkably fitting and catchy. The only crictisim I have with Lodger, is that they are utter shite live. The frontman acts as dead (and looks like) Lurch from the Adams Family, and the rest of the band have an uncanny habit of going slightly out of time with each other. Which is very easy to do when attempting Lodger's songs. After all, have you ever tried co-ordinating a keyboard with a harmonica and electric guitar, whilst attempting to play different melodies? These errors are barely noticeable, however, and are not to be taken into account when judging their music.
I said three bands had been haunting my playlists lately, didn't I? The 'third', as such, tends to vary. OK Go have lost my interest of late; as they are yet to release any decent new songs recently. As such, there has been a rather massive gaping hole in my music life for bubblegum rock, or 'power pop'. I am not simply happy with Frankie Goes To Hollywood and the Pet Shop Boys. No! I demand the best in modern bands when it comes to this genre. Ouch. Now I've got distracted listening to Frankie Goes To Hollywood. Must... Write... Article...
So yes, I'd been struggling with the burning inferno which is not having power pop upon me every day to greet me as I woke up and say goodbye when I fell asleep. The grace of Lodger's synthesizers were not enough to fill the gap in my small little world that OK Go had once satisfied so well. Then came along, Billy Reid.
Keen followers of the blog (which are not half-asleep already) will recognise Billy from somewhere before. That's right, folks! Billy made a sly appearance a few posts back in my last rather large rant relating to how the YouTube front page was declining because it was full of fools and even floozier advertising. Well folks, Billy falls into both categories there. Author and one of the few (lucky) contributors to Very Tasteful (dot com), Billy is stuck doing the whole 'one-man band' sort of act with his music. But Mr. Reid isn't one of these sorts of people to stick 'ZOMG I MAKE MY OWN BACKING TRACKZ!!!1' everywhere he does a performance. Nope, Billy is all about his music. Be it good or otherwise. His catchy (I sense I theme with my music tastes) rhymes are simple enough to get a hold of, yet remain fresh and new every time we abuse the right to streaming music and hit 'play' for the five hundredth time that night. Another great thing, is that his .mp3s are available to download from the Something Awful website for free. The only problem is, the ones he sticks up there tend to be utter shite; so be careful.
On this blog..."Lord of the blah blah blah" we have a monthly quota of 12 blog entries.
In December we managed 9...9! Adding the 1 extra from the month previous gives us ten. And now we are 1/3 in January we have so far 2 posts (Including this one) so what does that say?
It says...The world is boring at the momment.
Yes, it is a bold statment, but does that make it an incorrect one?
No, it isn't a incorrect statment, but does that make it an correct one?
No, its my opinion.
And my opinion is that ghosts do change there clothes because it gets too dusty.
But would that dust by current dust or dead dust?
Does dust die?
It isn't a living object.
So I leave you there to think where was thos post going and the answer was there was no point, no direction. Read the top line.
Writers Block.
That's is my mad ramblings when I have writers block.
Well, what started out as a spoof for our blog turned into something great and interesting. For this account (http://www.myspace.com/iamemolol) has gained just over 150 fifty friends in about six months. Not bad, considering I was hardly trying to get them anyway (honest!). I had an old official MySpace; but I'm leaving it aside for now (probably hoping it'll be deleted by the great SERVER BOT OF DOOM) to actually, focus more on this one. Patrick is great fun to er... -be-; adding emo songs to putting shitty blog posts (check 'em out) about Patrick's life for all the world (or at least a part of it) to see. What has made this most satifisying, however, is the small amount of people who I have added to said friends, believing that Mr. Swang is a real person. Well, of -course- he's real. He's real in the hearts and minds of young children and bisexuals everywhere.
For those of you interested, a full of list of friends can be found here:
Blake. (Dah!) J. (So like, getting stoned, kk?) Kate. (<.< >.>) Billy Reid. (Love you, manz) Lodger. (Still remains one of the best bands known to man) Why Bird. (Owns my soul) Neil from. Art Attack (Owns my house) The Demon Headmaster (I WILL OBEY)
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