Extra Credit Freestyle Blog 2: Opinion

The 80’s: Love it or… make fun of me.


Hey, crimestoppers. I have once again discovered the simple bliss of Back to the Future, Princess Bride, Ghostbusters, and..... VH1 Classic. Look in your channel program, you can probably add it. They play mostly 80's videos.

I'll sit back while you either jump up and down with uninhibited glee, or hurl your computer out the window in disgust. See, it's usually a 1/4 chance with my generation. They'll either say how great the 80's were, and you can discuss your favorite Tears for Fears song, or they'll laugh conceitedly at you. Of course, you realize, they're much too mature for 80's music. They have grown past the neon greatness, the flashy performances, the stellar producing, the mad guitar skills, and the big hair. Today's verrry mature, discerning 16-20-something needs real music, you idiot! Deep stuff like Dashboard Confessional, The Mars Volta, Good Charlotte (yay, down with establishment!), two-thirds of the bands on the Warped tour, or that new band Hawthorne Emery Halifax Fail Underoath. (They decided that since they all sounded so much alike, why not just form one big band? So many stars and musical innovators in one place! The possibilities would be endless!) Without putting yourself through the pain of listening to bands such as Underoath, it sounds like one vocalist breathing out a boy band upper-register tone, augmented by an angry guy screaming through his own vomit. This is accompanied on the guitar by half-assed arpeggios and fiddling around with power chords.

Duran Duran?
Ha!
Rush, Boston?
Crap!
Men at Work, Huey Lewis, Alan Parsons, Eurythmics, Depeche Mode?
Who? No, no thank you, the new Linkin Park just went on sale. New songs? Well...no. Remixes. But really good ones! And a new anime illustration on the front cover!

(Now here's a note before I pass on this next story: Nirvana was a great band. Dave Grohl may have been the best thing to come out of it, but a great band nonetheless.)

In the early 90's, Eddie Van Halen said he wanted to play guitar with Kurt Cobain. Kurt reportedly laughed at this proposition. From the outside, it appeared he was laughing at an old geezer, at an old 'established' music. It's safe to assume that since this would be a public event he was scared s***less to put up his chops against the 'old' legend. Cobain was an innovator, a voice for the youth of his day, but he was farther from Eddie's skill with the guitar than Alpha Centauri is from earth. He knew it, and he still laughed. Most of the time, this is the kind of attitude I get from people in college when I bring up the 80's.

This is, of course, not to say the 00's don't have good music. There's some unbelievably good music being made, if you know where to look. It'll be, for the most part, under "Alt”: Iron & Wine, The White Stripes, Modest Mouse's early stuff, Cake, Foo Fighters, Kasabian, Of Montreal. There's some downright unashamed crap being made as well: (see second paragraph, plus Modest Mouse's latest stuff).

Seriously, if you were to graph rock music from the 50's through the 00's, (the singing ability, musical talent, and real message) you'll get a huge spike in the early 60's-early 70's, a sharp one in the early 90's, and then a logarithm that goes to positive infinity but never reaches 0.

This could easily be taken as a subjective opinion, and... well, yes, I suppose it is. It reaches objectivity when you consider what makes good music, good Rock 'n' Roll: rockin', catchy, or psychedelic music, singing ability from (at least) 6 to 10, instrumental talent, and good production.

Now, production, contrary to what some are yelling at the screen, is the least important aspect. At a live concert, Eddie Vedder of Pearl Jam delivered the now infamous quote:

"Who knows? Without The Buzzcocks we might’ve sounded like Good Charlotte or..."

*Crowd boos*

"Oh, they're good. Its just they sound like... they sound... well, they taste like a popsicle that's been stuck up someone’s ass."

The fact that his crowd booed makes me wonder if security missed the fact that most of them were robots. But the point is that Vedder paid homage to the Buzzcocks. Bands like that, such as the Sex Pistols, used very minimal production. (Bands such as Good Charlotte, by contrast, use extensive production.) Sure, on the record, early punk sounds like fuzzy basement recordings. Initially. But for bands like those early punk acts, music was about... the music. Imagine that. Focusing on the message, and damn the torpedoes. Most of today's bands get all skittery at the idea, saying "Torpedoes? Won't that affect our earnings next quarter?" (By the way, cracking some joke about Vedder or Pearl Jam at this point won't help. They are one of the only bands to emerge from the grunge scene, change with the times, and maintain, and increase, a loyal fan base. In terms of rock evolution, they have been compared to the Grateful Dead.)

I guess the answer today is, 'stay objective.' Don't expect hordes and waves of good music to come gushing out of the studios anytime soon. It's not going to happen. When there's an abundance of good music, you can afford to be subjective, picking and choosing what you like from many, many current bands. Since this is not the case, try to experience some new tastes. It's what keeps me from listening to overproduced Usher or Nelly, and helps me stick to classics like N.W.A. It keeps me from fake political messages in nu-metal. It helps me avoid misleading images of Straylight Run in exchange for the genius of Kasabian.

It is extremely easy to listen to what's 'right'. It's much, much harder to listen to what's good, what truly speaks to you in the face of an easily tune-deluded generation. And, all in all, if stuff like Hawthorne Heights speaks to you, truly, then that's great. There is nothing wrong with being totally wrapped up in the music.

That's the reason music exists.

(P.S.: Seriously, I thought Straylight Run was a reference to one of my favorite books, the seminal cyber-punk novel Neuromancer. Nope. A couple catchy songs followed by cookie-cutter pseudo-emo crap. And trust me, 'pseudo-emo' is hard to pull off. Today's bands are becoming alarmingly good at it.)

Extra Credit Freestyle Blog 1: Humor

An Excerpt from a College Literature Text

-----Chapter 2, pg. 30 directions: Read selections thoroughly, answering questions as directed by your instructor.

The Yearning, by Xavier McFlintlock

“Wow,” said Jim’s friend.

“I know,” said Jim.

“You should get that looked at.”

“Yeah.”

On his way to the doctor’s office, Jim was hit by a banana truck harboring immigrant proboscis monkeys.

Questions:

1) Was Jim killed (through the case of proxy), by his friend, the truck, the illness, or his own imperialist hubris?

2) It is obvious that Jim’s friend secretly wishes he were a woman, although this subtext is cleverly omitted by the author. What experiences could have led him to hold such a desire? Discuss.

3) If Jim’s friend could say something after Jim is hit by the truck, what would it be? (Hint: I feel like chicken tonight, chicken tonight.)

4) In the story, the monkeys are “immigrants.” (McFlintlock, pg. 30) How do they represent the plight of immigrants throughout the world?

5) The banana truck apparently runs on diesel fuel; discuss what impact this might have on world oil reserves.

6) Compare and contrast the instance of the banana truck hitting Jim with the classic banana peel pratfall of situation comedy.

7) In an alternate ending, Jim dies of salmonella poisoning just before the truck hits him. What effect(s) could this pertinent timing have on the plot, and why do you think the author omitted it?

Memoir of a Family Member

I tend to think 99% of the Earth's population is "strange." Therefore, I can't really reminesce about strange experiences with strange family members. Guess I'm far too Taoist for that. Instead, you get an earlier memory of mine from a few summers ago, something I call...

After the Storm

We're back from high school rodeo state finals. Wow, have I got stories. Stories that will make you laugh, cry, pee, or any combination of those actions. Leave now if you have an aversion to any of those activities, or if you're sensitive about being from East River. I speak for every West River senior when I say I'm fed up with Huron, and glad to be rid of their incompetence. Finals should not be held at the corner of Bumblescrew and Youvegotaprettymouth. They said last year they'd spray for mosquitoes. Either they didn't, or they did a piss-poor job. I almost got carried away by swarms of the Minnesota state bird. There was no toilet paper in the restrooms. That's okay because I had plenty of Best Buy receipts in my truck. (Seriously, why do I need six feet of receipt for a CD purchase?) I don't know how others fared. And this is the best part: the barn that usually sells hay and bedding wasn't open Friday or Saturday. I don't know if they were selling when I left Sunday. I'll pause to let you bask in the implications of that while I make a PB+J. Say it with me: horses... need... food... and... shavings... you... morons. By Saturday, there was an abundance of crap and dirty sawdust in almost every barn. I imagine it wasn't that different from Larry Flynt's living room. Great job, Huron.

On to how my sister did. With her torn ligament, goat tying proved difficult. On a sidenote: at the second Southwest regionals, she didn't finish her first goat run because she was in so much pain. Not one, but four mothers went to the director and complained, trying to have Elizabeth disqualified. Their reasoning? Her goat hadn't been tied as many times as the other goats. Cry me a river, you petty soccer moms, and stop being jealous. But back to Huron. Elizabeth has trouble standing up to rope, so she didn't make it back to the short go in calf roping. Now team roping, there's a different story. Years ago, Elizabeth broke open the high school team roping scene on a major scale for women all over the state. Her heeling partner, Cooper Waln, fractured his neck in a car accident before regionals. Her only option was to start heeling herself, and take Kaylee Nelson as a heading partner. Their first run at state, they complete their run, face, and wait for the judge to flag... and wait... and wait some more. After about six nerve-strangling seconds, Elizabeth's rope pops off the back feet. He flags them out.

Jerk.

I'm wondering what his problem was. Was he a failure as a roper in his early years, or does the idea of two women ropers piss off his sexist, backward, whitebread, redneck mind? And why isn’t he judging Olympic figure skating? I say this with conviction: I don't care where the judges are from. I want them to at least be honest and fair. This problem exists within the regions as well.

The next day, they complete their run, face, and stretch the crap out of that steer. He still rides over and checks Kaylee's loop for any possible violation of the rules. I was so incensed. Ranting aside, I still enjoyed talking with old friends and watching the performance.

And as a last irrelevant segue: for anybody unfamiliar with rodeo, sunflower seeds are still a tradition at performances. Thousands of empty shells litter the grounds during rodeos. It looks like a sunflower seed Vietnam. If sunflower seeds were capable of sentient thought, they'd be forming a sunflower Monterey Festival, and Sunflower Dylan and Salty Seed Baez would be leading the crowd in “We Shall Overcome”. I've never been so full of sodium. I felt like I had just given blood. You ever wonder why so many rodeo people are hunters? After a rodeo, you might as well go deer hunting 'cause you're passing salt licks.

Elizabeth won the barrel racing saddle and came in second in the cutting, so she's going to nationals in those events. She was four points away from the reserve all-around championship. It took a torn ligament and a roping team retooling to move her down that far. And the kids that comprise the homeschool competitors won more points than the Sturgis team, and Sturgis still won the hi-point trophy. Oh well. I eagerly await National Finals in Gillette. I'm bringing plenty of sunflower seeds.

Modeling Poem #2

News

The boldface paper resting

on the ashen Formica table says, “News,”

which is misleading,

since what people want, most of all, is “Olds.”

I was told to please go outside and play, but I find

the old paintings in this wide hallway

too silver cinematic to pass by.

One’s of an acropolis in a craggy desert-

here, I’ll add Heston

coming down the side

with two guns carved from stone,

to interrupt the Jews camped at the base,

eating lox and bagels.

He swings and swings with God’s holy wrath,

spraying blood and capers everywhere,

until they scatter,

forced to wander the desert ‘til Christmas Eve,

when the Christians stay home.

This one’s a classic painting-

an empty sylvan trail opening into a field,

with a cottage beside a stream in the distance.

No one’s in it because

the Communists are coming,

and the stream is infested with cryptosporidium.

Then, a fleet of golden gondolas assaults

from the opposite wall-

Venetian scenes are normally fancy and quite calming,

but these are war gondolas;

full of unhappy taxpayers raising torches and pitchforks,

on their way to the castle to slay Mussolini,

and his monster Fascistein.

Further down the hall,

a Sicilian panorama drifts in browns-

vines clamber up an adobe mission;

clay pots in plenty a sign of bounty.

A solitary woman in mute blue and red carries one of them

along the foreground.

There’s no one else in the scene,

since the men are inside watching the game.

I think if she doesn’t hurry,

the vines will crack the ground beneath her feet,

and ensconce her as well;

earthenware

lifted to God under the bronzing sun for eternity.

On the way back I open a casement and look down

at Shakespeare, trapped in his personal prison garden

of perennials and succulents and iron bars.

It’s the most efficient way

of holding someone indefinitely-

they cut off his arms and legs,

stuck him on a pedestal,

and froze him like Han Solo.

He notices me,

and shouts up,

“Hey! Think you can get me out of here, man? Please?”

but the cafeteria flashes its porchlight.

“Sorry, Bill!

I'll bring you a newspaper tomorrow."