Permit me a brief posting this evening concerning the popular topic of the Big Brotherly love the U.S. government is showing it's citizens via the Terrorist Database.
For some reason the Washington Post piece to which I will be referring is requiring a login now, or else I would link to it. Suffice to say, it's infuriating: the list has generated a very small percentage of arrests compared to "hits" on the database of suspected terrorists. Something like 500 arrests for 22,000.
Here is the FBI's explanation:
"A lot of times it's not to our advantage to make an arrest," FBI spokesman Paul Bresson said. "We don't want the subject to know what we know. It doesn't mean we're not paying attention. On the contrary, it shows that we're being very proactive in trying to identify threats."
Yes, when you do come across a potential terrorist that you could arrest, don't. Because then you would be showing your hand, right? Just wait for him/ or her to strap a bomb to their chest and stand in Times Square, and then point your finger at them vigorously, thereby "identifying" the threat. Then go back to hassling the poor guy who happens to be named Mohammed and has to travel once a month for business.
I love Thailand. Always have. Always will. It holds a very special place in my heart for several reasons. Did you know they were the only South East Asian nation never to be colonized? Also, the only South East nation to have a major musical motion picture based on their (rather inaccurate) history? Did you know that they created one of the most successful resistance movements in WWII? That they are one of the most tolerant societies to the LGBT communities in the world? That their king in the oldest living monarch? That Muy Thai boxers regularly kick ass in those Street Fighter/Mortal Kombat type competitions where all the participants represent various martial arts? That it's known as the land of 1,000 smiles?*
Anyway, there's so many wonderful things about Thailand, and not in the least is the fact that it's an epicly hilarious country. One of my favorite personal anecdotes (which I can't describe in writing because it involves a lot of yelling and physical comedy) comes from my experience teaching there. So, I always pause and read any news story I come across having to do with Thailand. And I am rarely disappointed (unless it has to do with repressive, technocratic Prime Ministers or extremist muslims in the South).
Such was the case today with a story regarding the Thai practice of giving their children nicknames
I highly recommend reading the whole thing, as it is pretty damn funny/interesting. But, should you not, I can summarize:
We Latin-Saxon based peoples generally shorten our longish first names and consider that our nickname. Granted, sometimes you'll get yourself a 'Butch' or a 'Shorty' or 'Lefty' but that's sort of rare these days. Thais give their children nicknames that are occasionally physical descriptors, but more often just words that they like. In my class I had Mo (watermellon), Bank (leaf) and Bing-Bing (nothing, but it sure is a cute name). There are also many, many people named 'Porn' (blessing), which is hard not to laugh at the first couple of times you have to address the super-demure secretary in the front office.
Thais also love the English language, though they occasionally miss the boat entirely on the literal meaning (ex: I spent several ponderous minutes outside of an 'English-speaking' hair salon wondering what kind of scissor-wizzardry a "quiff" haircut might entail. I concluded that they must have meant "coiff", at least I really hope they did). So, now Thais are giving there children English language nicknames, with typically funny results:
"More than half of her students have English names, Korakoad said, offering this sampling: Tomcruise, Elizabeth, Army, Kiwi, Charlie and God. One apparently gourmand family named their child Gateaux, the French word for cakes."
Fucking hats fucking off to the family who nicknamed their child 'God'!
* no, I'm not sourcing this shit. I'm out of school for the next 2 hours and 50 minutes and you can all just kiss my ass.
Look at that chest! That determinedly coy look in his eyes. Those camo fatigues and hiking boots. Is that orange thing under his right arm a boogie-board? I hope so! I couldn't think of a more appropriate photo op for a major political leader. And neither could the Russians.
Honnestly, Men's Health, get on this shit! The Ruskies already have the jump on you:
The mass market tabloid Komsomolskaya Pravda on Wednesday published a huge color photo of the barechested president, under the headline: "Be Like Putin." It's excuse? A guide showing exactly what exercises were required to build up a torso like that of the Russian leader.
If not Men's Health, maybe Playgirl, or hell, even Cosmo, might wanna do a little photo spread for their next segment on "World's Hottest Despots-in-waiting":
Komsomolskaya Pravda reported that women who visited its Web site posted comments on Putin's "vigorous torso" and said they "were screaming with delight and showering (him) with compliments."
Putin may just upset my previous top-seeded crush in the realm of delusional world leaders: Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, President of Iran, whom I've nicknamed "Crazy Eyed Lady/Infidel Killer":
On my trip down to midtown today, I noticed a Men's Health Magazine on the racks at one of those thoughtful little magazine racks they sometimes have on the downtown (and usually downtown-only, as was pointed out to me recently) side of the subway platform. Here's why I noticed it: Andy Samberg was on the cover. Now, I know you're probably thinking 'oh, Cal has a crush on that lanky, funny guy.' Me? Have a crush on a lanky, funny guy? Never! But really, I noticed it because: Andy Samberg was on the cover. Of Men's Health. I gotta confess, I've never much checked out this magazine before since I am neither male, nor particularly healthy. I always just assumed they ran covers like this one:
*I'm really ashamed to have the phrase "shirtless Andy Samberg" pop up on my google search bar. But not as ashamed as I am to have "buff Andy Samberg" show up there as well.
So, most of you readers know about my secret life as a cretin/critic of rock n' roll. And if you don't, well, shit, I guess the secret's out now. Anyway, these reviews are mainly found online on www.thedelimagazine.com and www.soundcheckmagazine.com*, and soon to be www.amplifiermagazine.com.
Necessarily, I check out a lot of music. Mostly, it's not stuff that I already love that I get to write odes to (although, sometimes, yes, yes it is, and when that happens it's pretty effin' sweet), in fact most of it is editors sending me the kind of albums that you might find in the $5 bins at your local Virgin/Tower/Sam Ashe (not that the latter even really exist anymore).
That's not saying it's all shit. Not at all. It's just that there's such a glut of talent and so much rampant mismanagement in the music business that an album even making into my hot little hands is a small miracle in itself.
If you're curious about the scope and quality of what I review, then check out below. I would never expect anyone to read all my reviews, especially since I am obviously not the most laconic of writers, but I will give you a brief survey of what I've reviewed in 2007 by only including my favorite sentence of said review. Got it? O.K. Here goes, in no particular order:
Patrick Park - Everyone's in Everyone - Alienation rarely sounds as inviting as it does in this album.
Apollo Sunshine - Apollo Sunshine - It’s going to be hard for me to be objective about a band that makes a song with the lyrics “now if that grass looks fun to roll in/ than [sic] roll in that FUCKINGRASS [sic]” and lists ‘weed’ as one of their influences.
Aquaduct - Or Give Me Death - In actuality, as the creative force behind Aqueduct David Terry does create most of his beats and melodies in his bedroom, but they come off with all the energy and wit of the underdogs at a high school battle of the bands contest.
Arbor Day - Braver Than Today - Arbor Day sounds exactly like you would expect a band to sound that formed partially thanks to an earnest discussion of the Beach Boys.
White Rabbits - Fort Nightly - In fact, after White Rabbits’ victorious finale, one concertgoer was heard saying, “fuck it, we can go home now. Why would they open for anyone? They’re fucking incredible!”
Bear Colony - We Came Here To Die - Perhaps by virtue of their many members, Bear Colony cannot help but rock out on songs like “Shark” and “Suffocation”, and on those tracks especially Griffin’s croon-to-scream vocals sound so much like Billy Corgan’s that the whole album could have been outtakes from Adore.
Benji Cossa - Between the Blue and the Green - ...is full of low-fi pop pearls that are perfect for summer listening.
Benzos - Branches - This album is too fucking boring to listen to.
Black Moth Super Rainbow - Dandelion Gum - So, is it wrong to presume this album to be full of sunshine and rainbows, maybe even slightly tinged with the macabre of a Grimm’s fairy tale? Turns out I was way off base on that one.
Tokyo Police Club - A Lesson in Crime - Most of the songs are frantic without being punk, electronic without being repetitive, and pop without being slick.
Miho Hatori - Ecdysis - Hatori keeps much of the same production values of Cibo Matto’s work, crafting beats from samplers and working towards a futuristic lounge sound that is more ethereal than far-out.
O'Death - Head Home - O’Death is a hybrid of insane drumming, lightning banjo and fiddle playing, screaming back-up vocals, and Appalachian inspiration.
Stephanie's Id - Grus Americanus - Alt-rock, soul, pop, funk – yes, you read that right, they’re all represented in the span of one album.
Stereofan- You Can't Go Home Again - And by ‘epic’ I mean the ability to switch between country influences on “Angry Man”, and “Swingman”, and lush, orchestral pop on “Cross the Bowery”, “Silver Girl” and the title track.
The Good The Bad and The Queen - The Good The Bad and The Queen - However, Albarn’s creative imperative to create an album devoted to the cultural landscape of his London, particularly the neighborhoods of West London, drove the Britpopper to involve others who could add to the diversity he was trying to reflect.
Hot Chip - The Warning - Their vast musical spectrum means their original songs turn whole genres on their heads (please see: “Tchaparian” for a gasp-inducing take on sexy R n’ B tunes, or “The Warning”, which has the boys posturing as a gang that “will break your legs/snap off your head”).
The Postage Stamps - This Ugly Arrangement - Amid tendencies toward psychedelic noodling on guitars and keyboards, Jordan Walsh’s breathy Ben Gibbard-like lead vocals, and sometimes fanciful flourishes of horns, songs spiral out into a delicate atmospheric ether and often end up vaporized themselves.
The Twilight Sad - The Twilight Sad is the most wussy band name ever. Seriously, the guys from Matchbook Romance are kicking themselves for not coming up with it first. [oh, p.s. "wussy" was originally "pussy".]
Tomahawk - Annonymous - Leave it to three of the sickest rockers around today to reintroduce us to the dark side of the reservation. The songs on Anonymous are all reinterpretations of pre-existing music from various Native American tribes.
*Oooohh, a little (more) self-promotion here, I just saw that Soundcheck has published my Matt and Kim feature, which I was really pleased with (Except they changed the title! I hate that!). Buster, you're totally in it, man!
I'm not blogging much these days. Mainly because I'm a frusteratingly inconsistent person. But also because I am on vacation. It's one of those relaxing kind of vacations that involve a lot of sitting around in a hot tub sighing and saying "isn't this nice?" Everything has been working out really well (except for when me and my Dad accidently bumbled into Meth Cooker Island), and in fact there is only one cringe-worthy episode from the past five days that I can think of (aside from all the meth heads in their natural habitats):
Last Sunday my parents and I wandered into some bar and Grill called "The Tides". It's the kind of place that has a great view of the harbor, homemade beer on tap, and like five different kind of fries on the menu. Apparently, it's also the kind of place that lets any old coot with an accoustic guitar and a song about drinking mai tais up on stage for the brunch hours. So this guy, let's call him Shark Shulligan, is up on stage ruining the patio view with his hawain shirt and his ray bans and his pride in knowing three and a half chords. I could barely choke down my cheezy chive fries! Mom could barely finish her Hot and Spicy Fries! Dad almost tossed his plate of Chili Chum Fries at the stage!
Shark specialized in that brand of old man mellow angst that is the specialty of... no not James Taylor...noooooo not Neil Young... but yes... the one, the only, the imcomprable Jimmy Buffet. I say "old man mellow angst" because under their tropical hardwood veneer of drinking and sunshine and more drinking and islands and more drinking is a certain disatisfaction at the life that allowed said people to escape to the Bahamas or Cancun or Port Arthur, TX or wherever. Boy, do these vacationing middle aged men look at contempt on their boooooring 9-5 job as the CEO of a packing peanut manufacturer. Man, do they hate their lame-o suburban McMansions. They totally resent their Coach wing tip shoes and their Brooks Brothers ties. Why can't they just escape to an all-inclusive resort conveniently located at the end of a 4 hour non-stop flight from DFW airport? You know, forget all the troubles of the modern world. Throw their repressive cell phones into the sea, so to speak (they would never actually do that). Become a... like a... what's the perfect term for it... Oh man, totally! Like a "First World Refugee"!
No matter how lame Shark Shulligan is while covering Buffet songs, I have to say his original contribution to the genre of Parrot Rock or whatever the fuck they call it, is superior only in that it makes me feel something. Something like a complete shame in my socio-economic strata. Or maybe just a dormant hatred for hawain shirts. The term "first world refugee" happens to be a Shark Shulligan original, you see. And in the song of the same name, Shulligan really does advocate throwing your cell phone into the sea, and all the wanton littering that entails. A first world refugee is apparently not one of the army of people living silently below the poverty line in a G8 country, but rather some schmuck like Shulligan who is desperately seeking to escape the trappings of his ultra-luxe, convenience-oriented first-world life. So, according to the song, he goes somewhere where he doesn't have to wear shoes, or check his e-mail, or (apparently) deal with a hangover. He is escaping the crushing wealth of his life in the first-world. Thereby becoming a refugee, just like they have in the third world! Only instead of escaping a life of ease with more ease, third world refugees are escaping a life of poverty and/or certain death for a tenuous status as a "guest-worker" in an unfamiliar country.
Hmmm... I am a little angrier here than I thought I would be. Maybe it's because the term "third world" has been phased out since 2000, or that SHulligan has a crappy voice and annoying stage presence, maybe I'm just too darn bored with my own life of ease and I need some kind of outlet other than a bottle of wine and a movie on demand.
Before I leave you all to ponder this hypocrisy-filled blog, allow me to illustrate:
