CEll phone disinterest.

I quit my cell phone indefinitely!
Just in case you didn't know!
(by the photos)
For several months now in fact.
Try going 3 or 4 hours without yours?
remember the time when there was only answering machines?
I've been there. We get used to a certain lifestyle that involves digital manipulation don't we?
Now get rid of it completely.
That is where I am at.
My home phone service is outstanding!!!
It's attached to my wall.
let's make plans...

My veerizun representative WARNED me explicitly!!, " you are going completely against the trend here!!!!.... aare you SURE you want to cancel (your amazingly limited and unneccesarily expensive service?)

Yes.
Thank you 19.99 a month with no restrictions on calling anywhere in north America at any time.

Snoose Junction Pizzaria-Ballard

As a native New Yorker who eats pizza as often as most people park there car, i was dieing for an even bearably good slice close to work.
CAboose Junction is a amazing. Quality cheese... which Attn: every other pizza place on the west coast... everyone can tell right away that you skimp on the good cheese for the cheap stuff.
This place uses the good stuff; and it is also very refreshing and a necessity for any self respecting NYer, that a true judge of any pizza place is the Plain-Cheese-Slice. Way too many west coast joints give out ranch dressing, ugg! or load the pie with ham and pineapple to make it taste good, which doesn't work by the way, if your base is still made of crap.
Snoose junction's plain-slice is not only available, but is just plain good pizza.
The Barbecue chicken slice is so delicious and just put together the right way;
The chicken is sliced nice and thin, not fatty, grilled perfectly, the bacon bits are well cooked but not burnt, and the BBQ sauce is not just there to smother the flavour, but is just noticeable amongst the party of goodness in the mouth, on a perfect crispy but chewy crust.
It is quaint and simple, but cool decor with a quick and easy feel for casual dining with nice wood tables in booths. It is really nice to be able to get delicious, reasonably priced pizza without it being overly "gourmet" or only by the pie with "table service only" or outrageously expensive.
Highly recommend this joint. Mandatory stop on the train. I noticed another location north of Ballard too. Have to check it out one day.

Trent Rez. interview w/ Tony Hawk

http://www.shredordie.com/video/dissent-tv-tony-hawk-with-4
http://www.shredordie.com/video/dissent-tv-tony-hawk-with-4

Just watched the two parts of Tony Hawks interview of Trent. It is good to see that he is a nice normal dude; after so many years of consuming a significant amount of yelling and thrashing about in my headphones.
His studio is exactly as i would have imagined it; complete with wire-fused walls and quaint human skull lamp, with a homey feel.
One point on what he says in the interview about the fast rate at which listeners consume music these days. While i think it's true over all that music gets consumed too fast (it's seems more and more is the answer; like okay that was good...whats next grrr. is the current notion), I being a severe audiophile find it hard to keep pace with the production rates of admittedly talented new artists' music. Still I find that i keep coming back to an album like "year zero" because there is something that resonates and reflects the world that is rapidly developing around us.
Additionally on the point of faster, better, more in album dropping; I continually find myself delving into Ghosts I-IV... there is so much nuance and good things happening there, and I really want to take the time to enjoy it and absorb it properly. I purposefully don't rush this album...Each time I hear it, my understanding begins to build and mount a clearer vision of it's landscape. Where as "year zero" i just really connect with it's vivid clarity and it fucking rocks on repeat.
psyched about the "HTDA" and the albums that come from "social network" soundtrack.
I take a 4.5 hour bus ride from Seattle to Vancouver once or twice a month and the 3 hour period while the sun takes to set over beautiful landscapes and mountains (longer than most lattitudes due to being farther north than most of america) is the perfect setting to listen to Ghosts I-IV all the way through. It really is a journey from light to dark and back.
Don't know if anyone will ever even read this.
Breif as the interview be, he really shows his wisdom, perspective and temperance from all the things he has gone through. Fans undoubtably benefit from this maturity, for example; it is especially wonderful for fans who can enjoy a huge project like Ghosts, from an artist who truly enjoys creating, exactly because of the fact that he has surpassed all the bullshit of recording industry woes, and has more freedom.

Best GOOGLE Doodle ever!!!

The first playable Google doodle ever.
Amazing!

Wonder if they have data on how many millions of people stopped what they were doing to have a go at it today.
I think they should have the original Q'bert up there.


I like what this guy says about bypassing the app. store.
http://www.networkworld.com/community/node/61619

Be sure to check out the State and Regional finalist in this Doodle 4 Google contest.
There are really some amazing ones; lots of fun to look through.
The Region 2 doodle winner with all the fish is awesome.
There are some really creative kids out there.
Makes me want to create some doodles of my own..
http://www.google.com/doodle4google/vote.html
http://www.google.com/doodle4google/winners_state.html

Radio Shack will not win!

It all started on a very windy day earlier this month. I was about to cross the street down on first avenue, near Pikes Place market, when I was stopped in my tracks, rather abruptly on the corner, by an "End Nuclear Proliferation" rally. Quite a small traveling protest really; about a city block long, but a quarter as wide. Well I slid my highly precise, expertly attenuated Sennheiser PX100's to perch upon my neck, instead of arching across my dome as should be; in order to hear the half-hearted but well intentioned yells and oft outrageous mumbly chants of the protesters as they strolled down toward the water; with their motorcade of Seattle PD motorcycle brigade; svelte attitudes preceding them by half a block; the harleyed procession pointed more sharply than a nuke pointed at cold war Russia, cut me off. Barred me from crossing the street and avoiding the tie-died masses who struggled to maintain their worried alarmist signage in the gale-gusting on-shore wind of the otherwise beautiful spring day.

Once on the other side of the street, and after having a witting chuckle at the abstruse profundity of the event that now mulled along far below me; I slid my Super lightweight, High energy driver system for maximum performance, headphones back on to my lobes, and to my great dismay, the Foam piece was missing from the right side muff. I figured, no problem, this has happened before, the foamy muff is simply resting, nestled in the nape of my neck between my collar and skin. Well after almost completely disrobing my upper half and shaking vigorously my shirts and jacket, that soft, sweet, cushiony layer that gently caresses my folded lobe rings was naught. Presumably swept away in the tail of the nuclear missile that jettison it's way past in a whirlwind of, well, really strong wind.
I come to find out that the ONLY retail store to actually sell and stock these headphone ear foam replacements is Radio Shack. Meh! I've dealt with these last century dullards before. Don't get me wrong, Radio Shack is abuzz with neat transponders and receivers and hundreds of useful adapters and doodads aplenty, that are altogether necessary and needed at any given point in a technological lifestyle. In fact, I commend Radio Shack in part for being the harbingers of yesterdays adapters, its catalog, a myriad of thing'a'ma'bobs and wazoos from three centuries of technology, and counting. Granted that with so much to keep up with in the modern world, and only a limited amount of space on those crammed shelves, has spurned a great generalization and banality to their low ended goods; but I had to figure that with the proliferation of the iPods and headphones in this modern society; every other person on the bus rocking to the beat of a different drummer, immune, or at least shut out from the rattles of bumpy city roads; that surely a deeper selection of earphone foam would be prevalent. This speaks strongly to our throw away culture. Given that Generally it has been the interaction with Radio Shack employees with which the mind bending extrication usually arises, i was surprised that it was a manufacturing/distributing issue.
In this case, Radio Shack offers so nicely for your consumption, a pack of four pieces of foam, one larger set , for the larger around ear cups, and one set of smaller ones, approx. 42mm for the low low discount price of, $7.00 USD+tax, for what must be about .04 cents worth of foam, and it even looks like the scratchy kind of thin strainer-like Brillo muffs that cling to gas-station headphones; free with any $15 dollar fill-up on Wednesdays.
In my exhaustive search for "the Foam", I went to Toys R' Us and actually found an entire pair of headphones with the right sized muffs to boot for $6.50 (damn you Radio Shack), but alas this too seemed wasteful, unnecessary, still too expensive, and of the same low quality foam of a disposable culture.
After asking a Radio Shack employee, and being lied to about the very existence of the nearest "big blue" electronics super-giant, I thought for sure BestBuy would carry such a simple thing, but I was sent to three different departments by tan kakied men, before coming up with nary a puff.
Well as it turns out, the Internet abounds with ear sponges of all types, shapes and millimeters.
So I will wait a week, to go with a silent or sore ear, while the Internet delivers my ten pack of proper cushioned goodness for $3.80 +$3 shipping. If there is a lesson here folks, it's to hang on to that original ear foam for dear life! I refuse to let Radio Shack win this time!!!

DAISO Japan- Funny Labeling instructions.

If you have ever been to the Japanese dollar store Daiso, you will know they have everything from corn-cob holders to panty-liners. I love place. Lots of useful and not so useful household items on the cheap, albeit of questionable quality and origins. They were embroiled in a court case for questionable children's toys not too long ago, which i guess spurned a flagrant use of product labeling. When you get your items home it is important to read your product labeling to ensure proper use of your products, which brings me to my point; Hilarious Caution! instructions. I'm not sure if they are using a basic Internet translator to come up with this stuff, or a first year English student at the factory whose sole job is to make sure that foreign purchasers are completely aware of the individual products proper care and cautionary woes, but you can not make this stuff up. Or can you? Part of me thinks that the labeling is intentionally worded strangely to add to the charm of the whole experience. What do you expect for $1? Don't get me wrong it is always labeled correctly. However it is usually obvious or irrelevant, or even just excessive language; which leads to hilarity.
I bought a:DRAWSTRING BAG FOR LUNCH BOX with PATTERN, 100% Cotton, to keep my toiletries in when I go to the shower. Under the heading: CAUTION!: with bold bullet points marking each one it says:

• Please do not put it near the fire. (which fire?, The Fire? Who told you about The Fire? okay gotcha.)
  
• Do not use for purposes other than those originally intended(oh man... i can't keep my marble collection in this? darn, guess I broke that rule.)
  

Here is my personal favorite:

• There is a fear which shrinks a little in case of washing. (So my fear will shrink when i wash it? Is that my fear that it is toxic cotton?, or just my over all woes?)
• Do not use a chlorine-based bleach, oxygen-based bleach and reduction type bleach.(so, I think I got it, Don't bleach!)
• Please wash it in the hand. Please do not use the washing machine.

Here is one for 3 basic WHITE DUST CLOTH. Pretty simple right.
USES: Use in house, school, etc., or clean your vehicles.
Wow, thanks for giving me those options, I never would have known what to do with a white dust cloth.
This one has a section called FEATURES: (Awesome! Most regular white cloths have no features at all. Completely featureless.)

• Has excellent water absorbing property, and is also efficient for cleaning in dry status. (So funny, who knew that a white washcloth had two statuses? We are learning so much here, but I have to know, can I clean up milk spills?)
• Economical because the cloth can be cleaned and used repeatedly. (oh shoot, i already threw it out.)

And the !CAUTION!'s

• After using the cloth, wash it well and dry it. (Apparently they do not like dampness one bit. Dampness will just not be tolerated!)
• Do not use the product for any other purposes than originally intended. (oops, failed this one too. Man, I am no good at white cloths.)
• When using it with dust or sand adhering for cars etc. could scratch the surface. (This just makes me chuckle because of the oddly placed "etc.", watch your grammar there folks.)
• Wash separately by preventing color shift for its dyes characteristics. (Huh? I never ever want to see the phrase; "wash with like colors" on your labeling Daiso, these are priceless gems of grammar.)
  

All good stuff, essentially helpful, but a bit askew, if only a bit grammatically off.
I will post more as I get them. These are well worth the $1 + tax.

Other interesting Product information:

http://www.daisollc.com/
http://www.uslaw.com/lawsuits/Daiso+Seattle+LLC?itemid=417
http://www.walletpop.com/blog/2010/03/02/daiso-to-pay-2-million-penalty-stop-selling-childrens-product/

Halo Around the Sun.

J☉©



For several hours on Sunday May 9, about mid-day, over the sky's of Seattle there appeared an Oculus rainbow directly overhead encompassing the sun. I have never seen this before. Sure there were Chem-trails from jet planes in the sky, but they seemed to be at least 20 or 30 degrees or more closer to the horizon away from the apex, which I would guess would translate into hundreds of miles. Never-the-less, the chem-trails appeared to have nothing to do with this apparent halo around the directly overhead noon day sun. What made it so startling was that there were no other clouds on the sky. Still the sun was refracting something, so I can only guess that some residual particles from the spent jet fuel were present, thereby reacting with the suns rays. It was not immediately noticeable really, I mean ever since I was little they told me, "don't look right at the sun or you'll go blind." It was after all a very sunny day, so ones instinct would be to never look directly up at it, but someone else noticed it and I shaded the harsher effects with my hand and was amazed. I got the feeling as though a massive coronal ejection had just occurred on the surface of the sun, and it was heading directly this way, or that one should merely glance up to finally see the mysterious 'Hole in the Ozone layer' that everyone used to go on about, as if it had decided to reveal itself after so many years of staying hidden. Like people had stopped talking about it in exchange for the newer buzz word 'global warming' or 'ice-caps' and forgot about the ozone, so it decided to make an appearance to prove its own existence.
I got some photographs with partially blocked exposure. I didn't want to completely blow out my camera by pointing it directly at the sun, but I assure you it was completely circular, and directly overhead. Was it an omen, or just a warning that Jet fuel is lingering in our sky. an odd phenomenon whatever the case.
Apperently it's called a 22% halo, as the Wikipedia article that is linked to the tittle of this blog will explain.
I have seen it around the moon before, on those special summer nights, never around the sun.

A Picture Says Words

J☉©
I wonder if the city workers who put these signs up noticed any ulterior implications.
Is there a subtext here? or is it just me?

The Portage Bay Cafe'

Out of the dozens of times that I have walked by the Portage Bay Cafe before 2pm, it has been lively and busy. I had a strong feeling through my glances into the big bay windows that this was certainly the breakfast/ brunch spot to be if you were looking for something good. Upon entering the bright open dining room, I was greeted immediately. After placing my jacket over the chair back of my choice, perpendicular to the packed dinning room, I made my way to the bathroom to wash my hands. In the 1 minute or so that I was away, a place setting and a large glass of ice water was placed at my spot on the counter. WATER should be a standard given at ANY sit down waitered restaurant, regardless of time of day or party members; but it is surprising how many business owners, or wait staff don't get this fact. It is the first step on the way to a great tip, and I was pleasantly surprised to see it sitting there immediately. After getting comfortable the waiter offered coffee and being 930am, and this being Seattle, I could not refuse.
The cup was large and hot. It was also delicious and it was evident that it was fresh and from a good stock. The milk was offered in a 3oz serving cup and was cold and fresh as well. That is were my experience turned to worry. Upon browsing the menu for a moment, the price list was what I would consider quite steep for eggs, potatoes, and pancakes, and my skeptical mind hearkened back to a bad IHOP experience still fresh in my mind. Price overall ranged from $8 up to $15 for a wide range of not so standard dishes; including a numerous array of Benedict's specific dishes that I was not aware existed; anywhere from light glaze of buttery hollandaise, to the full angioplasty version at the top end of the price range; In general the menu reeks of new wave gluten free highfalutin vegan, gourmet items the hand picked, individually crafted, type of menu where every ingredient has its own signifier; New York Steak, South West sausage, organic milled oats, sharp cheese, or hand ground pancakes. I went with the $9 meal, wishing to cut my losses with three eggs and one piece of toast(woopee), though I was determined to treat myself on this occasion in celebration for finding an apartment with decent roommates.
My order placed, I set about to review my schedule and phone several business matters, expecting the wait time to be generous considering the large amount of other patrons. Well what felt like 3 1/2 minutes and a large plate was set forth. I like my bacon crispy and oh it was without asking; to much we are inundated with floppy undercooked fatty bacon from places like Mc D's or Dunkn donuts that serve barely passable excuses for breakfast. I like my eggs over-medium, and they were fried with perfection to order. The potatoes were spiced superbly, and the single piece of toast was clearly made nearby and was thick but delicate and with homegrown flavor. Over all my expectations were low, but the outcome was well worth what felt like a REAL meal of wholesome beginnings. The service was spot on, and the price was acceptable for what it's worth. Definitely want to eat here again, but saved for specific occasions.

Lost Sock Laundry in U' District

In my opinion, this place sucks. the carpet floor is disgusting stained and burned from years of misuse.
The washers are low capacity, with only two actual commercial capacity machines out of dozens; but the high grade machines were always in use the two times I went there. While I was there, the washer stop in the middle of the load. If your load is even a little unbalanced, that is it, you just lost your money, and your clothes are soaking wet. I washed one small towel and two pairs of pants, and they were all soaked. This caused me to spend double the money on the dryers. There is no attendant on the weekend, so when I called the owner, I politely asked for recompense he didn't seem to care, and blamed it on me and said there was nothing he could do because it wasn't his fault since I was the one who loaded the machine. When I was there, two ceiling tiles literally caved in on the washer next to mine from bad pipes in the ceiling. The owner said he knew about that too, and wasn't concerned.
STAY away. There is a much better university laundry that I eventually found a few blocks over.

LY's Donuts Shop is Terrible

LY's Donut shop is in the U' district in Seattle.
Do not go here. In my opinion. I think the donuts are relatively tasteless, and excessively big and doughy without any actual sugar taste; like you would want in a Donut. The chocolate is low grade, messy, and not sweet but rather odd tasting. My guess is that this place skimps on the ingredients to save money.
The clerk, who i am guessing is the owner, wore sock filled sandals and acted very mistrusting and lackluster toward me; very lazily dragging his feet across a dirty dining room floor to push a chair that he screeched under the counter without picking up, before returning to hide in the back. His twiggy voice needles an air of disdain as he slides the twice brewed ground coffee to me; it tasted like burnt hot water that leaves a funky hot tang in your mouth.
This is the second time I have been to this place hoping that it was just a one off bad experience, because I really wanted it to be good, but same conclusion both times.
The first time I tried these donuts about 7 months earlier, it was the same man behind the counter. I handed him $2 and 11 cents, exact change, and he dropped the penny when picking up the bills without noticing. He then proceeded to harass me and demand for the penny, while withholding the donuts. I had to insist that it was his negligence until he actually bothered to look on the floor in front of him.
I am a sweet and donut junky, and this was the first time ever that I could not finish a donut or coffee, and i was hungry. It is a wonder how he stays open at all; just by shear volume. I guess college kids will eat this garbage. In my opinion.

Reborn

I've been nestled snugly in the womb for 9 months, give or take. Fed through a regimented umbilical that ushers just enough sustenance to keep me floating gently in this home. The karma of my past life surges its aid gentle down the tube of my current existence. It's warm and comfortable here, curled beneath the right bosom of the queen. The date of my new birth is fast approaching. Three days more and I will be squeezed out into the land of my birth. Labored rolling down the long corridor, through the peace arch, and emerging, hot, burdened and ambitious to my new residence.
The angel is with me here in this warm safe place now; keeping me encapsulated, providing protection; like a buffer, both to me, and the inner lining of this native land from the pre-emergent kicking. She helps in plans for a comfortable future beyond the inevitable gate.
There is recently, of course, the standard clothes and miscellaneous items waiting patiently in a silent, otherwise empty room in my new home; the cost of which has become necessary but irrelevant. With any luck, the transition to this new world will not be too long and painful.
Like being slowly pushed, gasping toward a 300 mile cliff. All the schooling and past life experience has taught the soul to grow wings. The mother bird nudges me closer and closer to the edge of the nest, and I must flap vigorously and unwittingly as not to hit the cold hard pavement, trying to glide, awkwardly at first, then gently to the ground; before soaring to true flight. Surveying the landscape; gleaning the nature of the inhabitants in my new and intricate environment; avoiding predators with only my inherent skill and intuition to guide me along.
Seizing opportunity to thrive and achieve great heights.
But for now I remain hidden in this cave of solitude. The landlord power washes the stucco green building and cement patio. I must keep quiet in the natural sunlight of day, no matter how obscured by cloud. Sparsely using precious resources. Saving my trips to the exterior bathroom for necessary usages. Planning my well timed escape daily to avoid lines of sight, or remaining cocooned indoors.
Things are pristine here. Everything always goes relatively well. Standing around on Sunday waiting to see how the waffle batter turns out, and the tense banter about the correct timing of the recently inherited iron. Friendly recreational hikes to Hidden Lakes still covered with recent fallen snow at elevation in the high latitude spring mountains. Afternoon sushi and partially freindly skys'. Generally sheltered from the dangers of the world bellow. The world I will soon emerge.

My name has been considered as well.
.Au
The Alchemists symbol for gold was ☉
J☉

10,000 Hours I

It is said that to become an expert at something, 10,000 hours is required. The first time I heard this was on a show I remember watching a while back; more than 5 months, but not more that 16 months ago; on the Discovery channel, History channel, PBS, or some such educationally oriented station, whose main intentions are to mix the passive entertainment of "Actual Dramatizations", with supposed scientifically, or historically factual information, with a healthy dose of old photographs. The first example the program used involved the Beatles performance training in Liverpool England; They would play 8 hours a night, five days a week in a questionably erotic nightclub setting, often using improvisation as a norm after their regular repertoire would run out, rather than brief filler between songs or sets, as most bands have occurrence to allow. The Beatles performed in this way for 5 or 6 years I recall the narrator proclaiming, thereby achieving the magic number of 10,000 hours of practice to becoming Expert musicians, and consequently were able to use this knowledge, albeit combined with significant native talent and the element of fragile timing, to "Sweep the Nation" and generate hit after hit on the billboard charts on the way to strong, successful, and illustrious careers and infinite fame; propelling themselves to, I might dare to say, the likes of Shakespeare and Beethoven in notoriety and staying power; but only time will suss out the ultimate truth to my flagrant and presumptuous prediction... In fact, upon reflection during the roughly 24 hour period represented here directly by ellipses, I would imagine that the Beatles collection of music won't have such a rich following as my rather rash prediction denotes, but rather go the way of early blues or jazz musicians like Albert King or Sonny Rollins; who while innovators and wildly popular in their time, followed in current day only by much private coveting of originally and remastered editions, and slight obcurity. The fact that many of the original followers of the Beatles are still alive, noting that two of the original band members are still mucking about in the upper echelons of society, with varied notoriety, but ultimately even those McCartney and Starr are dislocated from the original body of work that they themselves created. So looking at the body of work itself, generated by what many argue were already experts, from roughly 1964- to 1972, it is still difficult to say their amount of fame or recognition in say 350 years; taking into account the still proudly worn Abbey Road t-shirts spotted by me personally in several malls and school zones by the enthralled youth of America on both coasts; I can not speak for the staying power on the island across the pond from hence they came. In addition accounting for the enormous radio play, along with Pink Floyd and Led Zeppelin on countless classic rock stations. On the case against avoiding obscurity, enduring popular airtime, the movement and proliferation of music and sound generation has, in a one generation, become so widespread and simple throughout society, that to find one amongst millions of bands and artists is quite an imposing thought. When considering the shear amount of artists and albums, at a base level, the staggering amount of songs released for public consumption since 1972, one must consider if Beethoven would have stood out among one million other composers, despite being an originator or the size of his contribution. My digression could amble further, however my general point remains, that having this magic 10,000+ hours of "practice", that one or a group of one may achieve real consideration for infinitely preserved and intent study. That is to say, you can not undo The Beatles, no more than you can undo Edgar Allen Poe, or for that matter no one could ever undo Kid & Play, regardless of how much anyone would like to delete their contribution from the annals of our collective cultural history. However, for an artist to stay at a forefront of recognition in predominant social consciousness, to be studied in university, and to ultimately remain popular, even among a small subset of society, after a few centuries, is remarkably difficult. This show stuck in my consciousness. The idea of Expert, and more importantly, the lasting effect of the usage of expert knowledge and skill. Perhaps it was because it was first related to me with the example of the Beatles; a band I have much vested time in enjoying and contemplating, that made it so appealing to me, considering the breadth and depth of my musical understanding and collection.

10,000 Hours II

Often I consider the fact that I have been listening to music continuously from a very young age, and wonder just what impact it has had on my life; and whats more, since my first teenage years, I have taken a deep interest in listening to music and understanding styles and made great efforts to explore and seek out new and unique musical endeavors; Furthermore, I have sought out the early incarnations of musical styles throughout history, as well as sat on the edge of the digital age of music's crib and absorbed it's contribution. Scarcely has there been a day without music in my life. Even many years before the iPod, my focus has held intently on sonic introspection. I believe ultimately that music is one of the most important and powerful tools in conveying nearly any emotion, understanding, or information; and is ultimately crucial to existence. I believe that I have a greater adeptness, more than the casual listener or music fan who enjoys and embarks on a musical journey; that I have taken a serious non-negotiable interest in music and its cultural significance, its structure, and everything else that goes along with sound. I am not just interested in what is popular. Due to my devotion and the amount of time spent intently focused on the ingestion of music, I believe that 10,000 hours were breached several years ago; and therefore, I would proclaim myself an expert of music listening; for what ever that is worth. Taking into account for taste, predilection, and repetition, I can tell when something has "it", that magical something that makes a song, an artist or an album Good. That spark of life which can elicit a deeper reaction that sticks to the core of being that gives us all life. All peoples, societies, locations, and ages of man have had some form of musicality and rhythm. A primal essence hearkening back to a simple stick on a hollow rock, fast forward to the whisper of a computer generated hush completely devoid of beat. I believe that it is built in to our brains, hardwired. Needless to say i couldn't possibly understand everything that music has to offer, for to do so would take a lifetime, but i have put in the hours. Every day I am amazed at new sound. I believe the correct term is Audiophile.
Scientists have linked the reaction in brain chemistry due to audial stimuli, similar to euphoria associated with drug use. Music is my drug. Unfortunately I have thought long and hard to transpose this expert hobby to a fruitful, fulfilling and useful endeavor to no avail. The natural progression would be to begin to create my own music. I have in fact created sound projects before, mostly associated with video projects that I have done in the past, with much success mind you; I believe due to my ability to understand and critically observe my own creations to understand what "works" and what doesn't; However, with no formal training as a traditional musician, save for a vocal proclivity, this can not afford me the tools currently to delve deeper into my ultimate dream. So my thoughts move, in an effort to find fruitful endeavour capable of sustaining me, to my formal training and bachelors degree in English language. Despite my degree I would not yet say that I have nearly breached half of the 10,000 hours of writing and considering written language, and all of it's complexities that it would take to become an "Expert" writer. What would it take to become an Expert writer? How long would I have to write? How many words does that equal? If I continued typing here for the next 5 years at 8 hours a day would that make me an expert writer? Is there some equation combining the amount of WPM that I can type, times the complexity of thought and argumentation, divided by the syllabic conjugation of the root, would that equal expert? Would I have to get verification from an English professor PHD to confirm my expertise as a writer; capable of writing in any form, style, or genre', with any motive or intention; eloquent on every researched subject, with any level of simplicity or complicit understanding by the laws of language. Would my expertise implicitly give me the right and aptitude to create and use new words that are adapted and clearly understandable due to my expert usage and context? Would I even be able to write continuously for a long enough period of time, save for sleep and consumption of chocolate milk, chalk-dusted power bars and vegetable lasagna? What are the possibilities? Are there even that many things that one person could write about with purpose before it levels to incomprehensible drivel and uninterested readers. Conveying the complete history of my life; starting from now and working backwards, lavishly and in great depth, searching the annals of my memory to dig up every ounce and squeezing every last bit of innocuous detail out of my past. How long would it be until i got to the inner most depths of my soul? Divulging the darkest secrets of my past; excising the demons and skeletons in the closet? Expounding in great detail the weekend in Vegas with the Blonde waitress and the things that happened in the car on the way to the dive bar? How many pages would I have to write in order to create a clear picture of my best friends life; aptly generating the density of our situation the year we lived together, generating accurately the darkness, the atmosphere and complexities of the horror and joy we survived together? Would being an expert writer mean saying less with more? or saying more with less? Is there even such a way to accurately gauge what expert means when associated with writing? As a certainty Shakespeare is an expert in writing, considering his works lasting power. It is also conjectured with little debate that Stephen King is a great writer of our time, if only judged on monetary success, excluding consideration of the intricacies and poignancy of his prose. Questions also arise as to what good would all that writing do? What purpose would it serve? Could writing save lives; if in the form of a peace treaty? or drawing youth away from violence, to movie theaters were a film based on my writings on war is playing, instead of drawing up arms against one another? What would it all mean? Would it have any reason behind it to make a difference? Would it educate or inspire, or capture imagination? or would it all be for naught?; to die away in the annals of time, with a libraries cold stale air rushing forever over the binding, or worse, to sit stored on a blinking server in time somewhere, forever accessible by man or machine; the contents of my mind and expert creations, eternally logged in a data cloud, never to be activated or scanned over by the eyes of man, or scarcely done so if all; simply to exist as 0 1 strings in an underground warehouse as representations of my expertly crafted words?

10,000 Hours III

In considering my journey on the way to 10,000 hours expounding purposed writing, one thing stands out from my very first English Professor in college. During the first time i tried college that is, as an Engineering major in an mandatory English class. It was part of the universities attempt at generating diversity in a well rounded student. At the beginning of class he would give us ten minutes of free writing that we would just have to write for ten minutes straight with no express purpose or reasoning, as long as it made sense and it was continuous. He claimed that this was a process of clearing our minds so that we may focus more intently on our purposeful writing afterward. To expel the idle thought strewn up from the benign drudgery of daily life; to free up the mind to generate the really juicy gems of truth and knowledge and the information hidden underneath. I have experienced this as a helpful technique during my artistic dabblings; When I am intent on drawing a specific thing, I must always start on a different page in my journal and draw for 10 to 15 minutes in the beginning to get out the jibberish clogging my interpretive vision and to reacquaint my hand to the drawing process; as a way of orienting my brain to the understanding of the medium that I am working with, so that I act purposefully when the original intent is explored. I'm not at all certain that this is necessary for me any more when it comes to writing.
I have often thought that the mind is like a glass of water. Funny thing that is; I suppose that this thinking is derived from a line in an episode of "Married with Children" of all places; from my teen aged hours in front of the TV. It was a mindless joke, as they all were of course, about the stupidity of "Kelly" as was the general foible of Christina Applegate's character. It referred to the fact that only a certain amount of information could be stored in her tiny brain, and that when new information was added, the old information spilled out, like adding water to a full glass. My subconscious mind over the years extrapolated this humorous one liner to a deeper understanding of how the mind works. Isn't it strange how the mind works? I preserved the basic principal of the water in a glass idea with some exception; mainly that in order to write effectively and with strength, you must first ingest words through reading. In other words, it is imperative to read in order to write. Like you are adding words to a big fund raising ticker, and the more words you read, the more the marker drawn thermostat fills with red, and the higher the red marker is colored in, the better and more inspired the writing that comes out. The exception is that the human mind never becomes "full", at least over a long enough period of time; but the idea remains that the more one reads, or at least this is true for me; The more I read, no matter what it is, from Dr. Suess to Gary Indiana, or the morning Metro paper, my mind wants desperately to spill over with writing. Knowledge precipitates knowledge, even if there is an innate truth buried in each written word itself; like a hyroglyph embodies meaning, in even the most boring of syntax and word structure. Therefore, the less one reads, the less inclined one is to write. So to my ends. The most things that i "read" or ingest is music. I should therefore write about music to furtive ends. Therefore as an attempt to be fruitful, with the aim of achieving my mysterious 10,000 hours, I shall drive on in my writing. With a focus upon the highest level of intake, music shall be a main drive and inspiration. But also writing itself shall be written on in detail if i may be so bold to direct a path to expertise. Expounding on the structure of subject verb agreement, delving deep into the usage of "if" or "even if" as a pivotal tool in driving tension in plot driven writing; bending the rules of adjective conjunction; taking command of character development; Firmly grasping control of temporal fluidity in short stories.
Will my long sought "expert" writing skills allow me to create a clever enough jingle to sell millions of Mars Bars®, or have apt skills to write a haiku that would stun a Buddhist monk on Mt. Tateyama, or to write an epic play that would rival Titus Andronicus? Or even to understand fully the illusive coma and semi colon?; as it is clear here through my liberal usage that I do not.
What ever the ends, my means are clear.

I feel a note on the nature of my writing about music is needed. That is that due to the large amounts of production in a digital age, It would be impossible to be directly involved in the review and description of every new album and song that comes out on a timely basis, since I am only one person, not a major music magazine. With this in mind, I will review and write on music that may have been released only in Japan only last Tuesday, or have been released in 2001 on a Wednesday. I allow this temporal discrepancy with adequate forgiveness, since it is impossible that every music lover can even afford all the music that they might enjoy, and since there is a tendency in this day and age to be bombarded with new music before one has had a chance to find a gem of sonic resonance that has failed to resonate in public channels; I hardly believe that it matters how much time has past, as long as the musical contribution is significant.
Only time shall tell.

Posting from my email

Just testing to see if I can really post directly from my email. Over all, I am happy with Blogger so far:Some of the navigation is confusing; between the dashboard, to my profile, to my blog home- it's hard to know were all of the settings are, without clicking several pages around, but I think I will get the hang of it sooner or later. And the settings are nice because they are highly customizable, and hopefully the advantage of having my blog powered by google will make it way more searchable than blog sites like wordpress. I think it's really neat to post directly from your email so you can skip all that navigation all together.

Happy Blogging.

The Frog-Bank

The frog-bank has been turned upside down for two days now. It seems as though its soft round rubber door had become separated making it easier for its inhabitants to escape, if not for the fact this it was turned upside down. It lay there silent and still with it's bulging top set eyes digging into the light brown carpet. Outside the rain continued with patterns of spits and starts followed by downpour and quickly blue billowous skys' far on the horizon, inevitably followed by spits and drizzles. The reavolving weather was mostly due to the geographical situation here; half way between ocean and nestled up against mountain chained peaks. And the location had a lot to do with why the frog bank had been turned upside down in the first place.

It's not a far distance from the frog-bank to the nearest train station. In fact one could hop there in 10 to 15 minutes with little effort at all, and be slipped away as if sliding on slime covered lanes, to the heart of the city that lives mostly underground. Not today though. Not for the last 3 days in fact. The inhabitants of the frog-bank have been absolutely crucial in getting to the heart of Vancouver in this spring weather. The frog is not the only one, but is quiet crucially the available one, since the use of the pig just won't fly. Although the pig would work in a pinch if absolutely required, unfortunately it was built with no clear door, save a hammer, or a smooth flying arc through the air to its inevitable crash landing; spilling its guts; and no one wants pig guts on the floor, least of all me.
Although, as of late, the frog-bank's dwellers have been dwindling in numbers. They make their way out into the world, carried out one by one until inevitably slipping down narrow passageways and disappearing with a final bellowed groan as they clod down the roads.
My path is clear. I must wash off the filth and slime of these three days, and venture out into the fresh spring rain. The frog bank's inhabitants shall remain undisturbed in their cage, upside down on the living room carpet, instead of in the bus man's ticketing machine.

Library Square

A dirty middle aged man sits in the Library Square with a half blank ogle of the busy crowd awaiting the morning doors to be opened. In front of him on the pizza cafe' table sits a two litre blue and white older styled thermos, lidless, and filled with what looks like slush frozen iced tea, brown with a thin white frosty film. Two long thin pink/fuchsia straws protrude from the slush layer, buried deep within. The straws split several centimeters apart at the top; one faced toward the grunge laden man as though he had recently breached the beverage as his mornings mission, the other pink appendage faced directly away, as though a malt in a soda shop nervously expecting a soon arrived lover to take it up in pursed lips and stair eyes. However the filth in his long unkempt beard suggested a long day of laborous construction, or idle beggary as he takes long exaggerated sips to prolong the tedious hammerings, or a break from the stinging bite of the grabbing at palmfuls of nails or concrete. The two straws pressed hard together for larger gulps in the coming midday heat of the still un-built home.
The flood gates finally relinquish the dozens of standers by. You can almost feel the flood of knowledge spill out into the vaulted square as if the flood of patrons pushes out learned air which had been sitting the night running slow and cool past the thousands of book shelves, absorbing faint odors of information, only to leak it's way outward.
I plunge deep into the stacks, fully swimming in coffee zest and fluidous pages. The slow creak of compression shelves gliding side to side startles my senses and peaks a curious metaphor not fully resolved yet.
I must drink before i can spill.

Early spring day.

The wiper against the large flat bus' pane repeatedly traces out the peak and arches of a lovers heart for the third straight day in a row. The downpour so heavy that between the intermittent swipes, the gushes run gravity bound to break the heart at it's peak, only to be thwarted off by the incessant chug of two small motors keeping clarity and sustaining the love of the city outside. When my spell breaks from the blades trance, the deep thought of yet another appearance of an, albeit semi-natural, but more forced appearance of that primitive shape, i notice the woman who has just boarded and taken up seating across the aisle directly. She is at a ninety degree angle in a such a way that i can see her clearly by looking straight forward, but she must turn her head to the right to see me clearly. Either way, she seems oblivious to my watching her, perhaps because her eyes seem a bit too close together, as she folds down her umbrella and situates it several times between the seat and the wall, a delicate balance in such a way sot that it is not wetting her leg, nor the seat beside her and yet braced properly as not to fall to the filth of the floor, which threatens to do several times. She seems merely distracted by the umbrella, and not altogether focused upon its safety because most of her attention is focused upon the apple that she is eating. It is a few moments before i realize that she fully intends to eat the entire apple. Now i assume that most people love apples, or a good majority of people anyway, and usually eat the entire apple until it is nothing but a skinny lamppost of a core... all the meaty goodness hiding nestled against the hard cartilaged membrane that houses the seeds arsenic traced seeds , away from the bitterness of the skin, your teeth gnaw and pick at the sweet flesh to enjoy every last tender morsel of what surely keep the doctor away. Not the case here. This woman as if never instructed by her parents to stop at some point when the going got rough, simply plowed through the delicate fruit as though related to a giraffe. Chomping vigorously she bites and chugs clear through the bottom half of the apple until it resembles a muffin top with a small brown twig stuck in the center. I can tell her jaw is labored and working overtime to compensate for the additional breakdown of the solid plant matter. I sat in awe, realizing that by her relative age and vigour that she had been told numerous times in the past by equally bewildered onlookers that appropriate stopping point for most apples. When she got to the end with her index and thumb upon the soft flexible twig she popped the last chunk into her mouth is if it merely had the consistency of a grape. I was relieved to see that as her fingers pulled away from her lips that the stem remained in hand. I thought, well at least this woman draws the line some where. Her primitive instinct never fully abandon. The over head announced "Bay 8 Brentwood station". I didn't look behind me. I had seen enough.