Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in Justin Projects' LiveJournal:

[ << Previous 20 ]

Friday, November 18th, 2011
1:18 pm	Dud Subtlety comes premium and Age is a commodity The past won't last beyond the horizon line of your view And in your tired mind nothing's new Rhythm is elusive these Words so uneffusive The fuse was lit but it burned out quick on a dud And you think you're slick covered in mud Starved for catharsis and staid with paralysis wan and sexless still and legless begging for a kiss The babble rattles on like a plodding song The tone deaf tuneless masses struggle to sing along Mystery is endangered and Wisdom it comes cheap A stranger wanders by with a color in their eye you'd like to keep in a flask at your hip (give a fuck?)
Friday, October 14th, 2011
2:44 pm	I Have No President Isolation follows, when you’ve grown up with it, practically bathed in it, it is an ever-present companion. A crowded room, a packed metropolis, it doesn’t matter. It’s there like some homicidal wet nurse, ready to drown you in a last meal. The scenery of isolation can be beautiful, or it can be hideous. Beautiful in the trees and mountains and unspoiled natural goodness, beautiful like a verdant green hymen stretched across the land, unbroken by the cocks of development. They can be mercilessly ugly, like the neglected brickwork of a dilapidated building, or the wretched datedness of anything – once or presently – modern. At times, and most frequently, isolation is both. Perhaps its greatest triumph is the sprouting of a weed through a crack of sidewalk. Isolation doesn’t offer many friendships, but it nourishes the imagination. And there’s where you find your pals. They wait for you, and show excitement at your arrival. They feel those mysterious teenage pulls of affection and lust, and the curious mixture of both, and the thrill of unknowing. “What to do, what to do?” Well, I’ll tell you: be isolated. Do not try for the things you think you want. They will present themselves. Do not design your life, or your goals, or your principles. They will, at the right time, present themselves. Your emotions are tools, not contractors; use them, do not let them use you. In this nothing can be negative, and “positive” is a dirty, patronizing word. The immutable spirit, be it real or imagined (it doesn’t matter) is inherently alone, isolated, solitary. But here come the people with their signs, and their opponents with signs, and both with sides, screaming, spitting like frying bacon, using words out of context and abandoning sense like an old hairdo. Signs change nothing. Words change nothing. Nary a person has ever seen a sign and changed their mind. Signs incite resistance. Signs control. Signs are a problem. Signs coalesce into groups, groups structure dogma, and isolation is lost. Individuality is lost. What percentage are you? Are you an arm? A thumb? A hair? If you’re a hair, are you on the scalp, in the eyebrow? Are you a pube? This is community: a body. And a body has parts. Thus, if you are part of a community, you serve a function. And guess what: you’re not the heart. You’re not the head. You’re not even a fingernail. You’re a cuticle. And who doesn’t bite their nails once in a while? But some of us, we are more like cancers, in our isolation we are set apart, malignant in our need, benign in our intent. And though these bodies, based on their assumed purpose, shall try to excise us, we always grow back, from some vestige of tendril, from some hidden nook of isolation. True dissent doesn’t come on a sign, on a bumper sticker, on a refrigerator magnet, or with an instruction manual. True dissent comes from a place beyond isolation, a dark place that strikes fear even in the dissident. It’s a restlessness borne of boundless, insatiable imagination, and the quixotic struggle against the bonds of idiot society. It is a spiritual war with no impetus or understanding, something insistent yet elusive. It is a war of one, fought alone, without signs, without sides, and most importantly, without bodies. Too bad they don’t draft anymore. (give a fuck?)
Sunday, October 9th, 2011
6:45 pm	Pledge of Allegiance (Revised) I pledge allegiance to the brands of the United States of Corporate America. And to the business model, for which it stands. One profit, under God, indefensible, with liability and justice for some. (give a fuck?)
Wednesday, September 21st, 2011
10:20 pm	R.E.M. - Remember Every Moment Anyone who knows me beyond general acquaintance knows my favorite band is R.E.M. While it’s certainly a bit childish to carry “favorites” well into adulthood, there was always much more beyond the music that fascinated me where this band was concerned. They activated an obsessive compulsion in me that I’d never experienced before. Essentially, R.E.M. made a fanboy out of me. I grew up surrounded by music. As a baby, I slept directly under the room my uncles’ band practiced in. Their tastes were decidedly heavy – KISS, Ted Nugent, Deep Purple, Iron Maiden, and all manner of classic rock, which is what they played. Elsewhere, on any car ride with my parents or grandparents, the radio was locked on whatever oldies station poked through the static, or, failing that, AOR. Pop standards, Motown, British Invasion, new and classic country, all this stuff was in my aural periphery. And while I enjoyed a lot of it, it wasn’t something that consumed me. My interests were keener on comic books, television, and especially action figures. So music was ubiquitous growing up, yet nothing I heard prompted me to take that next step. I never bought records. I never knew bands or artists by name. I did have a knack for recalling lyrics and especially melodies, but that’s about as far as it went. As I got older, and developed an identity, a sense of self, I noticed shifts in the music around me. Hair metal. Synthesizers. Star Search. Unaware, I was coming of age in the nascent MTV generation, and I didn’t like what I heard. In fact, around 9 or 10 years old, I even hated it when a television show boasted the “In Stereo Where Available” tag, because I thought it meant that the following presentation would have something to do with music. My ambivalence had blossomed into distaste. I started to actively avoid music. Being a poor family, cable television wasn’t much of a factor in our media intake. However, my parents were nice enough to buy me a Nintendo, and for the remainder of my adolescence, I was an avid gamer. Along with toys, video games accounted for most of my spare time. This was, of course, before the popular music of the day infiltrated games, prior to the advent of first person perspective and rating systems. It was a heady time, and I found myself quite attuned to 8 bit scores. Frequently, I’d hum them. Once I started making friends and socializing beyond my immediate family, music came to the fore again. While there weren’t as many egregious offenses to my teenage sensibilities as there had been a few years earlier, there wasn’t anything that snaked through my brain like tentacles, seizing my thoughts and commanding my movement. Until I was in 8th grade, and I heard Automatic for the People for the first time. I was hanging out with a new friend. Getting to know each other, he asked what music I liked. None, really, I told him. He was baffled. But that was okay, we still had video games in common. Our first sleepover was at his family’s lake house, and as we played Nintendo, he put Automatic on the boombox. I’d never heard anything like this. It was epic and symphonic, of vast breadth, but there was this odd voice. It quavered and whispered mysteriously, it wasn’t shrieking or boastful or overwrought. It was almost alien, and I couldn’t believe that anyone could or would sing that way. As our friendship grew, my interest in this band – R.E.M. – intensified. Since my lack of musical fondness had seemed to put my pal off, I amended to learn as much as I could about this band he had played for me. And that was the gateway to a whole New World. The music was crucial, but there was so much more beyond it. In order to hear more of R.E.M., I resorted to the mail order music club. It was easy for kids to make up names and score ten free CDS in those halcyon days. Imagine my excitement to find that not only was Automatic for the People to be had, but other albums besides! Document, Green and Out of Time were subsequently mine. I consumed these albums in rapid succession. Not only that, but a new record – Monster – loomed in the near future. As I read more about them, I discovered they had even MORE albums (some made LOCALLY, HERE IN CHARLOTTE, OMG). At this point, R.E.M. were as famous as they’d ever be, and the press coverage was staggering. I set about reading everything I could get my hands on. I found their story fascinating and inspirational, their opinions and views were sensible and often funny. In short order I had outstripped my friend in our fervor for this band. I was obsessed. So much so that when grunge exploded, and the “alternative” music R.E.M. blazed the trail for became the new standard, I didn’t care. I ignored most of it all in favor of this one band and their extensive catalogue. But not JUST this one band. Aside from the music and their slow crawl to success, the other major component of my love for R.E.M. was the music they put me on. Through their interviews I was exposed to the underbelly of rock that had yet to seep through. The Holy Trinity of the Velvet Underground, Patti Smith and Iggy Pop was first. Then came British post-punk, Gang of Four, Wire, Orange Juice, the Smiths. As time wore on, I scouted more and more of the names dropped in interviews with Berry, Buck, Mills and Stipe, and over the years R.E.M. introduced me to everything from Suicide and the New York Dolls to Glen Campbell and Jimmy Webb. The first mention I ever saw of the Dead Kennedys or the Minutemen was in books about R.E.M., and even bands as recent as Belle and Sebastian were unknown to me until championed by my bona fide “favorite” band. Underpinning the excellence of their own music, and their impeccable taste, was also the fact that they were from the South. I’m a first generation Southerner; my mom’s family emigrated from Canada. My dad’s family was Southern, but they weren’t region-specific. They were migrants, and traveled all over before settling here, and anyway, mom’s side had a heavier hand in raising me. I was always quite self-conscious about being “country” (especially SOUNDING country) and yet here was R.E.M., also transplants in a strange land, who unabashedly embraced it and its eccentricities. Suddenly, being Southern had a whole new context. Then there was the issue of Stipe’s sexuality, his coy approach to it, and his cat-and-mouse games with the media concerning it. I knew there was something different about me in that department, also, but I didn’t have any idea how to deal with it. This was long before homosexuality was a household word. Gayness was, for the most part, only alluded to in movies and TV shows, and in those allusions I found no solace. I was utterly alone, a misfit among misfits. But here was this guy, this super cool rock star guy, who didn’t give a fuck. It didn’t bother him that he didn’t fit in, on the contrary, he reveled in it. He appropriated the word “queer” from epithet to badge of honor. I took endless hope in that, and my identity today is a debt to Michael Stipe. I could have ended up a stereotype or a statistic, but instead I am immensely proud and totally comfortable with who I am. Without Stipe, R.E.M., and rock n’ roll, it would not be so. I’d be a tragic closet case, or a self-parody, or worse. Therefore, today’s announcement of the band’s split stirs many pots in my skull. They have been a constant presence in my life for almost twenty years. They have brought me countless hours of entertainment; they have taught me about expectation and disappointment. They have left me hoarse from singing along at shows, and relieved at the catharsis of a song. They took my blank, formless mind and pounded it into something formidable, a useful tool, a carnival of sensations. This would have happened without R.E.M., undoubtedly, but I’d be a much poorer human being without these experiences. Today, the band announced their conclusion. This sense of closure is not sad, nor bittersweet. Rather, it is liberating. The ending makes the story, and now that R.E.M.’s is complete, I too can move on. I go with a clutch of amazing records (well, most of ‘em, at least) and they might not be a band anymore, but they’re still my favorite one. Cheers to you, R.E.M. You did good, and you did right. By me, you did right. (give a fuck?)
Sunday, July 10th, 2011
1:55 am	Acknowledgment Everybody dies alone and every car ride or plane ride or pill or cigarette is like a dare to God (or what passes for it these days) And I can’t say I’m not afraid but I know what I feel is real Every drink every accomplishment is a new worry Every rule is to break Every law an embarrassment “It doesn’t get any better (or worse) than this” such a condescending statement I can’t rate it ‘cause I don’t know shit And I wouldn’t know it if I did    (give a fuck?)
Monday, July 4th, 2011
12:49 am	Independence Rings! “At Home He’s a Tourist” – Gang of Four “ATLiens” – OutKast “Drunk Girls” – LCD Soundsystem “Mother, We Just Can’t Get Enough” – New Radicals “I Feel Cream” – Peaches “Get Down” – War “Statue of Liberty” – XTC “Tightrope” – Janelle Monae “Night Theme (Reprise)” – Iggy Pop & James Williamson “Consolation Prizes” – Iggy Pop & James Williamson “One Nation under a Groove” – Funkadelic “Hot Love” – T. Rex “Victoria” – The Kinks “I’m So Free” – Lou Reed “Suffragette City” – David Bowie “White Lines (Don’t Do It)” – Grandmaster Flash & Melle Mel “Oh, How to Do Now” – The Monks “Stand by Your Man” – Candi Staton (give a fuck?)
Monday, June 27th, 2011
11:20 pm	In the Comfort of Your Home A few centimeters of steel thrust in a slab of tree is all that stands between the world and my blessed privacy A world of red eyed thieves of bureaucratic rogues A society of fear guarded by numeric code A few scraps of paper an infusion of rare ink is all that stands between myself and the brink of poverty We have expectations and we have the TV and anything there is to want is brought delivery in the comfort of your home A few simple principles scrawled on a parchment piece are all that dare to keep us in our blessed liberty But words they can be tampered tempered and so on made to serve the will of men whose power is their only true concern A few watts of current and a forty eight inch screen is all that stands between the young and the boredom of the streets They have experience they roll their eyes and suck their teeth You don’t believe in monsters and one will get you while you sleep in the comfort of your home Just a few more minutes a save point and a key stretch on into hours in a colored fantasy Imagination falters and our minds, they atrophy fact is an opinion and belief, reality A few extra pounds of baggage and some deepening crows feet are the symbols of the passage that no one can defeat They are significant every line and every beat And if you’re lucky you will die in the best of company in the comfort of your home (give a fuck?)
Monday, May 30th, 2011
2:54 pm	Culture and Lack Thereof Being American, I am keenly aware of my lack of culture. Culture is something inborn that dictates life. For Americans, culture isn’t a rite of passage, a hand-me-down, in the same way as it is for people like Jews or Aborigines. Culture is an intersection of media and commerce. Culture is a brand preference. We have the luxury of choosing our culture. We wallow in self-identification. This is why multinational corporate Western imperialism is so offensive to proud global countrymen. Their way of life is force fed, and ours is delicious, a treat, a threat. I enjoy being listlessly cultured. I am comfortable within the confines of popular culture. I enjoy the touchstones of iconic ad campaigns and memorable sitcom moments. It’s a common ground that unites disparate parties. All men are created equal, and all melt evenly in the pot. But then I am expected if not encouraged to feel shame at the lowbrow status of my adopted culture. What I enjoy is trash meant for the illiterate unsophisticated. Fleeting entertainment, devoid of feeling, passion, meaning. But by American standards, there is no art. A stroll through a gallery is as much entertainment as flipping channels on a remote control, or flipping the lacquered pages of a new comic. There is no real, fundamental distinction, apart from the fortunes commanded. And there is the telling difference: a new comic book will run you a couple of bucks, a contemporary painting can run into the thousands. What the establishment respects isn’t any notion of culture, art, intelligence or sophistication. What it respects, and values, as usual, is the price tag. (give a fuck?)
Friday, May 20th, 2011
11:50 pm	The Rapture! It’s the rapture and I have to work tomorrow It’s the rapture I gotta wake up early in the morning It’s the rapture and I can’t stay up late to see the arrival of the Great Savior So I’d best repent now and say all of my prayers I didn’t give anything up for Lent Oh shit! There’s garbage at the stairs It’s the rapture and I can’t celebrate I can’t love I can’t hate I can’t drink or dance or swear It’s the rapture Who cares? I saw it on a billboard off the Interstate then in a parking lot where all the young dudes skate It’s the rapture the crazies jacked the date They condemned us all to their own fate Those reprobates and all of their nonsense The world would be a better place if the rapture just took them It’s the rapture I swear they made it up They’re drinking Flavor Aid from a plastic cup and I won’t tip my glass It’s the rapture? I’ll pass   (give a fuck?)
Tuesday, May 3rd, 2011
11:36 pm	And the Beat Goes On... I wrote this almost seven years ago.  Like most of the “poetry”/songs/verses/whathefuckever you want to call ‘em, it was a mystery to me.  It just fell out of my moving fingertips.  Those are always my favorite ones, the ones that have no meaning.  The ones that are total free association, that are an involuntary access of my subconscious. I wrote this almost seven years ago, and I never really knew what it was about.  Now I do.    ( Deadly Melody )   (give a fuck?)
Friday, April 15th, 2011
11:53 pm	Another Reason to Love Peter Buck (give a fuck?)
Thursday, April 14th, 2011
3:43 pm	Buddy Comedies From Stephen Holden’s sublime liner notes for Reprise’s The Very Best of Frank Sinatra: The arc of his career, with its swift rise, slow descent, and meteoric comeback also made him a role model for survivors of every stripe.  What other entertainment figure had fallen so far, then re-ascended to new undreamed-of heights? (…) His metamorphosis from gentle, starry-eyed romantic to wised-up swinger, from Swoonatra to Chairman of the Board, was the pop world’s equivalent of the 97-lb. weakling in Charles Atlas’ bodybuilding ads transforming himself into a muscle man who punches out the bully who used to kick sand in his face.  In beating up that figurative bully while still being able to cry in his beer at 3 A.M., Sinatra made it okay for millions of male admirers to embrace pop at its lachrymose extremes without worrying about being sissies. These passages struck me immediately as applicable to Morrissey.  The parallels of their respective careers are remarkable.  Morrissey is clearly post-punk’s Sinatra, Chairman of the Board for the indie generation.   (give a fuck?)
Wednesday, April 13th, 2011
1:04 am	Starch and Protein You deserve a sound braining and a refresher course in toilet training You’re not all that entertaining so for our sake please stop your complaining I’m not naming names and I’m not laying blame You know who you are You require a solid humping someone who would call you dumpling Chumps are lining up in numbers to suck your thumb and peel cucumbers And I’m not passing judgement or bagging on your old incumbent so don’t ask You task at progress and self-improvement forward momentum and healthy movement but it’s not to your behooving to say who and what it is you’re doing It’s just some friendly advice You want to add a little spice? Swallow your tongue If you are what you eat we’re all starch and protein If clothes make the man I’m an inseam and a hem If they have stars in their eyes it’s the universe I despise and not my species You’re cruising for a bruising with the language you are using You’re hungry for a knuckle sandwich square in the bandwidth And I’m not naming names The pendulum swings the other way Know what I mean? (give a fuck?)
Monday, April 11th, 2011
2:36 am	Wait and See One day they will remember what they never forgot They will have what they never lost And time will vindicate the worst of me Wait and see Someday they will rave They will behave like craven slaves for accolades And crime will validate the best in me Wait and see One day they will admit what they never claimed They will present what isn’t theirs And heirs will salivate for a piece of me Wait and see Someday they will rave They will behave like maven idiots for idiom And time will complicate simplicity Wait and see (give a fuck?)
Tuesday, April 5th, 2011
11:28 pm	You Cannot Wear That In This Heat From an R.E.M. concert chronology (http://members.iinet.net.au/~darryl74/1984.html): 2 October 1984 - McAllister Auditorium, Tulane University, New Orleans, LA During an uncomfortable but ultimately hilarious moment onstage, Peter and Mike got into a screaming match, with Mike yelling, "Fuck you!" repeatedly at Peter. Onstage. In front of the entire audience. Anyway, at that moment, Peter walked up to Stipe's microphone and said, "Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, but Mike Mills has been abusing me onstage. Can we please get everyone to give a big loud boo to Mike Mills, boooo..." to which the crowd of nearly 2000 obliges and starts booing Mills. You could see Mike seething. Peter backed away from Stipe's mic and as Mills walked up to his own mic about to angrily respond to Peter's comment, Peter starts the beginning notes of "Pretty Persuasion", sending Mills into a fury while the audience cheered, completely oblivious to the meltdown onstage. Right then, Stipe grabs an out of tune harmonica and blows the worst note you've ever heard into the mic, screams "Fuck it!" throws the harmonica behind him and starts singing the song. (give a fuck?)
Sunday, March 27th, 2011
8:24 pm	Lunchbox has a buy 2 get 1 free thing going on used CDs, so I treated myself to the following: James Brown, The Payback – The only proper record of James Brown’s I’ve heard that wasn’t a compilation of some sort. It focuses on longer and grittier jams, and features particularly tasty bass work. Echo and the Bunnymen, Songs to Learn & Sing – A best of/greatest hits, which is always a good place to start. I’ve been Bunnymen curious ever since I saw Donnie Darko, which features “The Killing Moon” quite prominently. Robert Johnson, The Complete Recordings – An expansive two disc set including alternate takes of many songs. I love the ambience of these older recordings; they sound mythological. I’m not a huge blues guy, but Johnson’s influence has reached far and wide, so I’m sure there’s something for me here. Mott the Hoople, Brain Capers – This was Mott’s last album before Bowie got ahold of ‘em and they broke through. It ain’t easy to lay your hands on this one, I’ve had eyes out for it for some time now, so I’m immensely pleased to have found it today. It’s a lot heavier than later stuff, with big guitars and big drums. It also features one of the most brilliant song titles ever: “Death May Be Your Santa Claus”. Frank Sinatra, The Very Best Of – I already have one Sintra comp, but this one covers more ground. Plus it has “Love and Marriage”, which is a personal favorite. Tom Waits, The Black Rider – While I’m somewhat ambivalent about Tom Waits, this music is from a play Waits collaborated with William S. Burroughs on. Sold. …and the new issue of Mojo, which features a Smiths cover story, a meaty PJ Harvey interview, a review of Collapse Into Now and a report on live Gang of Four. The Brit music rags run you more, but they are worth the extra scratch, especially when they come with a CD (as did this one). Wishlist: Iggy Pop, The Idiot and Sparks, Kimono My House on vinyl. Couldn’t swing it today. Already spent too much. (give a fuck?)
2:34 am	Sleeve Weather at the Fair Those dusty old days framed in brown photograph edges their nostalgic displays and precarious ledges bar the way We’re hedging our bets and saving our lives to make idle threats and love those we despise The dropout, the comedown the tally, the fair The excitement is carried away on the air Trust your senses and your friends A clear view depends on a pint of blood and a polished lens Those rusted old toys cold in the frozen grasses abandoned by boys and their pubescent impasses (moving on) We’re surpassing our means and showing our age with a light on a screen and a turn of the page The downturn, the turnout the weather, the sleeves Our survival is blown away on a breeze Drain your senses and your friends A tragic death depends on youth interrupted and wasted portent (give a fuck?)
Saturday, March 12th, 2011
12:02 am	R.E.M. - Collapse Into Now R.E.M. was always a democracy. And oddly, when the number was even, they seemed to make decisions easier. It’s impossible to deny that drummer Bill Berry was just as integral to the band’s chemistry as guitarist Buck, bassist Mills or singer Stipe. Rhythm sections aren’t always afforded that level of input in a four piece, but that was always part of R.E.M.’s magic: greater than the sum of its parts. So since 1996’s epic swan song New Adventures in Hi-Fi, R.E.M. have wandered a commercial and critical wilderness. That was to be expected. Given their idiosyncrasies, it was something of a fluke, or a stroke of luck, or a willful subversion, that they ever struck superstardom in the first place. Their staggering 90s breakthrough and the loss of Berry led the band to a long, protracted identity crisis, with some neat parallels to their back catalogue. Up was weird and alien, like Murmur, Reveal/Reckoning a more concise exploration of those possibilities. For all intents and purposes, Fables of the Reconstruction and Around the Sun were both shocking turns that polarized the core audience. 2008’s stripped down Accelerate was a reaction to Around the Sun’s staidness, and it shook away the cobwebs with power and panache, much like Lifes Rich Pageant did back in ’86. Naturally, with their new record, Collapse into Now, I was expecting something akin to Document: a weirder, artier iteration of its predecessor. But upon listening to Collapse in its entirety, Accelerate is given a fresh context (and the title becomes even more apt): Accelerate is kind of a hybrid of Pageant and Document, and Collapse finds the band revisiting the territory of Green and Out of Time. “Discoverer” and “All the Best” are decidedly rocking openers that recall Monster instrumentally, but lyrically echo “Pop Song 89” and “Get Up”. It’s this strange blend of past and present that ultimately defines the record. Ballads like the sparkling, beautiful “Uberlin” or fragile lullaby “Everyday is Yours to Win” sit uncomfortably alongside vintage rollickers like “Mine Smell like Honey”, “That Someone is You” or the baffling, one of a kind rave-up “Alligator Aviator Autopilot Antimatter”. Much like Out of Time, this unease makes for an uneven listen, never gelling into the cohesive whole the best R.E.M. records offer. It bears mentioning that both Collapse into Now and Out of Time heavily feature guest appearances. Another key component of this fragmented atmosphere is Stipe’s awkward lyrics. While he is still capable of crafting lovely melodies (“Oh My Heart”, “Me, Marlon Brando, Marlon Brando and I”, the soaring coda of “It Happened Today”), his problem here is one of priority. It seems obvious that the words dictate the melody, not the other way around, and the results are detrimental. His early reputation as a cryptic mumbler may have come to frustrate him, but even he can’t deny that that approach is what yielded him celebrity in the first place. He has hampered his gifted voice in an attempt at clarity, and forsaken a crucial mystery in the process. Despite some lyrical missteps, the record is visceral, immediate, in keeping with its title (which Patti Smith coined, reportedly). R.E.M. remain on the verge of fully rediscovering themselves, and if closer “Blue” is any indication, they’re toeing the precipice. But their contract is up with this album, and with their myriad obsessions and side projects (Stipe’s forays into sculpture, Buck’s moonlighting with The Baseball Project, Tired Pony, et al) we have to wonder, will they? I sure hope so. (give a fuck?)
Saturday, February 5th, 2011
2:47 am	The Precious Stoned There are no bargains living on life’s outer margins Everything is priced to sell: rings and skins and measured time Everyone ready to sign We’ll take over hell and say it’s swell when it’s sweltering Shelter me from the heat of the sun and the cold shunning stunning types (you know the ones I mean) We starve and binge living on life’s tattered fringes Everything must go: honor, dignity, truth and soul The precious stoned point fingers well but they can’t spell to save their lives Shield me from the masses’ stampede That shambling horde buying what they can’t afford (you know who you are) Every star in the firmament named and bought Every thought had like an escort These sorts don’t come to the stores anymore Their seats are permanent and their backs are perpetually sore Insure me but you can’t cure me of a preexisting condition (I know what they really mean)   (give a fuck?)
Friday, December 31st, 2010
1:31 pm	A Dying Business The stalwart Visart Video – a lynchpin of local culture – is officially closing its doors. This doesn’t come as much of a shock, with major video rental chains declaring bankruptcy in the wake of mail order rentals, online streaming and even DVD vending machines, but the expectancy doesn’t make it any less saddening. Visart was something of an icon, a center of activity, for so many people, but evidently, not enough. It was always a small chain, with the Charlotte store holding the distinction of the most profitable, which is why it held out the longest. It was a family business, and when that family decided to move onto other pursuits, the store was priced and offered to its current manager. Twiggy has searched tirelessly for investors, she has endured false start after false start, and the point is finally moot. No one in town is all that interested in preserving a “dying business”. This is a phrase that fills me with a putrid sickness, “a dying business”. And it is bandied about with alarming frequency. How about a dying economy? In a robust, vital economy, there should be no “dying businesses”, but we hear these premonitions repeated ad nauseam, until they are akin to buzzwords. Their repetition is thoughtless and easy. People have always rushed en masse to accept things at face value, but that doesn’t make them right. Independent thought and reasoned opinions are hallmarks of premium intelligence. A hive mind is no mind at all. How often do we hear that print is dead? That record sales are plummeting? Does that therefore mean that literature and music are anemic mediums? Is the bottom line that absolute? It is telling that the one link between all these “dying businesses” is the rise of the Internet, the subsequent piracy, and the indulgence of instant gratification. Business models like Netflix are as insidious as predatory lending; they cater to our basest impulses. They seem harmless, convenient, but there is an implicit abdication. We surrender our choice to them. I’ve skimmed Netflix streaming, and I’ve found it overwhelming. Selection is practically excruciating. One can choose at random, or one can be profiled and receive “suggestions”. That’s the frightening part. A psychological profile, just to watch movies. And what of the films Netflix will not, or cannot, carry? Surely, these exist. What outlet is there for these maverick pieces? The B movies, the cult classics? These are niche films that only a select few enjoy, does that diminish their value as art or commodity? I’d have to say no, but then the majority says yes, and my voice is drowned out in the roaring din. We live in a day of mergers and acquisitions, of monolithic, multinational corporations. As daunting and omnipotent as these entities are, they are growing more and more unstoppable by the fiscal year. But they toss enough sops to keep the populace quiet. They cut down all the olive trees, and they offer us a paltry branch. This seems almost melodramatic, I know, but it is a fundamental truth people seem keen to either gloss over or ignore altogether, as long as they have their blessed convenience. Is it worth it in the end? Corporate capitalism can be summed up nicely with that old cartoon sight gag, where a character cuts a piece of cake, then takes the rest of it for themselves. And not only do we condone this sheer and callous greed, we encourage it. As more local businesses are picked off and replaced by automated counterparts, we retreat farther and farther into readymade identities. We defend with vigor our freedom and our individuality, but how much of it truly remains? What do we really have? All that we’re allowed. And of that, what is truly important? Friendship, community, support. These, too, are dying businesses. After all, where is the percentage? (give a fuck?)