I watched a TED talk a few weeks ago where the guy claimed he was going to make me fall in love with classical music, or if not fall in love with it, at least learn to appreciate it, or if not learn to appreciate it, at least learn to love classic rock. Except for that last part. He failed completely in his objective. I already have a good relationship with classical music: I listen to it very rarely but I can appreciate it. Classic rock on the other hand...
Despite his failure, the lecturer made a very interesting point that I carefully catalogued and put to use today when showing someone why normal English sentences sounded stilted in their rendition. The point that Mr. Classical Music made was that when you start out with music, you don't know what to stress, other than the mistakes. So the beginner will stress every note or at least every beat in a measure. When the beginner gets a little better (given the odds, chances were that this story would be about the 99.9% who quit, but did I mention I have incredibly good luck? The fictional beginners in my stories stick with it!), he/she starts putting accents every other beat, and then just at the first beat of the measure, and then eventually, according to Mr. Classical Music, the former beginner and now accomplished musician puts only a single accent in every phrase, or perhaps even in the entire piece, and the music magically stops sounding like an exercise and starts to sound like the classical music that everyone knows and loves and listens to at rave parties.
Jia Yan (female), one of our mutual friends, asked me today to listen to her read a few English sentences and tell her what was wrong with her pronunciation because she found it inexplicably abhorrent. I listened. To my own thoughts of course, not to a word she was saying. And after she was done, I pronounced a diagnosis based on no data whatsoever. I felt like an accomplished psychiatrist. I told her that the English language is like music, and like music it...and then I gave her the spiel on accents. She thought it was brilliant. Just kidding, she didn't understand what the hell I was talking about. But I felt quite intellectual. If I knew anything about wine, I'm sure I would have poured us both a glass and then lectured her on the proper way to drink it. I'm more of a Coca-Cola guy, so instead I taught her how to clean a toilet with it.
Showing posts with label music. Show all posts
Showing posts with label music. Show all posts
Sunday, August 4, 2013
Sunday, July 21, 2013
How to make a sandwich in Javascript
Michelle, if you're reading this, start getting ready for our open mic duet. Don't even worry about the set list, I'll take full responsibility for picking the songs I like. Here's some that you might want to learn how to sing:
by Wings:
Let me roll it
Band on the run
by Blue Oyster Cult:
Burning for you
Take me away
Astronomy
by Led Zeppelin:
That's the way
D'yer M'ker
Houses of the Holy
by Dusty Springfield:
Son of a preacher man
by Save Ferris:
Come on Eileen (their cover rocks, you play the power chords, I'll practice the crazy ska rhythm)
by Squeeze:
Tempted
by Bogushevskaya:
Cafe Ekipazh
Let me know which ones you don't absolutely love so I can convince you otherwise. Everyone else go listen to these and imagine how well they'd sound if they sounded slightly worse. Pretty fantastic? Agree.
One and a half more days of freedom and then my favorite girl will be back to torture me. I need to think about what kind of things I can do now that I can't when she's around. Other than tell vicious lies on this blog with impunity, or sleep with other women. I guess I should get all my bad singing, bad drawing, and bad dancing out of the way so she doesn't have to do too much criticizing right after a hard week's rocking in Korea.
And now, a cool trick from today's JavaScript camp. I've used this before, but never in the general form:
function partial(fn) {
var args = [].slice.call(arguments, 1);
return function() {
return fn.apply(null, args.concat(arguments));
};
}
What this allows you to do is precreate functions when you know some arguments ahead of time. So for example, if you have a sandwich function:
function sandwich(bottom, top, middle) {
return {
bottom: bottom,
middle: middle,
top:top
}
}
...and you know a "good" sandwich always has a pancake on the bottom and a pop-tart on top, you can make yourself a shortcut function easily:
var goodSandwich = partial(sandwich, 'pancake', 'pop-tart');
This essentially hardcodes the (bottom, top) set of parameters and gives you back a function that expects only one parameter - 'middle'. So now you can use the goodSandwich function to make sandwiches with different contents but the same shell:
// equivalent to sandwich('pancake', 'pop-tart', 'turkey')
var goodTurkeySandwich = goodSandwich('turkey');
// equivalent to sandwich('pancake', 'pop-tart', 'Mark')
var goodMarkSandwich = goodSandwich('Mark');
// equivalent to sandwich('pancake', 'pop-tart', 'cheeseburger')
var goodCheeseburgerSandwich = goodSandwich('cheeseburger');
// equivalent to sandwich('pancake', 'pop-tart', sandwich('pancake', 'pop-tart', 'cheeseburger'))
var doubleDecker = goodSandwich(goodSandwich('cheeseburger'));
Mm, a cheeseburger wrapped in two pancakes and two pop-tarts. That'll get you bulimic in no time.
by Wings:
Let me roll it
Band on the run
by Blue Oyster Cult:
Burning for you
Take me away
Astronomy
by Led Zeppelin:
That's the way
D'yer M'ker
Houses of the Holy
by Dusty Springfield:
Son of a preacher man
by Save Ferris:
Come on Eileen (their cover rocks, you play the power chords, I'll practice the crazy ska rhythm)
by Squeeze:
Tempted
by Bogushevskaya:
Cafe Ekipazh
Let me know which ones you don't absolutely love so I can convince you otherwise. Everyone else go listen to these and imagine how well they'd sound if they sounded slightly worse. Pretty fantastic? Agree.
One and a half more days of freedom and then my favorite girl will be back to torture me. I need to think about what kind of things I can do now that I can't when she's around. Other than tell vicious lies on this blog with impunity, or sleep with other women. I guess I should get all my bad singing, bad drawing, and bad dancing out of the way so she doesn't have to do too much criticizing right after a hard week's rocking in Korea.
And now, a cool trick from today's JavaScript camp. I've used this before, but never in the general form:
function partial(fn) {
var args = [].slice.call(arguments, 1);
return function() {
return fn.apply(null, args.concat(arguments));
};
}
What this allows you to do is precreate functions when you know some arguments ahead of time. So for example, if you have a sandwich function:
function sandwich(bottom, top, middle) {
return {
bottom: bottom,
middle: middle,
top:top
}
}
...and you know a "good" sandwich always has a pancake on the bottom and a pop-tart on top, you can make yourself a shortcut function easily:
var goodSandwich = partial(sandwich, 'pancake', 'pop-tart');
This essentially hardcodes the (bottom, top) set of parameters and gives you back a function that expects only one parameter - 'middle'. So now you can use the goodSandwich function to make sandwiches with different contents but the same shell:
// equivalent to sandwich('pancake', 'pop-tart', 'turkey')
var goodTurkeySandwich = goodSandwich('turkey');
// equivalent to sandwich('pancake', 'pop-tart', 'Mark')
var goodMarkSandwich = goodSandwich('Mark');
// equivalent to sandwich('pancake', 'pop-tart', 'cheeseburger')
var goodCheeseburgerSandwich = goodSandwich('cheeseburger');
// equivalent to sandwich('pancake', 'pop-tart', sandwich('pancake', 'pop-tart', 'cheeseburger'))
var doubleDecker = goodSandwich(goodSandwich('cheeseburger'));
Mm, a cheeseburger wrapped in two pancakes and two pop-tarts. That'll get you bulimic in no time.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Nothing Happens Pretty Often
Mom finally listened to my songs. I'm suddenly not sure at all if it was a good idea to let her sensitive ears anywhere near my creations. With her suggestions, seems the album won't be released till 2013 after all. Back to the studio for me.
Ok, just emerged from the home studio.
Good news: album release is being pushed (pulled?) to this year.
Bad news: it's getting pushed up because making it significantly better is a pain in the ass and takes way too much skills and patience. My patience is tied up keeping my pants from falling down, so the album's going to have to suck it up and suck a little more.
The latest developments concerning OCD:
Pei: my roommate was cleaning up the balcony. I was helping her.
Mark: by yelling at her to clean faster?
Pei: she is a monica indeed. I kept telling her, it's ok it's ok...
Pei: but she wouldn't listen. :D
Pei: I don't mind there is trash on the balcony.
Pei: I don't live on the balcony
Mark: hmm, so we have 4 degrees of people
Mark: ur roommate doesn't care if there's trash on the moon
Mark: u don't care if there's trash on the balcony
Mark: i don't care if there's trash in my room
Mark: and mario doesn't care if there's trash in his breakfast cereal
...I feel like we're missing a degree in between the last two. And Franco with his putting-trash-in-the-fridge needs to be in there somewhere.
On Americans:
Pei: americans like turtles
...
Mark: do u think americans have actually been on the moon?
Madelyn: not really...
...
Pei: how slow american clocks run
...
Pei: I blame american everything
...
Pei: I believe americans are weird
...
Pei: yea americans need help
...
Pei: of course I know. and I know the reasons too. I think it's because american faces are too big.
...
Pei: u ignorant american people
...
Mark: i'm an american
Zhang: qu ! (get away from me)
...
Zhang: sorry, forgot u r american
...
Zhang: silly american cannot understand
Oof, Chinese people sure have a lot to say about Americans, especially when looked at out of context.
Today was low on ideas for blog-writing, so Madelyn helped me out:
Madelyn: what about a glass of water
Madelyn: what will you think of when you see a glass of water
Hmm...who knows what I would have thought of before. Now I'm doomed (blessed?) to think of this conversation.
Madelyn: haha
Mark: haha is an idea or just haha-ing?
Inspiration, where are you?
Ok, just emerged from the home studio.
Good news: album release is being pushed (pulled?) to this year.
Bad news: it's getting pushed up because making it significantly better is a pain in the ass and takes way too much skills and patience. My patience is tied up keeping my pants from falling down, so the album's going to have to suck it up and suck a little more.
The latest developments concerning OCD:
Pei: my roommate was cleaning up the balcony. I was helping her.
Mark: by yelling at her to clean faster?
Pei: she is a monica indeed. I kept telling her, it's ok it's ok...
Pei: but she wouldn't listen. :D
Pei: I don't mind there is trash on the balcony.
Pei: I don't live on the balcony
Mark: hmm, so we have 4 degrees of people
Mark: ur roommate doesn't care if there's trash on the moon
Mark: u don't care if there's trash on the balcony
Mark: i don't care if there's trash in my room
Mark: and mario doesn't care if there's trash in his breakfast cereal
...I feel like we're missing a degree in between the last two. And Franco with his putting-trash-in-the-fridge needs to be in there somewhere.
On Americans:
Pei: americans like turtles
...
Mark: do u think americans have actually been on the moon?
Madelyn: not really...
...
Pei: how slow american clocks run
...
Pei: I blame american everything
...
Pei: I believe americans are weird
...
Pei: yea americans need help
...
Pei: of course I know. and I know the reasons too. I think it's because american faces are too big.
...
Pei: u ignorant american people
...
Mark: i'm an american
Zhang: qu ! (get away from me)
...
Zhang: sorry, forgot u r american
...
Zhang: silly american cannot understand
Oof, Chinese people sure have a lot to say about Americans, especially when looked at out of context.
Today was low on ideas for blog-writing, so Madelyn helped me out:
Madelyn: what about a glass of water
Madelyn: what will you think of when you see a glass of water
Hmm...who knows what I would have thought of before. Now I'm doomed (blessed?) to think of this conversation.
Madelyn: haha
Mark: haha is an idea or just haha-ing?
Inspiration, where are you?
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Coming Soon To Your Friendly Nearby Internet
I've been writing and recording music lately, trying to get enough songs together to get an album up on iTunes. Quantity has finally reached its goal, and I've been sneakily testing quality on various so-called friends and family. The reviews/reactions so far have been pretty mixed. My friends in China generally give me at least one thumb up, partly because their culture doesn't allow them to voice criticism, and partly because of the One-Person-One-Thumb policy in China.
My family is generally supportive, though they express this support in very different ways. The "generally supportive" average is reached primarily thanks to my sister, who lavishes praise with a heavy hand regardless and especially irregardless of quality. (Somewhere Perry is getting very very angry about my word usage. Lucy, do what you can for him). "Mark! You wrote that!?" she shrieks. "It's soo good! You're amazing!" My guess is that up till now she thought I was clinically retarded, because I can literally play one chord and elicit that response.
My mother, the most musically inclined of my subscribers, is eager to listen to my creations but only has time to do so on the 32nd of every month. Never fear, my supreme patience is holding stong.
Gene, who now runs out of the house if you call him "Dad," gives a two-for-one deal: reserved praise and vague criticism. "Hey! That's...pretty good...but something's missing...I don't know what," is his well-rehearsed response. He is as consistent and oblivious to quality as my sister, though in a different slice on the spectrum.
Grandma and Boris never say a single word about the quality of the music. They react, but I haven't decided how to interpret their reaction yet. Usually it goes something like this:
(a three course meal is shoved down Mark's throat to lull him into a false sense of security and a very real sense of nausea)
Grandma: sing us one of your songs! You never sing to us!
Mark: ugh...I only sing to my microphone. But you can hear my computer imitate me. Want to?
Grandma: you didn't eat anything today! Do you want some strawberries? Plums? Chocolate? Herring? Pickles? I know! Let's drink a shot together!
(If you're wondering about the exclamation points, Grandma lives at around 130 decibels)
Mark: no thanks, I only drink with Michelle.
Grandma: well at least have some bread. Nuts. Potatoes. Want me to make you a steak? Pancakes? Why aren't you playing your song to me!?
Mark: uhh...good point. (Turns song on)
Grandma (listens for 5 seconds): BORIS! GET OVER HERE, MARK'S PLAYING US HIS SONGS!
Boris (from the kitchen): meh? You say something?
(They arm themselves with megaphones and yell into each other's earpieces for the next three songs. Boris finally comes over. Mark writhes in pain on the carpet; he is congenitally incapable of habituating to sonic warfare)
Grandma: is that your song playing?
Mark: ye...e...e...s.
Grandma: Boris, listen! Don't fall asleep, you old goat!
Boris: I'm not sleeping, I'm listening!
(5 seconds pass)
(Mark quietly gets up, negotiates the two blissfully snoring geezers, packs his things and drives himself to the hospital)
(scroll down three days and repeat)
Neither Grandma nor Boris has stayed awake for the duration of a single song, which is 3.5 mins on average. Good? Bad? I don't know but I'm going to be optimistic. At their age, if they don't die of something, it's probably really really really ridiculously good.
Mario is the only one who gives constructive feedback. Unfortunately, by some crazy coincidence, he's the one person whose advice I never listen to. Can't do anything about it, the decision was made a long time ago.
Chun is busy 758 hours a week so she has no time to give feedback. My turn to be the object of her attention was coming up, but then a little thing called Daylight Savings Time stole my spot. Now she's back in her exercise wheel, dancing her way into medical school. Don't stand in her way, she has a mean left pirouette.
And finally, there was one person outside the usual circle who got a taste of this album (that's coming soon to your friendly nearby Internet). That was my aunt. Around Christmas, she demanded I send her a song. Being an obedient little nephew, I obliged...and that was the last I heard from her. I should really go check if she's OK. Hmm...nah, I'll just wait till next Christmas. If she doesn't show up, then I'll know something's wrong. Never too late to call 911.
My family is generally supportive, though they express this support in very different ways. The "generally supportive" average is reached primarily thanks to my sister, who lavishes praise with a heavy hand regardless and especially irregardless of quality. (Somewhere Perry is getting very very angry about my word usage. Lucy, do what you can for him). "Mark! You wrote that!?" she shrieks. "It's soo good! You're amazing!" My guess is that up till now she thought I was clinically retarded, because I can literally play one chord and elicit that response.
My mother, the most musically inclined of my subscribers, is eager to listen to my creations but only has time to do so on the 32nd of every month. Never fear, my supreme patience is holding stong.
Gene, who now runs out of the house if you call him "Dad," gives a two-for-one deal: reserved praise and vague criticism. "Hey! That's...pretty good...but something's missing...I don't know what," is his well-rehearsed response. He is as consistent and oblivious to quality as my sister, though in a different slice on the spectrum.
Grandma and Boris never say a single word about the quality of the music. They react, but I haven't decided how to interpret their reaction yet. Usually it goes something like this:
(a three course meal is shoved down Mark's throat to lull him into a false sense of security and a very real sense of nausea)
Grandma: sing us one of your songs! You never sing to us!
Mark: ugh...I only sing to my microphone. But you can hear my computer imitate me. Want to?
Grandma: you didn't eat anything today! Do you want some strawberries? Plums? Chocolate? Herring? Pickles? I know! Let's drink a shot together!
(If you're wondering about the exclamation points, Grandma lives at around 130 decibels)
Mark: no thanks, I only drink with Michelle.
Grandma: well at least have some bread. Nuts. Potatoes. Want me to make you a steak? Pancakes? Why aren't you playing your song to me!?
Mark: uhh...good point. (Turns song on)
Grandma (listens for 5 seconds): BORIS! GET OVER HERE, MARK'S PLAYING US HIS SONGS!
Boris (from the kitchen): meh? You say something?
(They arm themselves with megaphones and yell into each other's earpieces for the next three songs. Boris finally comes over. Mark writhes in pain on the carpet; he is congenitally incapable of habituating to sonic warfare)
Grandma: is that your song playing?
Mark: ye...e...e...s.
Grandma: Boris, listen! Don't fall asleep, you old goat!
Boris: I'm not sleeping, I'm listening!
(5 seconds pass)
(Mark quietly gets up, negotiates the two blissfully snoring geezers, packs his things and drives himself to the hospital)
(scroll down three days and repeat)
Neither Grandma nor Boris has stayed awake for the duration of a single song, which is 3.5 mins on average. Good? Bad? I don't know but I'm going to be optimistic. At their age, if they don't die of something, it's probably really really really ridiculously good.
Mario is the only one who gives constructive feedback. Unfortunately, by some crazy coincidence, he's the one person whose advice I never listen to. Can't do anything about it, the decision was made a long time ago.
Chun is busy 758 hours a week so she has no time to give feedback. My turn to be the object of her attention was coming up, but then a little thing called Daylight Savings Time stole my spot. Now she's back in her exercise wheel, dancing her way into medical school. Don't stand in her way, she has a mean left pirouette.
And finally, there was one person outside the usual circle who got a taste of this album (that's coming soon to your friendly nearby Internet). That was my aunt. Around Christmas, she demanded I send her a song. Being an obedient little nephew, I obliged...and that was the last I heard from her. I should really go check if she's OK. Hmm...nah, I'll just wait till next Christmas. If she doesn't show up, then I'll know something's wrong. Never too late to call 911.
Friday, November 28, 2008
Chinese Logic
Yesterday was a very challenging day. Having slept a total of four hours, and not consecutive ones at that, I was pretty much a zombie. My most wakeful moment was struggling to fall asleep at 2AM after zombie me had the brilliant idea to drink a pot of coffee. But, I finally got back on a normal sleeping schedule. No more going to sleep at 7AM, at least till tomorrow.
I dreamed of a cool new string instrument. I was walking in a field with this girl named Mindy who I'd never seen before, and she was carrying what I knew in the dream was a tuba case, but what I knew immediately with equal certainty upon waking was a cello case. Apparently the dream me has no idea what a tuba looks like, though when I go back to sleep I'll probably write this comment in my dream blog in reverse, with equal disdain. To make things even clearer, Mindy said that she was carrying a violin. The dream me didn't see anything strange about that. When we got across the field and ended up in some city at some open mic, she took it out of the case and played a little to warm up. The 'violin' was a bit smaller than cello, and where the strings go over the bridge in the direction opposite to the neck, instead of going at a downward angle, they went up almost perpendicularly to the wood. Mindy played the strings at that end of the violin instead of in the usual place with a modified bow, and would add little flutter-like flourishes that I've never heard on a string instrument. Then of course, someone showed up and ruined everything, and you can guess easily who that was. He didn't wake me up, but he took over the dream with his own agenda at the open mic.
(We're in traffic. There's a newspaper salesman standing on the yellow line selling the Houston Chronicle. A cop flies right past him, siren blaring)
Mario: Psh, if that newspaper salesman was any good, he would have sold that cop a newspaper.
(studying chinese characters)
Mark: guess what you get when you put the radicals for 'tree' and 'several' together.
Mario (having had dibs on the book): machine?
Mark: hmm. Pretty obvious huh?
...
Mark (flipping forward a couple of chapters): okay, what about 'sun' plus 'thumbtack'
Mario: uhh. A ray of light?
Mark: think more obvious
Mario: solar flare?
Mark: no, 'hundred.'
Mario: ah, that makes sense.
...
Mark: ok, this one's really obvious. 'moon' plus 'knife.'
Mario: ...cheese?
Mark: 'canoe.' Come on dude, trust your intuition.
There were some other good ones, some making sense, some just strange. I kept waiting for the moment of epiphany where I would suddenly understand the Chinese way of thinking and 'horse' + 'woman' = 'mother' would make sense, but the more I read, the more I began to fear for my life if this epiphany did indeed happen.
Some others, for your enjoyment:
'big' + 'drop' = 'too much' (Makes sense, even to us logic-based Americans)
'woman' + 'house' = 'peace' (This is what I'm talking about when I say the Chinese go to far with their perverse sense of humor)
'too much' + 'too much' = 'wife' (This is apparently the same in every culture)
I dreamed of a cool new string instrument. I was walking in a field with this girl named Mindy who I'd never seen before, and she was carrying what I knew in the dream was a tuba case, but what I knew immediately with equal certainty upon waking was a cello case. Apparently the dream me has no idea what a tuba looks like, though when I go back to sleep I'll probably write this comment in my dream blog in reverse, with equal disdain. To make things even clearer, Mindy said that she was carrying a violin. The dream me didn't see anything strange about that. When we got across the field and ended up in some city at some open mic, she took it out of the case and played a little to warm up. The 'violin' was a bit smaller than cello, and where the strings go over the bridge in the direction opposite to the neck, instead of going at a downward angle, they went up almost perpendicularly to the wood. Mindy played the strings at that end of the violin instead of in the usual place with a modified bow, and would add little flutter-like flourishes that I've never heard on a string instrument. Then of course, someone showed up and ruined everything, and you can guess easily who that was. He didn't wake me up, but he took over the dream with his own agenda at the open mic.
(We're in traffic. There's a newspaper salesman standing on the yellow line selling the Houston Chronicle. A cop flies right past him, siren blaring)
Mario: Psh, if that newspaper salesman was any good, he would have sold that cop a newspaper.
(studying chinese characters)
Mark: guess what you get when you put the radicals for 'tree' and 'several' together.
Mario (having had dibs on the book): machine?
Mark: hmm. Pretty obvious huh?
...
Mark (flipping forward a couple of chapters): okay, what about 'sun' plus 'thumbtack'
Mario: uhh. A ray of light?
Mark: think more obvious
Mario: solar flare?
Mark: no, 'hundred.'
Mario: ah, that makes sense.
...
Mark: ok, this one's really obvious. 'moon' plus 'knife.'
Mario: ...cheese?
Mark: 'canoe.' Come on dude, trust your intuition.
There were some other good ones, some making sense, some just strange. I kept waiting for the moment of epiphany where I would suddenly understand the Chinese way of thinking and 'horse' + 'woman' = 'mother' would make sense, but the more I read, the more I began to fear for my life if this epiphany did indeed happen.
Some others, for your enjoyment:
'big' + 'drop' = 'too much' (Makes sense, even to us logic-based Americans)
'woman' + 'house' = 'peace' (This is what I'm talking about when I say the Chinese go to far with their perverse sense of humor)
'too much' + 'too much' = 'wife' (This is apparently the same in every culture)
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Chez Mendiola
At Mario's house now. It's pretty nice, kind of like the home we stayed at in Maine. Mario's parents are pretending to like me, but I think I can get them to openly hate me by Tuesday.
Went to church today and sang some ballads praising Jesus with the better-than-expected church band. Christian songs have yet to branch out to a fourth chord, so it was easy to sing along. Then a girl missionary told us about her work in some African country converting the heathen children. And then just as the bell was about to ring, the pastor showed up and delivered a lecture that was a little over the top. Key points: The Joker from the new Batman is the quintessential atheist, people are inherently evil, it's up to the church to save America, because we've been going straight into hell since 1991. Since I came to America in 1991, this has special significance for me.
We've been playing a lot of liars' poker. I thought it would be a cinch with all these churchgoers, but they're even more outrageous liars than my parents. Mario and I have lost every game here, and Igor shouldn't sit too comfortably in California, the Mendiolas are coming.
Have a bunch of new riffs that are resisting development. My ear is also being stubborn and refusing to learn intervals above a fifth. And intervals below a fifth. Still, I'm closer to perfection with every passing day, and when I'm there, I've got it made. Beautiful men with well-trained ears are a rarity in this cruel world.
Went to church today and sang some ballads praising Jesus with the better-than-expected church band. Christian songs have yet to branch out to a fourth chord, so it was easy to sing along. Then a girl missionary told us about her work in some African country converting the heathen children. And then just as the bell was about to ring, the pastor showed up and delivered a lecture that was a little over the top. Key points: The Joker from the new Batman is the quintessential atheist, people are inherently evil, it's up to the church to save America, because we've been going straight into hell since 1991. Since I came to America in 1991, this has special significance for me.
We've been playing a lot of liars' poker. I thought it would be a cinch with all these churchgoers, but they're even more outrageous liars than my parents. Mario and I have lost every game here, and Igor shouldn't sit too comfortably in California, the Mendiolas are coming.
Have a bunch of new riffs that are resisting development. My ear is also being stubborn and refusing to learn intervals above a fifth. And intervals below a fifth. Still, I'm closer to perfection with every passing day, and when I'm there, I've got it made. Beautiful men with well-trained ears are a rarity in this cruel world.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Bad Movie
Saw Wall-E today. Blah.
The first 6 hours of the should-be trilogy were almost bearable. There were cuteness, silly music, and cockroaches - apparently a recipe for success judging by IMDb's thousands of satisfied fans. It used to be that when prompted for my opinion on a movie, I could safely defer to IMDb; this saved the trouble of later defending said opinion. But now IMDb must be in league with the movie companies because the average rating for a crappy movie is around 8. Wall-E is rated an astounding 9.3. I would have been happy to agree if I hadn't watched it. Unfortunately I did, and even the IMDb-sponsored professional applauders in the theater couldn't convince me of a single point deserved above a "5 for special effects."
"It's OK, it's over, you made it," I thought, as I made my way back to the car with my parents and my little sister. Wrong! My dad, though he claimed the movie had bored him into a stupor, would not stop reenacting the aforementioned boredom, with such skill that I fell asleep at least 8 times behind the wheel on the 2-mile ride home. Bored my ass! Now the traitor's probably voting on IMDb to infalte Wall-E's rating to an even greater obscenity.
Just heard from Chun, she loved it of course. This is good intel - she is not to be trusted.
Showed grandma our music today. Can't say she loved it. I showed her ~5 songs, and when I mentioned Mario was still finishing one of them, she asked "why finish? They all sound the same." Ouch. No worries though, grandma's been discredited. I grabbed a piece of apple pie as I left her house, and it smelled like cheese. When she shoved a tomato under my nose to smell the divinity, it smelled like the fish she'd been slicing. Hey, if she can't tell the difference between those...
The first 6 hours of the should-be trilogy were almost bearable. There were cuteness, silly music, and cockroaches - apparently a recipe for success judging by IMDb's thousands of satisfied fans. It used to be that when prompted for my opinion on a movie, I could safely defer to IMDb; this saved the trouble of later defending said opinion. But now IMDb must be in league with the movie companies because the average rating for a crappy movie is around 8. Wall-E is rated an astounding 9.3. I would have been happy to agree if I hadn't watched it. Unfortunately I did, and even the IMDb-sponsored professional applauders in the theater couldn't convince me of a single point deserved above a "5 for special effects."
"It's OK, it's over, you made it," I thought, as I made my way back to the car with my parents and my little sister. Wrong! My dad, though he claimed the movie had bored him into a stupor, would not stop reenacting the aforementioned boredom, with such skill that I fell asleep at least 8 times behind the wheel on the 2-mile ride home. Bored my ass! Now the traitor's probably voting on IMDb to infalte Wall-E's rating to an even greater obscenity.
Just heard from Chun, she loved it of course. This is good intel - she is not to be trusted.
Showed grandma our music today. Can't say she loved it. I showed her ~5 songs, and when I mentioned Mario was still finishing one of them, she asked "why finish? They all sound the same." Ouch. No worries though, grandma's been discredited. I grabbed a piece of apple pie as I left her house, and it smelled like cheese. When she shoved a tomato under my nose to smell the divinity, it smelled like the fish she'd been slicing. Hey, if she can't tell the difference between those...
Friday, June 27, 2008
The Great Depression
Today I came within an inch of damnation. A day after posting on Craigslist, I was surprised and delighted to see that someone was interested in my quality services as a tutor. Not just interested, they wanted me to tutor their currently mediocre but soon to be genius offspring, every day of the week. One or two more such customers, I thought to myself amidst a fit of giggles, and I'd never need a job again. I went to sleep blissfully ignorant of the storm gathering in my Inbox.
I woke up this morning, and found four more wonderful emails from wonderful people with wonderfully thick children. This is where I should have pricked up my ears. Instead, I pranced around the room, threw handfuls of credit cards into the air, and only then got to reading.
Woe was me. At first glance, the emails spoke of normal people who wanted to send me baskets full of checks. But things tended quickly to the creepy. The writing had obviously missed out on some grammar and spellchecking. At the same time, the people all claimed to be from England - a little-known country that chiefly exports clones of Henry Higgins - the Naziest language Nazi of all. Everything suddenly became crystal clear. I was being asked to participate in something intrinsically un-American, and thus undoubtedly Communist-inspired. I was being asked to give an American education to a foreigner!
I was shocked! Revolted! ...But slightly tempted to participate. This last thought that zigzagged through my mind scared me most. After much deliberation, I have decided to do the right thing and turn myself in to the government. Tomorrow will likely be my last day as a free American, for temptation is harshly but justly punished in our wonderful country.
Made some more progress with my music - the Tina-turned-Chun song is moving along beautifully.
I'm writing and expecting...yearning for...nay, praying for an interruption, because material is scarce, and my movie hormones are flaring at full throttle. Tonight still lives with the promise of another B-rated film ruthlessly sacrificed to my addiction, but time is passing and...was that my name being called? Hm...no, that was just me saying it aloud. Enough! I suppose tonight, I'll have to initiate the ritual.
I woke up this morning, and found four more wonderful emails from wonderful people with wonderfully thick children. This is where I should have pricked up my ears. Instead, I pranced around the room, threw handfuls of credit cards into the air, and only then got to reading.
Woe was me. At first glance, the emails spoke of normal people who wanted to send me baskets full of checks. But things tended quickly to the creepy. The writing had obviously missed out on some grammar and spellchecking. At the same time, the people all claimed to be from England - a little-known country that chiefly exports clones of Henry Higgins - the Naziest language Nazi of all. Everything suddenly became crystal clear. I was being asked to participate in something intrinsically un-American, and thus undoubtedly Communist-inspired. I was being asked to give an American education to a foreigner!
I was shocked! Revolted! ...But slightly tempted to participate. This last thought that zigzagged through my mind scared me most. After much deliberation, I have decided to do the right thing and turn myself in to the government. Tomorrow will likely be my last day as a free American, for temptation is harshly but justly punished in our wonderful country.
Made some more progress with my music - the Tina-turned-Chun song is moving along beautifully.
I'm writing and expecting...yearning for...nay, praying for an interruption, because material is scarce, and my movie hormones are flaring at full throttle. Tonight still lives with the promise of another B-rated film ruthlessly sacrificed to my addiction, but time is passing and...was that my name being called? Hm...no, that was just me saying it aloud. Enough! I suppose tonight, I'll have to initiate the ritual.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
I Love Watermelon
I have pimped out all of my skills on Craigslist, with the frail hope of earning a dollar here and there giving private lessons. If there's something you want to learn that I don't know, and that you are willing to pay for, tell me. I will learn it and teach it to you.
Went to Barnes and Noble's again today, read a bunch of books that failed to make an impression on me. My sentimental half screams that this is because I'm still heartbroken from The Time Traveler's Wife, but I punished it with a Civil War book. Next time it'll keep its fat mouth shut.
Did some writing today - got well on my way into a song that started out about Tina, but tragically lacked a necessary depressing quality, and thus slowly transformed into a love song for Chun. I am now frantically juggling Tina between a slow blues, and an open window.
Meanwhile, Mario has come out with a new single, mourning his love for Iris, who is unfortunately a willing captive of a better man. The song is nearly complete, lacking only lyrics, but they will undoubtedly come around soon and be somewhere high on the scale from 1 to Pathetic.
Michelle asked me to tuck her in today. I considered it for a brief moment and then laughed in her face, a move which somehow doesn't hold the same element of surprise as it used to.
Michelle has a fat friend, who conveniently stores all self-consciousness for her condition in Michelle. Whenever Mom says "hey Michelle, where's fatty?" or Dad asks "where's Piglet?," Michelle inexplicably gets as offended as if it were her own liposuction-filled future they're talking about. Being intrinsically mild-mannered and considerate, I generally restrain my witty insults, and if anything, try to turn the conversation to safer and less fertile ground - such as how fat people contribute to society. By the way, has anyone found the answer to this one yet?
Went to Barnes and Noble's again today, read a bunch of books that failed to make an impression on me. My sentimental half screams that this is because I'm still heartbroken from The Time Traveler's Wife, but I punished it with a Civil War book. Next time it'll keep its fat mouth shut.
Did some writing today - got well on my way into a song that started out about Tina, but tragically lacked a necessary depressing quality, and thus slowly transformed into a love song for Chun. I am now frantically juggling Tina between a slow blues, and an open window.
Meanwhile, Mario has come out with a new single, mourning his love for Iris, who is unfortunately a willing captive of a better man. The song is nearly complete, lacking only lyrics, but they will undoubtedly come around soon and be somewhere high on the scale from 1 to Pathetic.
Michelle asked me to tuck her in today. I considered it for a brief moment and then laughed in her face, a move which somehow doesn't hold the same element of surprise as it used to.
Michelle has a fat friend, who conveniently stores all self-consciousness for her condition in Michelle. Whenever Mom says "hey Michelle, where's fatty?" or Dad asks "where's Piglet?," Michelle inexplicably gets as offended as if it were her own liposuction-filled future they're talking about. Being intrinsically mild-mannered and considerate, I generally restrain my witty insults, and if anything, try to turn the conversation to safer and less fertile ground - such as how fat people contribute to society. By the way, has anyone found the answer to this one yet?
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