More Music for Your Listening Improvement

Ok here are a few more titles that should continue to improve your musical tastes. I'm jumping around a bit today, with some power pop, some hip hop, and some down and dirty rock and fucking roll, but it's all good.

Modern Way - Kaiser Chiefs

Bob - Primus

Lousy Reputation - We Are Scientists

Burn The Witch - Queens Of The Stone Age

Stay Tuned (feat Sojourn) - Ohmega Watts

Audio Visual - J-Live


Enjoy.

By The Pool

She sits by the pool, wrapped in clinging silk. She has done up her long black hair messily, so that three lengthy strands have broken free from their prison to drift down around her long neck. They twirl around in the slight breeze, lazily caressing her olive skin. Absent-mindedly, she tucks them back behind her ear when the wind blows them around into her face. As if mesmerized, she stares into the light blue of the pool at her feet: into the light of the reflected moon – full but broken by the gently lapping ripples made from her twirling feet. There is a glass of white wine resting on the ugly beige tiles next to her, but it is full, and no lipstick lines its rim. She sighs, and is sad, but she can't say why.

Slowly, she slips her silk robe from around her shoulders, revealing royal blue skin and golden spires, reaching up from below the line of cloth to their points at the center of her back. For a minute she pauses, mid-motion, allowing the robe to dip down, like the curve of a southern shore meeting the motionless sea of her back. The wind is warm on her skin, and so she pulls first her left, and then her right arm out of the loose sleeves, letting the soft material drop to the ground.

She is naked, but her body is painted from the neck down, except where her feet have been swirling the water – there the paint slowly washes away, its deeper blue spinning in tiny whirlpools and then floating on the surface of the pool, refusing to mix. A golden temple is painted on top of the blue background, with its base dipping just below her hips: a temple with thirteen reaching towers surrounding a dome the color of the snow capped peaks of Himalayas. On top of each spire is a large orange sphere of flame, where, if you looked closely enough, you could see a small yellow sunburst encapsulated.

The right hand corner of her lips twitch into a slight grin. She leans over to her left side, shifting her weight so that she can lift herself off the ground, and off of her now discarded robe. With her other hand she reaches underneath and pulls the garment out from under her: its hem dipping into the water. Slowly, as she looks at the robe in her hands, her smile gets bigger. She purses her lips, considering. Then, with a sigh, tosses it into the pool, where it floats slowly away, towards the center.

She can't help but tense as the sliding door behind her opens. She feels suddenly exposed, even slightly guilty, for being caught without any of her clothes on, even though she's been without them most of the day. Even though she was just photographed for hours, wearing nothing but blue paint, for just a moment, she feels helpless. Purposefully, she does not turn around, and forces her muscles to relax. She reaches over, takes her wineglass, and brings it to her lips, tipping a swallow full into her mouth. She lets it sit on her tongue to savor its taste before allowing it to pass own down her throat.

A woman emerges from the house behind her, bringing noise from the party with her. Inside, people are talking, laughing, drinking, dancing to the pulsing and neverending beat. The woman is laughing too. Laughing and dancing and drinking as she emerges through the doors. She is wearing silk as well, loosely draped over her naked skin, with the front completely open. She is beautiful, and relishes her beauty. She too has been painted from neck to toe, but her skin has largely been left its natural, porcelain, color – with a crisscross pattern of long, thin horizontal lines, connected by shorter vertical ones.

She shuts the sliding door behind her, shutting out the noise of people, but only reducing the sound of the music – the bass seems to have no trouble penetrating through the barrier. She shuts the door a little too hard, unintentionally slamming it into place. She giggles.

“Angeline!” she says as she turns back to the pool, “You're naked.”

Blue-skinned Angeline can't help but smile, though she neither speaks nor turns around to look at the newcomer. The other girl doesn't seem to mind, as she takes a sip from her wine – red, not white – and dances around in a circle, slowly, to the music pounding its way through the walls. She makes her way over to the side of the pool and looks from Angeline to her robe, now caught against the metal ladder on the other side. With a laugh like the musical tinkling of clay wind chimes, the girl drinks the rest of the wine in her glass, tossing it into the water, and pulls off her own robe. She gives her collar a kiss, and then it too follows where her glass had gone. Gracefully, she sits next to Angeline, letting her feet and calves slip into the cool water.

Angeline looks at her sideways, still smiling. One couldn't help but smile around Elaine, her own never ceasing smile seemed to affect you just like a yawn. Mysteriously it spread from person to person. Still, her smile was close lipped and crooked, as if she was thinking of other things. Raising an eyebrow, Elaine looked carefully at her friend. She wanted to ask what was wrong. She wanted to find out what was bothering Angeline – what had been bothering her for the last few months as far as she could tell. But she knew better than to ask. It would have earned her only a leveled stare that wasn't unfriendly, but clearly said that she didn't feel like talking. So, instead, she said, “You won't believe it, but Jack, you remember, the photographer's son? He asked for my phone number. I think I was the third girl he asked, but it was still cute, so I gave it to him. I'm sure he won't call – and I think his dad will kill him when he finds out he snuck into the party...,” she trailed off as she realized that Angeline wasn't listening, but had gone back to staring at the slowly rippling water.

Elaine sighed. She didn't know what else to do, so she reached out and put her arm around Angeline's waist and gave her a slight squeeze. Angeline shivered, even though it wasn't cold out. Her back stiffened slightly as if recoiling from Elaine's touch. Confused, but nonplussed, Elaine lets go and leans back lightly onto her fingers. She looks over at Angeline and smiles again.

Angeline smiles too now, quickly, as if it was pulled out of her. There are tears in her eyes as she reaches out and lets her hand rest on Elaine's skin, just above her knee. She leaves it there only for a minute. She takes a deep breath, staggered by tears that are ready to fall. She slips off the tiled floor and slides into the pool, breaking the reflected moon. The chlorine and water begin their work on the blue paint, but she seems not to care, dipping beneath the surface so that her even her hair gets wet. She floats back up and rolls onto her back, gracefully taking long backstrokes down the length of the pool.

Soundtrack

I think I'm going to set off on a quest. What kind of quest you ask? Only the most important and holy of quests - the musical kind. Yes, that's right, I'm going to single handedly improve the world's taste in music. I know it won't be easy, but if anyone can do it, I think it's me. After all, I have the best taste in music of anyone I know. Maybe you're thinking - but Ben, I do have good taste in music. That's because you don't know any better. But you soon will, not to worry! If you follow my advice you'll be on your way to changing the musical world. And please, don't keep this kind of enlightenment to yourself. Spread the word. You can even take credit for it if you want, as long as we can get shit off the radio for good.

Here's the recommended soundtrack for the day:

Narocolepsy - Ben Folds Five

Brown Park - Son, Ambulance

Leg Of Lamb - Queens Of The Stone Age

Moth - Failure

Across The Universe - Fiona Apple (or the original, your choice)

We Might As Well Be Strangers - Keane

Hyper Music - Muse

An Honest Mistake - The Bravery

Glory Hole - Convoj

You Owe Me an IOU - Hot Hot Heat

Haikus

Procrastination -

Should I work on my paper?

Or just take a nap?

Like the falling rain

School is quickly eroding

My will to go on

I must ask myself

How much liquor will it take

to make schoolwork fun?

The green light is out.

It will never blink again.

My printer has died.

My introduction:

accidentally deleted.

My heart has turned black.

More Papers

Have you ever started writing a paper, maybe even finished a paper early for the first time in your life, and then been faced with the realization, not that what you wrote was crap, but that you wrote completely on the wrong subject? Well...let me tell you, its not fun. Maybe there's something to reading directions after all. But you'd think that a professor would mention that he put up paper guidelines on one of the days that I attended class. Insensitive jerk.

Oh well. I'd promise updates, but I know both that I won't do it, and that no would care if I did. So I'll just indulge my porn addiction, then get straight to work.

Simplicity

I've realized now that my whole life I've been completely wrong today. ("I think I've had an apostrophe." "I think you mean an Epiphany" "Lightning has just struck my brain." "Well that must hurt.") Ever since I was about, oh, 16 I've thought that I was an incredibly complicated human being. Not only was I more intelligent then those around me (they just didn't get me) I was morally superior. While all the space monkey's around me drank or smoked themselves into a stupor, I held myself aloof from them. I mingled with them as one mingles with commoners: as a kind of game. Though I could boast that I had no enemies and many friends, I always saw myself as deeper than they were: stronger somehow. Today, it has occurred to me that I am actually an incredibly simple human being. I went grocery shopping (I've been living off bacon for the last week and a half) and almost peed my pants at all the varieties of coffee that the Teet has. Examining all the different mixes and brews I exclaimed, "OH shit!" happily to the dismay of my fellow shoppers. An old lady fixed her steely gaze on me, but what did I care? Not even stopping to beg her pardon (I'm a crazy motherfucker I know) I shoved my face as close to the grinder as was prudent and inhaled the rich aroma. Fiendishly glancing back and forth to make sure that the old lady had turned away and no one else had come near I wiped the grains off the spout and rubbed the brown mix into my hands so the smell would stick with me. I took a full 15 minutes trying to decide what to try, and for a brief, insane moment, I imagined running down the length of containers, filling my bag with a bit of each to create my own monsterous concoction. It would have been too much for me to bear I think, though, so I just went with something Columbian. I figured if they make cocaine this good they must have some pretty damn fine coffee too. Satisfied finally, I moved on to the beer isle. Here there was no confusion - here I had the intense pleasure of knowing exactly what I wanted. Guinness. God I love the Irish. Then some Asti Spumante (for the making of Black Velvets - Guinness and Sparkling Wine, I can't wait). I won't go into the joy I felt at buying meat. Oh meat how I love thee. As I drove home I was aroused, aroused I say!, by the thought that just minutes from then I would be sitting outside, enjoying the crisp fall air, reading Tolstoy, drinking Columbian coffee and smoking some fine Tobacco. What could be better? Is there more to life then this? If there is, count me out. I have found pure happiness. To hell with being deep. Simple pleasures are clearly the best when you allow yourself to enjoy them. I think I will be a Falstaff. If I die when I'm 45 of heart disease or a stroke then so be it. At least I will go out happy. My dog died fat and happy. I think I'll do the same.

To hell with it...

Jesus man, what the fuck is going on with the world? Why is every son of a bitch settling down and having 6 goddamn monkey children with the little wife? Christ, when did college end? Why are all these bastards so fucking ready to sell their souls to the corporate devil? And why is that somehow called "real life?" Well fuck real life man. I'm never going, not if they have to drag me kicking and screaming. Its a scam I say, I perverse fucking Nazi scam. They'll suck you dry and spit your husk of a corpse for your monkey children to pick apart like the depraved vultures they are. Not me man. No fucking way. Its Arizona for me, by God. Go west young man...out in the desert. Its the only damn place that's free anymore. I just can't wait until the spacelanes open - I can't wait to hop into my Ford fucking Starcruiser pay my way through those damn space tolls around Mars and then let the rest of the civilized universe eat the dust off my sandals. I'm out man. Sailing the solar winds on the Queen Anne's Revenge. Its the only way to stay sane. Christ! The authorities will be on to me of course. How could they not? They can't let someone like me get away...it'll be bedlam. When word of this gets out they'll have hell on earth. It might occur to people that living off the fat of those rich bastards is better than shoving it down their frog throats. The fuckers will riot. No stopping that. The depraved bastards will destroy everyone in their path. Women and children won't be safe. Who can blame them? After years of servile bootscraping who wouldn't be in for a little murder and rapine. Not me though. Hell, no. I'll be lightyears away making treaties with Alpha Centaurians, trading them beads for gold. Silly bastards. I'll feel guilty, sure, but a man's got to make a living.

Books and Barcodes Part I

“Hey.”

“Hey baby. I'm kind of in the middle of something, can I call you back?”

“Yeah. No. Sure, I guess. Whatever you want.”

Amy sighed on the other line. “What's the matter, pumpkin?”

“Nothing.”

“Ok, well, I've really got to -”

“It's just that that's exactly the problem. You're kind of in the middle of something. You're always kind of in the middle of something. Or I am. Either way it doesn't matter. I mean, what the hell are we doing anyway? We're not getting married, so what, really, is the point?”

“Jesus. Are you breaking up with me again?”

“Don't take the Lord's name in vain. And no, I'm not breaking up with you...you know I wouldn't break up with you over the phone. Christ, I'm not that much of an asshole.”

“Listen. I can't handle this shit anymore. Just because you hate your job, you hate your life, or whatever your fucking problem is doesn't mean that you can dangle our relationship over my head. Are you breaking up with me or not? Let's settle this thing.” She sounded serious.

“The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak,” Sam replied dryly, like it was some private sarcasm.

“Don't you start quoting the fucking Bible at me, this is serious.” Now she was really getting upset.

“What, the Bible isn't serious? The Word of God isn't a serious issue? That's the problem with you Catholics – damned Papists! - you're perfectly willing to accept the words of some pedaphilic priest, or some lunatic in Rome claiming to be God's only voice in this world, but you don't take the Holy Scripture seriously!”

“What is the matter with you? I mean, really, what the hell is the matter with you?”

“The Spirit of the Lord has departed me, and an evil spirit of the Lord torments me,” Sam said.

“Ok. Fine. Have it your way. We're done. This time we're really done. You've been wanting to do it for years, well have it your fucking way.” She hung up, probably wishing that she could slam her cellphone down. Still, Sam imagined that she pressed the End button hard enough so that it would never work properly again.

“Hmm. That didn't go well,” he muttered as he closed the phone and slipped it into his jeans pocket, where it rattled against his keys.

Big Balls

So, after a long and well fought season my intermural softball team (Team Big Balls) was finally defeated. Though we suffered a few minor setbacks early on in the season (we lost our first game 25-5) it was largely due to a lack of a pitching staff - so I stepped in to fill the void. Under my expert leadership we soundly defeated our next opponent, rocketing us into a strong position in the playoffs (we won by forfit - the team they had us scrimmage beat us 9-5). Sadly, our destiny was cut short by I bunch of whiny jerk offs who complained about everything. Its one thing to talk trash in kind of a joking way when its a real close game...its just fucking rude to talk trash when you're winning soundly. Not only to talk trash, but to complain at every pitch - if only our umpire had been willing to cheat 'cause you could tell he hated the bastards too. The worst one was their pitcher, who must have been like 38. I wanted to say something too him, but then I just thought...he'll be dead in a few years anyway. And then I laughed. Sucker.

I think we lost because of the team name. I mean, if we're going to go with the funny then we should have gone with something slightly clever like Big Tits, or Large Genitalia, y'know, something clever. Ah well, we'll be back in the spring.

Still Writing

Well I just finished a paper break for class that was THREE FUCKING HOURS LONG...I'm finally out of the ed school and I still have to suffer through its bullshit. Not only was it 3 hours, it was 3 hours of Geography. Yes. Geography. We're reading a book that says that the reason Europe had an idustrial revolution when everyone else didn't was because Europe primarily had migrations along a latitudinal line rather than longitudinal. Of course there is some basic truth to that, but I thought historians got rid of all that easy answer crap when we kicked out progressivism and marxism. I guess the Geographers are even farther behind than historians.

Anyway, still working on a paper that is now only a catchy title (The Make-Up of Man) a fun footnote making fun of catchy titles in history papers, and something of an introduction in which I forgot to introduce my argument but only gave a page of exceptionally written background. Shit. Well, I'll be at this for another several hours, so for those of you regularly checking...haha...there'll probably be several more posts throughout the night and into the wee hours of the morning.

Peace Crackahs

Writing a Paper

There is nothing more frightening than a blank page. Someone write the first paragraph for me.

Big AND Perky

If I ever go anywhere for any length of time, I always find a favorite spot. When I lived in Gloucester I had many, but the dock jutting out into one of the brackish York River tributaries was probably my favorite. Call me a dork but certain places are just good for thinking. Here at UVA, my first was against the big tree on the Lawn. Its a great tree - one of those that seem they were made purposely for leaning against. The problem is that the Lawn is just too damn public. Those of you who know me know that I hate people - especially people that I don't know, and I really hate it when they intrude into my thoughts.

So I moved. I found a great spot, behind a certain building that I'll never reveal because I've never seen anyone else back there and I don't want to start. That is, I never saw anyone else back there until just the other day. As an only somewhat reformed goody good whenever I sneak around the corner of the building I feel just a twinge of guilt and excitment - as if I were doing something wrong. Its as if I'm always expecting some maintainence man to come around the corner, having seen me through the windows, and order me to clear off. Of course this is nonsense, there's absolutely nothing even remotely wrong with me being there, but nontheless. Public Grade School, bravo, now I can't ever sneak off the beaten path without feeling guilty. Of course this does make routine shortcuts seem all the more exciting.

The space behind the building is small, as it is situated in front of a road but up a fairly steep hill, which is more like a grassy mesa with a scrub covered cliff. The trees and the height itself work well to neatly block you from view of the road, though not really from the noise sadly.

Anyway, so I was sitting back there, leaning against another tree, one not quite so big, but just as comfortable, when, as if to confirm my worst fears, a maintainence man appears. Only he didn't come from around the corner - that is, from the building, but rather he emerged like some kind of wood sprite out of the shrubbery. My immediate reaction was to freeze, but years of trespassing with friends (despite the fear that this provoked) had trained my reflexes. In just a moments time I was waving and smiling, pretending that I had every right to be there and that he should just assume so and move on. He waved and smiled back and then walked around the building and away. As I started to sigh with relief and relax, I realized that he had been waving and smiling just the same way that I had been.

My natural fear at getting caught had kept me from asking the obvious question: What the fuck had he been doing there? How had he managed to come up the hill in the first place? And why?

Maybe he has a better spot down the hill a little ways...or maybe he thought he'd found a short cut so he could hurriedly get to his maintainence man business...or maybe he was running from the law and lept up the hill to avoid pursuit. Or maybe, just maybe, he was a changeling masquerading in maintainence man form, off to perform some bit of mischief with the President's Wife.

I think it was the latter, cause I swear I saw a smile on her face the other day, and I know for damn sure Casteen didn't put it there.

Blogging

God I hate trends. I mean I really hate trends. Trends like Blogging, whatever the hell that is. I also hate hypocrites. Unfortunately, I do really like the idea, however unrealistic it may be, that the general public reads and appreciates my pretentious self-referential drivel.

Of course I'm not following the trend here. I was the trend setting. I invented blogging, or at least I was in on the ground floor. Back then we just called them websites and you had to know how to write in html in order to make them, but they were essentially the same - just without all the flash. I started writing my own webpages when I was 12 (which was in...1996? - ok maybe not that ground floor then, but close enough).

Not that anyone, including myself, really cares: I just had to have one post so I could preview the page.