In Defense of Starship

Rolling Stone recently released a list of the ten worst hits of the 80s, and, once again, “We Built this City” took the top spot.

This annoys me.

Not because it’s the best song ever – it’s a fluffy little Pop tune, c’mon – but because it’s just another rehash of a 2004 list that defunct Blender Magazine threw together with no real criteria. It basically amounted to an editor asking folks “What songs annoy you?”, and then sorting the list based on how much he agreed with the answers.

A fun thing to do is to go through someone’s iPod and try and figure out what songs are on there ironically (unless it’s a Hipster’s mix tape, then they all are). I have “We Built this City” on my player, and it’s not ironic at all. I like the thing. It’s the typical lament of teenagers about being misunderstood and marginalized by the older generations, set to a catchy rhythm. To me, the whole thing is a complaint that the creative energy that fuels the younger generations is also the source of the innovation and advancement which “built this city”, but that it has been co-opted and exploited by the more conservative, faceless corporate community. And I think that no line – in this or any other song – better illustrates that than:

“Marconi plays the mambo”

I remember when I first heard the song; I was absolutely stunned by that implications of that line. That this 21-year-old Italian kid created a revolutionary, world-changing technology – just so he could dance.

I was fifteen, smack in the middle of my formative years, and that idea sparked a lifelong fascination with the intersection of Pop Culture and technology. I chased down bands that were integrating electronics into their styles (very easy to find in the 80s), sought out cutting edge fiction (leading to Cyberpunk, naturally), and read magazines like MONDO 2000 (when I could find them). Now, sites like Acceler8or, ThinkGeek, BoingBoing, and Wired are the windows through which we can watch the integration of technology and humanity. The question is: Are we, as people, becoming more machinelike? Or is the tech becoming more organic?

Both.

Scientists are even now experimenting with a fungus that changes colors as the basis of a memory-storage system, and thousands upon thousands of people are walking around with pacemakers or artificial limbs. I refer to my smart phone as my external brain – and I’m only half-kidding. You can get your pets (or your kids!) chipped so you can GPS them if they get lost, and Japan has built robots that acquire knowledge like children, learning from mistakes. Then there's this bit from today: http://www.post-gazette.com/pg/11283/1181062-53.stm

Conventional wisdom holds that porn is the driving force behind all technological leaps. As a species, we really like it, and are constantly looking for ways to deliver it faster and more realistically. The first fully-functional neural net/Waldo suit will be a sex toy, delivering perfect partners in perfect environments with perfect results every time.

The second one will be for dancing.

iSoul

I turned on my MP3 player the other day and asked it to Shuffle the playlist. The first nine songs it returned were:

Hell - Squirrel Nut Zippers
Devils & Angels - Toby Lightman
Christian Woman - Type O Negative
Devil Woman - Cliff Richard
Kyrie - Mr. Mister
Son of a Preacher Man - Dusty Springfield
If You Wanna get to Heaven - Ozark Mountain Daredevils
Sympathy for the Devil - The Rolling Stones
Rock and Roll Heaven - Alan O'Day

That can't be random.

Now I'm frightened of the AI that controls my player, and I can't decide if it believes in Free Will or Predestination.

I'm just relieved that Zeppelin's "Stairway to Heaven" didn't show up on the list, because I don't have a copy of that.

Maybe I shouldn't have bought the stupid thing at a crossroads.

A Little of This; A Little of That

Arby’s is running one of the lamest promotions ever. Their combo meals are priced at $5.01, and they’re distributing coupons good for 1¢ off. The accompanying tagline is “Worth Every Cent!” So…your food is worth the one penny the coupon covers? The coupon that’s not redeemable for cash? Doesn’t that technically make the food worthless? Too often the 2 A.M. brilliant marketing hook shrivels and dies in the harsh light of an 8 A.M. management meeting. This should have been one of those times.

I’d like to meet the person in charge of programming the music for our “Local on the 8s” Weather Channel segments. While most go for muted, stately orchestral pieces, our guy (it has to be a guy) chooses tracks from Steve Vai, Eric Johnson, and Joe Satriani. Not only am I sure it’s a dude picking these out, he has to be a Gen X-er, because those are all 80s guitar gods. I keep hoping for some Queensryche to underscore our Doppler.

I’m in the process of paying off the debt incurred during eighteen months of unemployment, and it’s kind of nerve-wracking, especially when dealing with credit card companies. Their license to anally rape their customers expires next February, so calling them is like sticking a finger in the piranha tank to test the water temperature. You barely get your account number out before they’re peppering you with questions about current contact information, place of employment, next of kin, aliases you might be using, message boards you read, and your Twitter handle. I dutifully gave over all of that at first, but then I realized Hey…why do they need all this? We have one relationship – fiduciary – and that’s coming to an end with this call (I’m paying them, not declaring bankruptcy, just to make that clear). With that insight, I’ve decided to totally fuck with them. I’m hoping the conversation will go like this:

“Thank you for calling Ben Dover & Smyle. How can I help you?”
“Hi. I’m calling to pay off my balance. My account number is [digits here].”
“Okay. And is your address still [blah blah blah]?”
“Well, sort of. I’m living in a rusted-out Mini-Winnie in the field behind the place. But Dave, the owner, throws my mail in the recycle bin instead of the garbage, so I can still read any letters you send me since they’re not covered in his secret sauce. That’s not a euphemism, by the way; Dave makes his living by entering barbecue chicken contests across the South.”
“Oooooo…kay. And how about a phone number?”
“I’m using Dave’s phone right now. He’s in Tuscaloosa until Thursday, so I forced my way into his wife’s back door. That’s not a euphemism, by the way; she has her own room off the deck, and the sliding door doesn’t latch right ever since the trailer slipped off the masonry block and threw the whole frame off plumb.”
“Where are you currently employed?”
“I’m in a band called Chuck U. Farley and the Horse He Rode in on. That is a euphemism, by the way. We do techno remixes of Barry Manilow songs. I play the banjo.”
[stunned silence]
“It’s a niche market.”
“Uh…anything steadier? Maybe with an address?”
“There’s the clinic where I sign up for all the drug trials. I try to stick to ones for new pills because a doctor examines you for those, and that’s like having insurance, you know? Sometimes I sign up for three or four at the same time because it’s an easy hundred bucks a month. I used to sell blood, too, but I can’t anymore because my liver’s failing from all the pills. On the other hand, my sperm count is way up. Doesn’t really help me, though. Since I stopped drinking, I‘ve noticed that there aren’t any pretty women at the bar anymore.”
“Uh…”
“Can we hurry this up? I’ve got a Bat Mitzvah in an hour and still need to tune my banjo for I Write the Songs. Did you know Barry didn’t write that? That’s what college folk and Alanis Morissette would call “irony.” I used to not know that. I think these pills are making me smarter.”

This is how my brain works

Whenever I see this:

I think of this:

Sing those songs that offend the censors

I was listening to the All Request show on our local oldies station while I cleaned up the kitchen tonight. The station has a broad format, playing anything from the 50s to the early 80s, so it’s entirely possible to hear The Four Tops followed by Cream followed by ABBA followed by Mr. Mister.

At one point, “Money for Nothing” by Dire Straits came on. I was mildly annoyed that they trimmed off the overture until Sting’s final, drawn-out “I want my MTV” right before the drums kick in. I was really annoyed that someone had elected to excise the entire second verse, presumably because it contains the word “faggot.”

I’ve had gay people explain to me that they felt threatened by the “tyranny of the majority,” which I feel is an excellent, valid point. Mob rule, as a rule, is not big on logic and nuance. But does that mean we should immediately capitulate to the tyranny of the minority? No it does not. Demanding that everyone else conform to your particular worldview is the mark of an asshole, regardless of whether you’re in the majority or the minority.

When the song was released, there was also some minor controversy over the line “Bangin’ on the bongos like a chimpanzee.” I suppose the infinite number of monkeys managed to put together a protest letter before finishing up that draft of “The Tempest,” and I’m sure a bunch of gals objected to the line in the chorus “Get your chicks for free,” too.

Jesú Criste, people…lighten. the. fuck. up. It’s a damn song. The whole thing is told from the perspective of a blue-collar worker who’s envious of the apparent easy lifestyle of rock stars. Mark Knopfler actually wrote it in a hardware/custom kitchen store, and the lyrics are direct quotes from the staff, who were watching MTV at the time. And really, do you honestly think that someone will change their entire outlook on certain sections of humanity because of a catchy backbeat and a nifty guitar hook? People either already agree with the sentiments, or accept it as just another tune to drum along with on the steering wheel and won’t let it affect how they treat other people.

This whole damn country has lost its perspective. No one seems to have any kind of gradations in their feelings anymore. Notice how I reacted to the editing of the song up there at the top? I was annoyed. Not raging, not inconsolable, certainly not offended. Annoyed. I didn’t fire off a letter to the editor, didn’t call the station and threaten a boycott of their advertisers because they were denying me my “right” to enjoy the entire song, and didn’t start an action group and apply for Federal funding. I didn’t even change the station. I just shook my head and wondered when we became such thin-skinned wusses that we feel threatened by a fucking song lyric.

I blame the S.L.A. The Simian Lesbian Association. You know…the chimp chick faggots.

“Voila” is French for “Ta Da!”

The above koan is a gift from Kitten.

I was reminded today how much I truly love technology; a friend with stronger Google-Fu than I sent me some movies I had been trying to track down. When I opened the envelope and the discs slid into my paws, labeled with his neat handwriting, I fell into reminiscing about afternoons spent next to my AM/FM/Cassette recorder – blank tape cued up – diving for the Record button after every commercial break or station identification, because that one song was going to come on soon, and I didn’t want to miss a single note of it. Back then, the deejays didn’t talk over the entire intro or fade another song into the ending bars, so it was entirely possible to get a perfect capture if you were quick enough.

I remember making a big sign for my door that said “QUIET! RECORDING!” because my player had an external microphone, and would record any ambient noise along with the music. Many a pre-teen hissy fit was thrown because I had finally gotten a song I’d wanted, only to hear on the playback my mother calling me to dinner, or my dad pushing the lawnmower past my bedroom window. I really wanted one of those lighted “On Air” signs to mount in the hallway so everyone would know to be quiet, but they were beyond the price range of my $3 a week allowance, and no amount of hints or wheedling caused one to materialize under the Christmas tree.

When I was a little older, I got a new stereo system with a dual tape deck for my birthday. “Now you can get rid of that old one,” my Mom said, looking askance at the battered soldier on the desk in the corner. The plastic over the radio band guide was too scratched to read through, but it didn’t matter because the selector indicator didn’t move back and forth anymore. It was fine for me because I knew where the stations were in relation to one another, and could find the one I was looking for pretty quickly. The antenna was long gone, probably a casualty of falling off of my bicycle in transport to our latest fort, so I had some cheap wire leading from the antenna mount, taped up along the molding, and run out through the top window. The battery compartment cover was held on with scraps of electrical tape, and the cassette door was held to the frame by a nail.

Get rid of it? Unthinkable! Many an awesome mix tape had been patiently compiled on that machine. I could no more get rid of it than I could my left arm.

Besides…I had plans.

My new system had tripled my deck capacity, and I already knew how I was going to exploit it. I took some of my birthday money (Dear Aunt Ida, Thank You for the Money and the Card, but Mostly the Money) and bought a multi-pack of Radio Shack Red-Label High-Fidelity Audio Recording cassettes. That was the secret to my mixing success, by the way; all my other friends bought the blue label cassettes. Not that they were any worse in quality (they were all pretty mediocre), but the Blues were only sixty minutes long, and the Reds were ninety.

Later that evening, I tuned into American Top 40. I waited as Casey Kasem counted ‘em down, and when there were forty-five minutes left in the show, I pressed Record on Old Faithful and walked away, quietly shutting the door behind me.

I now had forty-five minutes’ worth of perfect captures – sure, it had commercials and Casey’s intros – but I had between four and six more songs on my cassette than my friends did on theirs. And with the new stereo system, I could dub those songs straight onto another cassette. Since I could pause either deck while I was recording, I was able to fill the entire cassette with music, never overdubbing or leaving long gaps between songs.

Not long after that, our record stores started carrying “Cassingles,” which were the deck equivalent of 45s, and I was over the moon. Studio-perfect songs that I could collect onto my own blanks – TDK Crystals by this point – with a much bigger selection than was available over the airwaves. I was probably in 8th or 9th grade before I ever bought a real album on cassette, preferring to make my own.

I’d go off to sleep watching the LEDs on the new stereo system track the beat, changing from green to red as the bass pulsed, while the flickering, fading red-orange glow of the power supply on the other side of the room reassured me that my old comrade-in-arms was there in the corner, faithfully monitoring the airwaves for me.

Because that one song was going to come on soon.

Trivial

Apart from being featured in today's blog, what do these three videos have in common?