Author: foxtongue

because I need distraction after being kicked in the teeth

Six-Word Reviews of 1,302 SXSW MP3s
via jwz:

“You know, when I listened to all of the 2007 and 2008 SXSW torrents, I thought that was kind of hardcore.

I was wrong.

Paul Ford is hardcore. He listened to all of the 2008 songs, all the way through, and wrote six word reviews of each.“

Brilliant reviews, even. Fun, sparkling, delightful reviews like “This guitarist has too many feelings.” rated with a well thought out yet amusingly arbitrary rating system gently broken into sections by band name anecdotes, clever charts, perceptive bon mots, and the occasional entertaining short-yet-rewarding paragraph about a particular song/artist/title/genre, like, “ANTHEM: This song by Born in the Flood is inexcusable. Consider: (1) It is called “Anthem,” and it is an anthem. (2) It sounds like Bono and the Edge riding around on Sparklehorses. (3) I can’t understand the lyrics but there’s a crown mentioned. It was heretofore considered impossible for any singer to overcome these cognitive challenges in order to create a distinct and memorable song. And yet this man does exactly that. Or to put it another way: When you were 23 and living alone without many friends and definitely no girlfriends, did you ever jerk off and cry at the same time? This is your song.”

In a word, the article was glorious. Even better, thankfully, oh so thankfully, Paul Ford has done it again. Click. Read. Enjoy.

ps. Dan‘s review, four out of five stars, “It’s difficult, living as an automaton.”

richard has the best grin on the planet

“The music business is a cruel and shallow trench, a long plastic hallway where thieves and pimps run free, and good men lie like dogs. There is also the negative side.”

-Hunter S. Thompson

I assumed, somewhat foolishly, that when Cansec was over, I’d get to rest, have a space to breathe. Apparently not. I just took a minute to chart out my next few weeks with a calendar in front of me and realized my weekends for the next month have already been assigned.

This weekend I’m going to the Juno‘s for work, bringing David along for his birthday. Next weekend, April 4-5, I’m going over to Victoria. The weekend after that, April 11-12, I’m going to be in Seattle ghosting Norwescon. The weekend after that, April 18-19, I’m again in Victoria with Ray, Nicole, and maybe Wayne to drop in on Esme and Nicholas, who has a gig. Then again the weekend after that, April 25-16, for his next gig, playing strip-club funk at Monty’s, and, even more bizarrely, for the grand opening of the Victoria Lawn Bowling Club, which has apparently been completely taken over by oddball hacker friends who all wanted a shot at the Olympics and free downtown parking.

Given this sort of schedule, I’m not sure when I intend to eventually sleep. Perhaps when I’m dead. Or better, when I’m dancing. Mercy knows I need the exercise, given how erratically/oddly I’ve been eating. First there came the week of meat, then the weekend of ice-cream breakfasts topped with chocolate and raspberry liqueur. Nothing I would ever complain about, though I am beginning to forget what a vegetable looks like, except that now that I’m not continually on my feet, all I want to do is sort of laze around until my break down the door weekends, an option that, though attractive, will simply Not Do. So, given that I work nine to five, and Tuesdays are Secret Film School, who wants to go swimming?

you make me feel so happy, so real. you beautiful moment in my life, as we wrinkle in time, so let’s stretch this thing out

the darkest of the darkest purple

Our Lady of the Metaphor, as discovered by Vandonovan in the truly terrible novel, Silk & Steel:

So, let’s pretend it’s pretty late and you’re doing a little light reading before bed, as you sometimes do. This book is one that you bought used probably fifteen years ago and it has sat on your shelf since then. Now, you’ve decided to read it and within the first page you realize it’s one of those fantasy novels, written by a man who wants to idolize his fantasy princess dream woman. But after he gets past describing her in chapter one you think, okay. Maybe there’s a good story in this book anyway.

Anyway, it’s only 200 pages, so even if it’s awful it’ll be quick.

So it’s late. You’re about halfway finished with the book. The princess has met the faerie king and he’s brought her to the faerie court! She’s met the faerie wives! And you turn the page and come across this:

Also see:

  • explaining the twinkly Mormon plot of Twilight by stoney321
  • “books to make my flist’s heads explode: John Ringo” by hradzka.

    • space bat puts a pang of happy into my heart

    Shuttle-Riding Bat Dies The Most Glorious Death Imaginable:

    On a cool spring eve March 15th, 2009 a bat, crippled and wistful, clung to the Space Shuttle Discovery as it was thrust toward the great beyond. Goodbye and godspeed, my magnificent Spacebat.

    At some point during the countdown, Spacebat—a Free-Tailed Chiroptera—was spotted latched to the foam of the external fuel tank, occasionally moving but never letting go. Wildlife experts deduced that he had injured his wing and shoulder, leaving him with little chance of survival. He remained on the tank until launch. NASA’s cold report?

    The animal likely perished quickly during Discovery’s climb into orbit.

    True! But here’s how it should have read:

    Bereft of his ability to fly and with nowhere to go, a courageous bat climbed aboard our Discovery with stars in his weak little eyes. The launch commenced, and Spacebat trembled as his frail mammalian body was gently pushed skyward. For the last time, he felt the primal joy of flight; for the first, the indescribable feeling of ascending toward his dream—a place far away from piercing screeches and crowded caves, stretching forever into fathomless blackness. Whether he was consumed in the exhaust flames or frozen solid in the stratosphere is of no concern. We know that Spacebat died, but his dream will live on in all of us.

    and it’s root root root for the home team

    A shoal of robotic fish which can detect pollution in the water are set to released into the sea off Spain.

    Does anyone in Portland have a spare couch Jon from the UK could use for a couple of days next week? He’s spent the last few days at my place, an exemplary guest, Vancouver being the first stop in his couch surfing trip down the Pacific coast, all the way to Mexico.

    Extreme Sheep Herding: What happens when you cover sheep in nets of LEDs and play pong with them.

    today: plus ten for attending the lock-picking session. minus several hundred for missing breakfast.

    Matt “blackbelt” Jones is a clever, clever man, enough so that his spiffy keen blog is in my bookmark folder marked Required Reading right next to my favourite traveler, adventurer and corporate anthropologist, Jan Chipchase. Today’s good news: Matt’s wicked design reaction to Keep Calm and Carry On, Get Excited and Make Things, has been turned into a t-shirt!


    For Men. For Women.

    No, I can’t twitter from there. I do not have a mobile phone.


    A new comic in The Secret Knots: “On Spam“

    Morning just wasn’t sporting today. Dinner last night, an improbable feast of only meat, cowboy delivered by sword to each table, led into a punishing bout of intense karaoke that lasted until an unwholesome, head smashing o’clock in the morning. I slept poorly at the hotel in a spare bed on the 19th floor offered by someone who lacks a real name, certain I should have simply tried to stay awake for tradition’s sake, curled up on the 31st floor, quick in a couch, a chatting apostle at the altar of party, until dawn wedged streaky fingers into the surgical gray sky.

    Tonight instead, perhaps. Tomorrow almost certainly. Tonight, though, Dragos may have my house keys, but I’m not going back until later, until after I go home and dye my hair, charge my damned camera battery, and cook dinner with David. (It pained me almost physically to be on the rooftop deck of the Wall Center penthouse and not be able to take pictures.) I need rest. I am yawning at my desk, half baked, certain that I have not been eating enough to keep myself cohesive, and my eyes are trying to lock closed when I blink. No matter the addictive charm or ballistic voltage offered by CanSec, I am not quite caught up with myself for unrestricted thrills.

    Hacker loses finger in motorcycle accident, replaces it with USB drive.