reality tv of the future pt1

November 29, 2008

reality tv is perhaps the most perfect entertainment that could ever be devised.  the plots approach shakespeare in their terrible momentum.  alcohol greases the bearings of these shuddering human engines, swinging like pendulum from surly drunk to remorseful hangover.  the chemical cocktail of hormones, seratonin, and booze boils over in the vein, finding enemy upon enemy in the closest surroundings.  violence and sex are a thin sod over the fiery mantle of pure human will that lies beneath.  these people would eat each other and rape the others with their sun-bleached bones.  you and i would, too.

poverty becomes the perfect feast for the insatiable pack of starved wolverines that is the ideal reality tv audience.  promises of wardrobe, free alcohol, fame, and suprisingly small amounts of money nonwithstanding, these shows are simply offering a place to live and be yourself to the willing.  more than these understandable physiological and psychological needs, they offer something that used to be achievable only through years of internal reflection and painfully slow stages of self-awareness. they offer nothing less than becoming totally self-actualized.  you show up joe dipshit and exit joe2.0, joe-for-the-future.  joe-as-seen-on-motherfucking-tv-motherfucker.  you will drink and fuck for free for the rest of your life.  you will be famous.  you will be adored.

eventually, poverty will be seen as the crime it truly is, and the impoverished will be gathered and screened for their inherent entertainability.  the best ones will be set upon each other naked in a beautiful house with oversized beanbags and neon exclamation points, with a billion dollars of alcohol, cocaine, protein, and meth. the naked drunkards will be branded and tagged, attached to one another with leg irons like a modern chain gang, and carted around from bar to concert in hummer limos.  they will be exempt from every law, given weapons, sterilized and given full constitutional rights to rape, eat, and murder anyone they want.  perhaps one of these scandalous bitches ‘accidentally’ catches an axe to the face from another member of the crew.  no problem, the other members will simply have to drag the rotting corpse from red carpet to car show in penitence for their shame.  a real moral to the story.

these shows will have names like ‘darwin’s posse’ and ‘da gizzang’.

the angry constant eye of my tv already feels lonely for the future.  it remembers the recent, dismal past of talk show and documentary.  it looks at the pathetic shadow of the present- where normal folk drink and date, maybe pull each other’s hair a little and scream.  it drools on its haunches for a time when people will pull the spanish tiles up out of their multi-million dollar network-supplied bathroom suites to brain their chain-mate for using their mascara without asking.  i wait with it.  i’m working on picking out the right 5 dollar california shiraz to drink over a meal of strip-steak and murder.

i’m moving to hollywood.  it won’t be a big move, since i already live in sherman oaks.

america america america america

90’s hair.  smoothed out edges.  deep saturated colors muted.  OHAI sfx lettuce facepunch.  jangle guitars and dynamic dialogue edits.  cuba gooding jr. screaming and more screaming.

tom cruise can sell and spit these lines.  as much of a cliche as this must have seemed, the reality following was much more extreme.  cuba would be wearing a platinum chain with his face carved in it these days.  well, maybe 2 years ago.

so this is the kindling for 96, the long acceleration of the bull market.  renee zellweger looks like a human being.  this feels like the segue from the dour early 90s irony into the pop explosions of the high dollar late 90s.  it starts early 90s and ends late 90s.  WERE ALL GONNA GET RICH AND LAID!! HAHA.

this kid.  wow they had to edit the crap out of that to make it seem like tom and him had some kind of connection. 

tom cruise makes a sad john cusack.  cameron crowe makes these serious white middle class movies where the middle class extends its ease all the way from the lowliest single mom with seven jobs to the corporation owner.  they are all middle class.  we are all americans and we all shop at jcrew.  the sunglasses and cellphones are just our cover.  we are one.  united.

always a scene of making a fool of oneself in the road.  ironic music.

say anything was probably the first 90s movie.

this style has no place now.  the editing is too slow, the colors are too muted, the funny isn’t screaming hilarious enough and the poignant isn’t brutal enough.  nobody dies.  nobody is a pedophile.  nobody loses their condo and sleeps in the trash.  everyone wears ll bean.

how would this have felt in 1996?  not for me-i was in an unreachable state.  i would have stabbed someone in the heart for suggesting a trip to this movie.

deep within the clinton years.  nafta and the embargos against iraq.  simmering conflicts that erupted into shootings and bombings to assert our viability as a military world power.

now tom is showing how good he is with the kid.  slow pan in on renee’s face as the eno-ish music swells up.  she can sell this moment a billion times.  brava.  ah it’s a bruce springsteen song.

i don’t know how much more of this i can take.  one hour to go.

big american kiss in front of suburban doorway.  soft back lighting so they glow like la pieta.  laugh laugh.  the restraint of tom cruise.  he always looks like he’s gonna punch someone in the face.  the music, ten years later this would be a band ‘found’ by alex patsavas but i gather it’s score here.  this scene is as bad as watching a slow motion cumshot with big greasy close-up genitals.  thank god that’s over.

tom cruise might be the most awkward person in the world.  do that many women want to have sex with a gay man?  while mingus plays in the background?  yeah tom, better turn it off.

more jcrew.  more flannel.  flannel was where the middle class regains its working class union soul.  it’s pure 90s soul. 

i cant take it any more.  im gonna start saying these lines in pithy situations “SHOW ME THE MONEYS” and “help me… help me…help you”.   just so everyone knows i’m a fucking dickhead.

40 minutes to go.

the guy always talking about jazz was supposed to be me.  That’s me written into this movie.  a little browner and greyer than the others, maybe he’s stoned, always a quote about coltrane.  that’s my archtype in the 90s.  someone’s mother would have seen that movie and said to me “You’re like that guy in jerry macguire! the one who gives jerry the jazz tape!”  yep, that’s me, and thanks for noticing that i represented a subculture that could become a running joke in a hit movie.

i really can’t stand another minute.  but i must soldier through for the sake of my blog.  editing…too…slow…

ok i started playing flash games online.  sorry.  back to work.  how many minutes left…30 FUCK.  i can’t deal.

can’t take it.  can’t take the heat.  now they’ve powdered the fuck out of renee’s face.  the light is pale to reflect the sad dawning of reality.

i apologize for this blog.  this was a bad idea.  i need to take a bath and cry now.  23 minutes left.  can i do it?  will i be in the proud majority of 32 year old white middle class people who have seen this movie?  what constitutes ‘seeing’ a movie, statistically?  does it require fully watching it from start to finish?  can i duck out?

UPPIN THE ANTE with this injury.  19 minutes left.  they did it!  they threw the hail mary!  WHAT ARE THE CHANCES OF SOMETHING SO HEARTWARMING HAPPENING?  15 minutes left.  14 minutes left.  13

i have no insights left.  never had any.  i am walking through a desert. 

here’s the big tearful finale.  “YOU COMPLETE ME”  “YOU HAD ME AT HELLO”  ok i had to climb the tree to grab those coconuts.  had to do it.   9 minutes left.  home stretch.  cue the bob dylan and head off into the grassy fields of yore.

i’ve done my time

lust and sugar

November 28, 2008

we tear off the remains of what hang out there and bring it in here. 

we bake it and pour butter on top of it and theorize about roller coasters and what we must do to make the gravity work in our favor.  downward spirals, saddle loops, centerfuges.  we throw sugar carmelizing like steel workers, we weave forms like mathemetician spiders.  we capture our fly and draw cuts on him and wrap him up.  he dies.

there is a space wider than the ocean, than the stars, made of dark strands of butter through the oily sugar.  it looks like neurons, like connective tissue, holding an arm to a shoulder and through the breast to a beating black heart pumping spikes of cotton candy out at the speed of light for a billion miles.  we have written ourselves into our eyes watching the universe, and the universe has responded by making fractal our senses.  we split a photon, a vibration, a molecule into irreducible qualities.   we taste and vomit nebulae.

my universe is completed and voided in a pomegranate, and made mundane by the time the peel glistens in the sun.  it’s no big deal that the infinite world has made this shape that has infinite permutive resonance throughout every other shape.  those seeds are toxic waste, they feed naught but a virus that flickers through life for an instant and then is subsumed unto the greater pattern.

proteins write this blog, they pull the letters out of my fingers and through my synapses.  this blog writes my personality and roots-out builds me from dendrite to skin.  you are reading me, creating me with every second, the words resonating in your head have created this blog, this photon, this friend, this person.  you are creating this day and the apple you will eat.

you are light, you are lust, you are obliterated and sent behind another version of yourself and eclipsed and made penumbra and rainbow.  you are a web of sugar spoken to in a different language with only verbs and nouns.  you are tendrils of carmel dripping from the branches of reality, rotted into alcohol and evolved into a society of bark and blade.  you are growing out of yourself.  you are growing out of and into me.  we percieve only each other, only ourselves. 

we are a recursive mirror echoing off into a terminal state where initial deviation leads to negation of initial form.  and an end has finally been reached.

red wine and chocolate chips

November 28, 2008

dry red wine and plain ol chocolate chips.  it’s amazing.  the flavors do not complement each other, rather acting as a pallete cleanser to one another.  each mouthful of chips tastes like the first time you’ve had them, and the red wine obliterates the sugary taste off of your tounge.  the after taste is warm, complex, and severely, wonderfully hollow and imbalanced, much like liquor fudge.   you don’t need any goddamn expensive wine, either.  any 5 dollar bottle will do.

the trick is this-you have to strictly alternate.  take two handfuls of chocolate chips in a row, or two sips of wine, and your mouth wonders wtf you are doing to it, because you’re veering away from the aftertaste too far in the same direction.  two sips of wine tastes vile, chemical, and two chomps of chocolate tastes narcotic, decadent, like you can feel your teeth rotting.  one after another is like a well-executed fourth species counterpoint, where each flavor makes a suspension into the next harmonic area, which is then resolved as another suspension is being set up.

the hollow musical harmony of these two tastes is like an open chord voice, like a stack of a root and lower fifth, with a tenth and some set of exotic extentions another octave above.  i guess a perfumer would say it has two heavy ‘top notes’, the dark sweetness and the deep fruit alcohol. 

if you don’t drink wine, you can do the same thing with fruit, especially oranges and grapes.

the slumberer awakes from the underwater city!

a billion rejoicing new cases of psychosis turn their tinfoil helmets to the north.  is it HAARP?  is it the aliens? 

bill o’r’lyeh combs back his face tentacles and puts on his calvin coolidge mask for another episode.  the human gristle is loaded into the gaping orifice of the networks for one more peripatetic chug which births factories as it accelerates across the seas, floating factories where chemical engineers are busy at massive vats.  the chambers are sealed with twins and quadruplets seperated in a round with aging eugeneticists and their genetic intellectual kin.  a hole opens up in the tiled ceiling and a holographic plate drops through with perforated holes in its cylindrical perimeter.

the holographs whir into life, as a colorless gas emits from the baseplates.  a shape forms on the oblong mirror whirling faster than sight.  a tiny woman of eurasian descent, begins screaming about “HATERS” and “HATERATERS” and “LET YOUR HATERS BE YOUR MOTIVATORS” as she hazily outlines a cult of personality defining herself.

this young woman, of course, is being beamed in from her test tube in santa monica, california, where she has been audience tested.  the new method includes strapping electrodes to the prostate glands of heterosexual men in addition to measuring the saliva production and pupilary dilation of prepubescent girls.  it’s a foolproof method.  the only side effects are that it gradually reduces the viewer to an infantile state.  these side effects are welcome.

cthulhu began directly influencing the billionaire media congolmerates through dreams and toxins that he excreted into the pacific ocean.  untestable because they are unknown quantities of exotic proteins, they work their way into the human biomass through sushi.  soon after this started happening, there was a revolution in focus groups.  the masters began hypothesizing that they could predict the infantile state and create a test audience in a test tube, and then feed the subjects to each other when they got too old.

those are the twins and quadruplets.  their brains become soiled and too easy from being barraged with this information, so they are only good for a few minutes of unadulterated viewing.  the average american tv watcher is soiled beyond repair.  you give them the right cues, and they will buy guns to shoot their mothers.  this would be quite handy, except that capital always needs NEW markets, new ways to persuade the last heating, rent, and food money out of the consumer.  the husk of humanity with its terrible dreams of wealth and love is then discarded.

so we switch course, switch tack, take a new approach.  drugs are added to the water supply, stars insipid beyond a retarded lemur are chewed up, spit onto reality shows, and then retired to communities where they can drink and eventually start car dealerships or kill themselves. 

cthulhu has recently begun union organizing these enclaves of discarded celebutantes.  he has been making them dream of fires and burning men in suits and labcoats.  his wrath is perfect and poetic.   the political commentators who notice these trends are also fed to the masses as specials on meat at costco.  they holler and whip their constituents into a frenzy, which logically leads to their own consumption.  every commentator knows this, and has sidled up to the dread lord of insanity hoping for a seat at the throne.

utopian sherman oaks

November 24, 2008

i wake up with the sun and check the plants.  grab some chamomile off the lawn for tea, maybe see if there’s some coffee left.  the animals are already awake, running back and forth trying to keep the squirrels out.  the crops sedate the air, from the low-lying peppers and sqaushes to the regal marijuana and corn plants.  the trees hold sway over the still hot dryness of the morning.  i grab an apple and a fig and head out to get some water. 

the DWP has since converted into a desalinating nanofiltration system, but they lack decent delivery methods, so they’ve set up stations at five-mile increments.  for me, that means i have to grab my bike and head out daily to grab my 15 gallons of water.  the paths are set up for this, tho, there’s an electric rail going through the center, and wide paths where hazeltine used to be.  these are lined, too, with crops of all kinds, plots set up and maintained for the commonwealth.  it’s a struggle to keep homeless people out of there, but the need for that is declining as housing stabilizes.

i haven’t seen a car or airplane in 5 years. 

i get my water, grab a chicken sandwich from a stand.  the chickens come from 4 miles away, in a communal run where they are tagged genetically.  that stands where the 101 used to be.  all that highway was converted into pasture. 

people look at each other, compare methods of growing things.  the seasons are understood.  the power is local and we don’t want for anything.  the world is overflowing with intellectual energy focused on how to solve the lasting problems of the last three centuries.  the powerful are in the street laughing and arguing with everyone else, their money has been totally replaced by wealth.  discourse and public discussion is at an all time high.  there are no slaves or wage slaves, because technology has replaced them.  new technology is weighed for its contribution to the totality of a susatinable human race, and debated and voted upon locally.

algae is grown for fuel and scrubs the air.  we make degradable plastics from it, which creates our computers.  the computers of the 20th century, with their toxic monitors and energy guzzling fans and lights, are a thing of the past. 

nature is recovering.  travel is done for spiritual enlightenment.  science, art and technology have become the same thing.

i ride home and make some soup, am surrounded by my wife, my friends and animals.  we check our batteries and algae tanks to see if we can record in the night.  there’s enough for us to stay up until dawn growing and evolving our genres.  we program, learn parts, argue, take drugs and drink.  i fall asleep between the rows of bok choy and wake up with ant-bites all over my leg.  i take a quick shower and play some video games.

bad neighbors are like a constant rain of piss, drizzle enough to make little rivers in the street stinking and steaming yellow in the night.  it never rains heavy, it’s not your life, but you can even hear it drip through the walls,  you can hear the tires outside sticking to the pavement.  you know that you have to go out there, to smell it and have it seep through the soles of your shoe.  you have to see that sad face, that angry alcoholic.  that failure festering and exploding beside you.

they would start screaming at night, at 11 at night, and not stop until the early morning.  like a fucking idiot i’d go over there and explain that i was trying to help my fiancee get some sleep, that we didn’t have the consitution to lay awake listening to their loud obvious tragedy.  that worked a couple times. 

the time it didn’t work, the woman came out and looked up at me with her dead sad eyes.  “he’s verbally abusive”.  but all the humanity was gone out of me.  i felt like a meat packer must feel like looking at a PETA video.  “yep that’s it”  and then see the bolt slam through their head in your mind, another day, another death, and nobody blinks an eye.

someday maybe there will be too many fucking people finally, and the hungry will eat the sad.  perhaps the sad will then have the good sense to take care of themselves.  i have hope for the human race.

so now we live a few miles away.  we don’t share a wall, there’s a garden, there’s more animals and plants and less sadness.  it may not last forever, but it’s nice for right now.

i want to break my brain apart, so that the constituent neurons must reform in a wider web. 

i want to upgrade my goddamn ram. 

 i can feel, tangibly, the limits of my intelligence.  they translate into patience, memory, and speed.  when i solve a problem in my head, i’m always running up against these things.  one has to be able to appraise the entire problem with speed, have the patience to hold the whole problem object in the brain, and have the memory to remember the benefits and limits of solutions one has explored.  expanding these capabilities must be possible.  drugs, maybe, but i’m going to say that i think we have much more capacity for use than we are ever aware of.

so can sound be a way of transforming the mind? 

they say mozart makes you more intelligent, concentrate harder, etc.  this must be the tip of the iceberg.  in mozart and beethoven, you can ‘hear shapes’ such as themes, or harmonic structures that are then manipulated and turned around, making visible intangible thought processes such as ‘seeing something from a different angle’, or ‘stretching an idea’.  these are common facets of music.  in bach, the parsimony of the theme becomes something that often creates the entire foreground and background of music, the equivalent of, say, having a statue of an ant made out of ants.  not only that, but he builds cities of ants, civilizations, theories and languages.

sadly, there is a limit to what the mind can percieve.  with very complex music, the inner workings can get lost to the listener.  it’s arguable that nobody can really hear the inner workings of serial music.  there’s the famous story about a musician misplaying schoenberg in rehearsal and confronting him with the fact (ps.  what a douchebag).  schoenberg said (paraphrasing) ‘i couldn’t tell the difference, but perhaps your children will be able to’.  that’s some eugenics at work.

we almost have absolute control over sound at this point.  we have the ability to create perfect dynamics, perfect timbres, perfect manipulations in time, dynamics, and timbre.  we can sample, resample, and synthesize pretty much anything.  there’s a bit of space left to explore with resynthesis and digital hacking of sound, but those are quickly being chewed through with love and vigor.

the next advances in music will not be in these areas.  they will instead be in the areas of structuring sound,  finding and creating meaning through the interplay of change in timbre, dynamics, and time. 

with computing, you can in essence create a brain smarter than your own in order to appraise a problem and then solve it.  you could make models of life, growth, chaos and death, and show how a consciousness (a theme, for instance) would be changed by death.  you can create a way to make yourself smarter, by inventing a small problem, abstracting it, structuring a decision process, and then solving a bigger problem via the computer, and then studying the result of that. 

hacking the brain.

so first off i don’t actually have anywhere close to a billion dollars.   i hover at any one time around the 4 figure mark, with heady ascents into 5 figures that quickly become depressing slogs through 3 figure doldrums.  but that won’t stop me from robbing and murdering, raping even, to get a billion dollars for the person who solves this puzzle.

we need to consider two things:  the pacific ocean garbage patch and nanotech.  the pacific ocean garbage patch (google it, i’ll wait) is a massive, texas-sized patch of plastic trash floating in the middle of the pacific ocean.  it’s replacing a significant portion of the food chain, and basically insuring our demise on the planet.  now before you go and hang yourself…

the other consideration is nanotechnology, which promises riches such as molecular sized filters that will scrub water of their toxins, creating the next revolutions in manufacturing, war, food, etc.

so will someone plz make a atom-machine that we can dump in the goddamn ocean and degrade the plastic quicker?  THX  for my part, i promise to bone up the dough.  who cares how i do it.

5 pet household

November 23, 2008

1. gordon.  the aleph of our marital pet lexicon.  he’s big, too big for some, small among rotweilers, who gave him half of his genes.  he is a human in a dog suit.  we ask him with utter sincerity ‘when are you going to take off that dog suit?’ and he looks at us with a humor borne of tragedy.  because he knows it can never be.  he can listen to all the stockhausen in the world, but he is stuck at the apex of dogdom-domesticated to be sensitive like a ten year old child, confused while lustily indulging in his dogness. 

2. oliver.  sheltie.  the foil to gordon’s sardonic superego.  the id turned ego who has become a vivid representation of our marriage.  he backs into ariel when i raise my voice, and vice versa.  he was like siddhartha, a perfect reflection of a questioning soul, and then he was bitten badly by a coyote.  now he’s not so sure.  he never liked skateboards. 

3. wozniak.  a very beautiful, very fat cat.  not bright, but cunning and sure of himself.  fat man with a little voice.  a god among cats.  we inherited this little guy from our college days of sex and depression.  he was born, fucked his mother, and gave birth to a never-ending supply of fairly retarded cats in olympia, all of whom bear his happy-go-lucky attitude, and all of whom trace the fading slump of an intelligence bell curve.  at around generation three, we started to see some genetic defects.  one kitten even died for no reason after about 3 days of life.  that’s not wozzie’s fault.

4. ct27.  wozniak’s mom, lover, sister, probably daughter.  came delivered in a set of two with her son.  lives for cuddles and to appraise the current condition of her larden kin.  they are almost the same cat, react to each other like the two ends of a bolo, gyrating around a common will.  she’s the more socialable to humans, but can’t be bothered by the coterie of assorted mammals we employ here.  very soft.

5. plutarch.  cat.  abyssinian.  the newest, most chaotic member of the family.  he is young, but has recently gained a set of ever growing testicles between his little yams that will be shortly snipped.  he excels in sleeping, swiping at my bare ass when i’m trying to take a dump, and brutalizing oliver.  i have seen that little bastard jump three feet sideways just to inflict some hurt.  he’s sure that eventually he’ll wear oliver down, and take him to the ground like the sad wooly mammoth he is.   he is forever confused by his poop.  why does oliver pick it out and put it on the floor?  why do i pick it out of the litter tray and throw it in the toilet?  these questions will someday be answered.