The Birth Of Full Contact MMA

 

Hey, That New Song Sounds Just Like __________!

    Every time I hear some new music it seems all I can hear are the influences - and it's much to easy to be dismissive of the artist's efforts because of that.

   The other day I was listening to a new release from a group of twenty-somethings and enjoying just about everything I heard...until my freakin' brain started to chirp. 

   "The rhythm track is derivative of 1980's synth pop - the bass line sounds just like those post-funk efforts British groups of the era utilized to give their dance songs an edgier sound. That guitar reeks of  late '70's midwestern AOR rock, and that chorus is lifted strait from an early 1960's Burlesque influenced R&B pop song."

    I cannot stress strongly enough how much I despise my own brain for chirping like that. Hell, I can't remember a key point in the plot of a mystery novel I read last week but I can remember what the chorus from a song released over sixty years ago (that didn't come close to cracking the top 40) sounded like?

   Come on brain, seriously, I don't want to go out like that.

   There has got to be a way I can stop my brain from filtering music through the ears of my past -  a means of cleansing the palette if you will.

   I know there are a ton of books out there on improving one's memory, but are there any books out there written on the topic of learning to forget?

   If not, it's certainly a need waiting to be filled.

   Or maybe I just have to sit on my hands and wait until I age a few more years - that might do the trick.

Look Back In Laughter

100 years after the last days of the internal combustion engine will people write articles about how foolish it was to think that electric cars were the best alternative to individual short-distance transportation needs?

Will people still gather in coffee shops and sit in front of devices that contain the entirety of mankind's history & knowledge, and largely use them only as news sources, which will cause them to fret and fume as they drink their lattes, still easily aroused about the politics of the day, manipulated by media pundits looking for site hits to increase ad revenue by blaming one party or the other for the nation's state of moral/social/economic decay?

What are the chances that there will be college courses devoted to early 21st century entertainment? Will there be societies dedicated to the preservation of the glory days of MP3 players? Will audio file formats such as FLAC be regarded as crude technologies that were grossly incapable of capturing the true depth of a recorded sound?

In 100 years are people going to look back at today's most advanced medical treatments and therapies and regard them as barbaric? Will the thought that people had to endure the puncturing of skin in order to have vaccines introduced to the body cause people to recoil in disbelief? Will the use of scalpels to perform surgery be thought of as absurdly insane?

What sports that we enjoy today will be long forgotten or treated as folly? Will full contact American football or boxing become as unacceptable as fox hunting or cock fighting?

Could A.I. make the creative endeavors of writers and artists not just unnecessary, but unwanted? 

Will individuals who still prefer to grow their own vegetables in small garden plots and to prepare their own meals on stoves or in ovens be regarded as luddites afraid to embrace the miracles of cyberfarming and cybercooking technology?

In the year 2123 will there be a need for classrooms? Will schools that exist today only be useful as museums showcasing the long antiquated days of in-person instruction?

Cities as we know them have existed for millennia, but will they still exist in 100 years? What will the need be for cities when large numbers of workers or students no longer have to be gathered in one central location?

Is it possible that in 100 years mankind will have been able to harness the true potential of the Internet to educate, inform, and draw closer the people of the earth? 

Most of what was regarded as an exciting advance in technology and thought in the years 1900 to 1920, be it transportation, communication, agriculture, medicine, politics, society, etc. was considered outdated by the year 2000. 

Man oh man how grand it would be to live to see 2123.

  

If It's So, Well Let Me Know - If It's No, Well I Can Go*

Feeling heartbroken all morning can't get moving feeling forsaken

By everything and everyone that's ever existed

Hasn't helped to be listening to #1 Record

You know that album was made just to make people cry

Chris and Alex spilling all their hopes and dreams and fears

Out of their hearts and minds and into my ears

Just once I'd like to listen to Thirteen

And not have to clench my fists and wipe away tears

Going to have to put on Radio City

Skip straight to September Gurls

Like that'll better my mood

*Lyric used as blog title from "Thirteen" by Alex Chilton (credited to the songwriting team of Chilton/Bell)

The Distinction Made

She absolutely hated

To be referred to as "perky"

As she interpreted it as a dismissive term

For her optimistic and high-energy approach

To every challenge life could throw at her

She resolutely stated

That she preferred to be known as "sassy"

As it clearly defined her as fun, yet a bookworm

And not a pig-tailed 'tween wearing a plastic broach

That people always expected to be demur

The Most Troublesome Of The Eight Genera

   He walked along the train platform picking up semi-squashed half-smoked cigarettes, proclaiming "Ground score! Free cigarette!" with each and every discarded cigarette he reclaimed. 

  After he sat down on one of the uncomfortable (thus empty) metal benches, he pulled out a lighter and lit one of his ground scores.

   Between drags he ranted under his breath about the dangers of smoking Crack, even once.

A Thing To Do In Golden When It's Too Hot To Do Anything

Individual Well Being & The Desire For Social Interaction

Spring Valley Swap Meet In The Summer Time

I can't remember my first visit, couldn't have been more than eight

The way I recall it I was there every weekend

The Spring Valley Swap Meet was just the place for me

Just a kid digging through boxes looking for treasure

Digging through other people's junk, such a weird pleasure 

A dime a comic, a quarter for a book

Maybe scrape enough together to buy something special

Like a new T-shirt or a poster or a skateboard

Old magazines and used art supplies to add to the hoard

Wore out and beat up my new tennie shoes

Walking up and down row after row of sellers hawking merchandise

The heat of the San Diego sun softening the asphalt

Sweat drying before it could drip, ice melting before the first sip

All the while on the lookout for a bargain to justify the trip

All day Saturday, all day Sunday, get there early in the morning

Hoping to beat the bargain shoppers who could spend real money

Frazetta poster decoupaged to a piece of plywood with burnt edges

Racks of Army and Navy surplus, mysterious boxes, unopened packages

The Spring Valley swap meet, where I paid a nickel for a copy of Sgt Peppers

The album cover taped up on a side that had split open, but no scratches

The Spring Valley swap meet, where I ended up helping Ralph sell photos

Concert pictures he had taken and 8 X10 stills from old movies

The Spring Valley swap meet where I ended up selling ice cold sodas

Thirst quenching, heat beating, caffeine fortified and invigorating

stimulating, exhilarating, refreshing and effervescing

$1.00 for twenty ounces of ice cold throat soothing brew

If my girl was that hot I'd buy her two

 

Weeds In The Garden

 

Argument Between Two Disparate Selves

    Older self yelling at younger self for not being more careful with the body

   Younger self yelling right back that older self just forgot how much fun it was

to run like the wind, to jump for the joy of jumping, to throw balls and rocks and discs and things just for the joy of throwing

   Older self yelling at younger self for not being more attentive in school and for not pursuing a more economically valuable career

   Younger self yelling right back that older self forgets how dreadfully dull listening to a burnt-out English teacher lecture on the importance of cadence in poetry really is or how mind-numbing committing to memory the rules for mathematical formulas was or just how painful trying to grasp the significance of economic nationalism when nursing a hangover on an hour of sleep could be

   Older self yelling at younger self for wasting money, time and energy on pointless pursuits and worthless endeavors

   Younger self yelling right back that older self has sadly forgotten how exciting it was to drive twelve hours with a group of friends to attend a crowded, hot, outdoor music festival that featured entertainers creating sounds able to reaffirm enthusiasm for life or how spending an entire weekend on a beach doing nothing but drinking and checking out the half-naked bodies on parade could truly make one feel like life was grand and glorious

   Older self yelling at younger self for not looking towards the future and not preparing for the worst

   Younger self yelling right back at older self that the future was never guaranteed and living in the moment and sowing every wild oat, chasing meaningless dreams, taking wild chances and risking everything for momentary happiness was all in preparation for the worst

   Older self and younger self then stopped for a moment and stared out into the void

   Older self nodded and spoke softly, almost whispering, "You're right, that was what life was at the moment, and regret is a crass indulgence of the aged."

   Younger self nodded and replied just as softly, "You're right, life does move fast and I should have taken better care of my teeth and learned to put aside at least 10% of every paycheck in a Roth IRA."

The Ravens (Crows? Maybe Rooks?) Of Loveland

   Attended the Loveland, Co. Sculpture in the Park show this past weekend. Terrific sculptures were on display (and for sale) by a large number of extremely talented artists. 

   Of course, I took hundreds of pics of some great pieces, and will get around to posting some of those in a few days. Today though the topic of interest will be pictures of some of the many sculptures of ravens, rooks, & crows that were on display at the show.

   It's mostly ravens, though.

                               Raven's Resolve, Parker McDonald, Mixed Media (mostly bronze though), $6,867.00

                                                          Aldo Leopold Raven, Patricia Larsen, Bronze, $3,300.00

                                                  Old World Raven, Alan Brown, Bronze, $4,200.00

                                                Caw of the Wild, Jeremy Bradshaw, Bronze, $7,850.00

                                                            Contact, Zeke Derderian, Metal, $5,500.00

                                                           

                                                                             Contact, Zeke Derderian, Detail

                                               After The Fire, Tyrel Johnson, Bronze & Wood, $7,400.00

                                                            After The Fire, Tyrel Johnson, Detail

                                                   Rook Rack, Jim Green, Bronze & Wood, $13,700.00

                                                            Rigel, John Kessler, Stone, $6,500.00
                                              

                                                                    Squawky, Paul Rhymer, Bronze, $7,500.00

                                                   Berry Good Life, Shari Vines, Bronze, $3,080.00


                                                    

Inconsequential Misadventures

    As has been said over and over and over again, there are a million stories in the big city. That is, if your big city is limited to a million residents and each of them has at least one story to tell.

   The city where I reside has 156,000 residents, plus or minus a few hundred, of which only 23 are known story tellers. 

   I should clarify that - only 23 of the residents of this medium-sized city are known to me to be story tellers.

   Of those 23, only a handful of the stories told are really worth listening to, or reading (man, I'm a judgmental fcuk, eh?).

   I should clarify that, too - only a handful of those stories are judged by me to be worth listening to, or worth reading (happy now, Cindy?).

   It's not that I have some strict criteria for what constitutes an interesting story, btw.

   Seriously, I don't, I'll listen to or read just about any old story, but the thing is, I have lately found myself becoming a bit impatient with stories from storytelling acquaintances about running into celebrities or chancing upon a injured animal and "rescuing" it, or losing out on a golden opportunity to go on a road trip because the price of gas has surged.

   Or the aftermath of a poor dining choice at a dodgy food truck. 

   Nope, do not need to listen to or read anymore of those stories ever again.

   At least not without pics. Pics or it didn't happen, still a rule.

   Except for the eating-at-a-dodgy-food-truck stories - not only do I never need to hear those stories ever again, I really never, ever need to see pics in support of those stories. 

The Gramophone Loudspeakers Of Justice

Business took me to an area of Denver today (near 40th and York) that has been undergoing a great deal of urban renewal lately, and of course as Denver has embraced the "1% For Art" rider for all capital improvement projects, and this area of Denver was sporting a brand new paved hike/bike path, there were a few new art installations in evidence.

This one meets just about all the standard requirements for a Denver Public Art project - it is composed of ordinary objects made large, it's constructed of weather resistant steel, and it's painted orange.

 

The ordinary object that this sculpture is based on is the classic Gramophone loudspeaker. Two of them, in fact, placed on opposite sides of the stream that parallels the hike/bike path, and angled towards each other.

On both of the large Gramophone loudspeakers the title of a landmark ruling regarding racist directives in Wills & Trusts in Colorado, the Dunbar Vs Clayton case with the year of the adjudication of the case, has been cut into the lower half of the front of the horns.

The Dunbar vs Clayton ruling was upheld by the the doctrine of cy pres, so there you go, something to look up and glean a little knowledge from. 

Could not find attribution anywhere for this sculpture installation, so unfortunately I am unable to credit the artist at this time

 

Dashboard Art Installation

 

The Social Life Of The Anti-Social Socialist

Old Mrs ever-so-never happy

In connubial wedded bliss with

Mr the-weather's-bound-to-turn crappy

The town good-for-nothing, useless, coprolith

The sworn enemy of 

                  Mary Vincent Cuttletart Bobbletop Smith

The woman who stole her recipe for 

                  Cinnamon-frosted carp-encrusted shaganappi

That's it, that's all I got.

Grammer Tip Of The Day

"Lineal" usually concerns ancestry

"Linear" concerns arrangements that generally extend in a straight line

"Literal" is to refer to something in a strict definition or most basic meaning

Note: Yeah, yeah, yeah, there are other meanings for those terms, but those are by far the most common

Sonnet For A Beautiful Face Faded In Memory After But A Moment To Glance Upon It

 It truly was a generous accident, call it a fluke

The chances of it happening again, beyond extreme 

Two fish crossing paths in an impossibly wide stream

Aligning misperceptions, without sharp rebuke

More orderly a fashion than even the Book of Luke

Such miraculous an action, hard not to be taken for a dream

Crazy like the most ridiculous of plans in a deviants scheme

To arrange for the assassination of a Serbian Archduke

Tribulations and exultations confused like a shredded film spliced

Impossible to determine what's been saved and what was sacrificed

May as well paint a broken finger in place of the nose

And substitute chipped toenails for the jubilant blue eyes

With bright white lightning cracklin' across dark skies

Trade a thousand beautiful posies for one ugly dying rose

Not To Put Too Fine A Point On It...

 

Ladies & Gentlemen, Please Welcome To The Stage, Tofu Pudding!!

   It struck him over the Memorial Day holiday in 2003. An epiphany is what his scholarly friend Leta called it, his "awakening" is what he called it.

   He had been out in his backyard cleaning off the bar-be-que for use that afternoon when he was struck by the rhythmic tones created when he dragged the wire brush across the grates of the cooking grid. They sounded like a harp would sound if harps were the instrument of choice for musicians in Punk rock bands.

   At that moment he decided that it was time for him to pursue a dream, the dream, the one that had taken up residency in the back of his mind in the Fall of his seventh grade year and had never left, not even after he had found success pursuing other, more reasonable dreams.   

   That dream was of course the one wherein he forms a rock band and tours the country constantly, banging out hits and picking up chicks.

   He wasn't going to go half-cocked about it, oh no, not him. He had become much too cautious and had much-to-much invested in the life he now lived to chuck it all willy-nilly. But he was definitely going to form a band. He would talk it over with Trina and the kids that night, after everyone had gone home and everything had been cleaned up and put away.

   And so he did. His wife was understanding as usual and even volunteered to help him put together an ad for bandmates. The kids were skeptical and a derisive comment or two was heard from them, but his youngest did say he would be happy to work as a roadie if it got him out of school.

   That Monday he paid a visit to a local music store and inquired about guitar lessons. The store had a contact board for music teachers and students seeking one another, and he found a guitar teacher that he since has come to refer to as his "Guitar Guru."

   Much to the dismay of the guitar teacher. 

   For though the guitar teacher had done everything he could to teach him how to play the guitar (and, simultaneously, had pleaded with him to maybe try a different instrument, one that did not require as much ability, like maybe the tambourine), he was unable to succeed beyond basic chord structure and reading tab, despite uncountable hours of instruction. 

  The "Guitar Guru" patiently tried everything he knew (and could google) to teach him strumming and picking techniques, but for reasons beyond all comprehension nothing seemed to impart these simple skills to his student.

   Which did not bother the student in the least bit, for he had been able to recruit several like-minded middle-aged men and women to join him in his band, and they had managed to learn quite a few classic rock songs and even one or two more recent tunes.

   They put their own spin on those tunes, and that spin was generally regarded as horrible. In the annals of Rock & Roll music there had been a large number of groups that consisted of members who either could not competently play their instruments or sing or stay in tune or remember the words to the songs they were singing or keep the beat, but this band had taken all of those elements and put them together in a blender set on puree. 

   They were, simply put, the single worst band in the history of Rock & Roll. School children openly wept at their performances, and happily married couples had been driven to divorce over one or the other's desire to watch the band perform live.

   It was that bad, and worse.