Body Computers, Superphones, and SciFi in a Googleverse

Lately, we keep reading and hearing about the endless (and relentless) push to make digital devices, smartphones, and personal computers a real life version of Tom Cruise's in Mission Impossible, or whatever that movie was where he moved projected images in the air with his hand. For example, according to the guys at Microsoft, the future of computing is surface displays for your home, where you can "interact with your kitchen table" or all of your household objects (No thanks, salad-spinner, for the millionth time I don't want to play "Farmville" on Facebook!).

Another crazy technology attack comes from Xbox, set to release Project Natal gaming in 2010, where you play and interact with games device-free, (kinda like a Wii without the remote):





Despite the somewhat cheesy promotional video where moppety haircuts on boys and forced diversity family fun manage to make xbox's impressive technological feat seem kind of lame, it's pretty crazy that Ray Bradbury's short stories are actually becoming reality. As in - science fiction come to life. Which brings me to my questions, since said sci-fi stories always turned out to contain a twisted moral message about technological advancement exploding/eating/turning people into heartless computers like themselves.

The there's also the inevitable spectre of the company that will first succeed in smushing together of all current electronic devices we use to form one super electronic device - think an iphone/kindle/computer/dailyplanner/body temperature sensor/ipod/personal attendant sort of thing. Yeah, I know, smartphones ALREADY KIND OF DO THIS, but I think it's coming: a computer bodysuit that will probably be able to pre-diagnose illnesses, provide you with witty quotes or a tip-of-the-tongue fact recall in social situations, analyze your poop to give you diet tips, etc, etc.

While I don't necessarily consider this technology porn threatening, I question whether we really need this stuff. It's weird watching that floppy-haired boy in the xbox video scan his real skateboard, so that he can use one like it for his avatar on screen. I mean, you can see the sun shining through the living room window as he plays his new motion sensor game in his living room, and it crossed my mind that while he was generally looking kind of like an idiot thrusting around on the carpet, he could actually be out skating in his neighborhood...you know, like, totally having experiences or something - instead of hanging out for perpetuity with his lame smiley xbox commercial family playing buzzer games.

Not that I don't support moving forward, I just don't know if it makes sense. Lest I sound like a "back in my age, we bathed in earthenware jugs and heated water with our breath" kind of luddite grandpa, let me explain:

Compact Discs are - as KM keeps sadly whispering while caressing the plastic cases of her extensive CD collection- a "dead medium," and they aren't coming back. Now all of us who particpated in a decade-long version of the Columbia Music Club - a.k.a. compact disc owners - have to figure out how to load all of the music we purchased for 24.99/disc in the nineties into digital storage without crashing our computers. And even then, you have to back it up with an external hard drive lest your overloaded computer crash some day. And when that happens, back up the music again lest your external hard drive accidentally get dropped in the toilet, or more realistically -- stop working. And so on. It sounds like a never-ending digital download of your - well your STUFF. And frankly, maybe I'd just rather have the individual CDs - to accidentally ruin one-by-one rather than all at once.

Music, files, photos, writings - it's all seemingly on its way to becoming digitized, and yellowed corners of photographs, handwritten notes stuffed into a box, and mix tapes lovingly decorated with inked playlists seem like they may be in danger of becoming obsolete.

Or are they? I kind of feel like people have an innate desire for handheld objects that don't require a charger and that the thrill of collecting objects is hard to transfer to the thrill of ...um, creating a folder on your desktop. The point is, I'm kind of pulling for these super experiments to simply become a niche brand of technology - not THE only technology the way ipods and smartphones have (and have started to) dominate the market. I like cool technology as much as the next geek, but I still want to be able to have real-life interactions outside my computer suit, teenagers are still gonna want to get into trouble in real parks rather than fake ones that exist on a game their parents play, and I still want handmade things that don't require a keyboard - or a touch sensor - to create. So I guess I'll just wait and see how these things play out to test my theories. In the meantime, I'll be crafting a luddite grandpa bath action figure out of clay.

Strangers with Candy Revelations

Strangers with Candy is one of my all-time favorite shows. So imagine my delight when I came across a clip of the woman who inspired Amy Sedaris' character on the show. Florrie Fisher apparently participated in this PSA in the 60s? 70s? Here's a clip:









And here's Jerri Blank, although all I could find on Youtube was a clip of the unaired pilot. Kind of funny to see the changes they made from this to the show that was aired on comedy central.





R.I.P. Strangers with Candy.




-KE

Pitching a Fit Over Pitchfork

With the amount of access people have to inexpensive home recording equipment and the ease of posting something on myspace the amount of DIY underground music in all genre's has reached levels that would make Ian McKaye's head spin. There certainly is A LOT of material to sift through and for a music lover it becomes overwhelming to keep up with all the bedroom/dreamhaze/lo-fi/video-game-dance/drank-hop/post-rock possibilities. For years I have been relying on the site Pitchfork.com for a little help with this sifting. In the beginning of their online presence, Pitchfork was known as sort of the indie kids Rolling Stone, a step up from the local punk zine, a step to the side of Magnet and a step into "the future" of online music news. As the years marched on there has been a growing swell of backlash against the site which I generally attributed to whiney, hipster hating, downer types who could find a flaw in a warm summer day. Everything has some imperfections but give me a break Pitchfork does fill a void and you can take it or leave it. I felt a sort of loyalty to Pitchfork, the same type of loyalty I feel when a friends band starts getting some publicity and the naysayers begin their naysaying.

But now Pitchfork, the war is ON.

A review of the album Feels Good Together by newcomers Drummer received a 7.5 on the Pitchfork review scale of 1-10. I am not really sure what the criteria are for these numbers but generally speaking a review in the high 7's is quite good. Anything over an 8 and the record makes it to the "Best New Music" list, which this year (just to add fuel to my personal vendetta) is compromised of thirty nine albums thus far only six of which feature female fronted bands and I AM including the gender mystic Antony in that count. I digress, the point being the record by Drummer is horrible. I am not talking "I just don't get it" bad, I am talking "I get it, this is shit" bad.



I was interested in this album for a few reasons, foremost being it is comprised of all drummers from other bands, the most well known drummer being Patrick Carney of Black Keys. When I first caught wind of this group I thought it was an interesting concept and assumed that it would be some kind of experiment in rhythm and percussion. I was wrong. The album starts out promising with Lottery Dust, a solid, churning rock and roll song. From there the songs digress into an unfortunate clamor of trite full-mouthed lyrics and musical wanderings that meander into the land of Creedance-ish southern rock (Connect to Lounge) and lots of loud-soft-loud-solo structures. The record feels indulgent in almost every aspect from the "concept" to the indie-rock-star (sort of) line up, to the guitar soloing, to the more then a mouthful lyrics. Okay, fine I just don't like it. We are all entitled to differing opinions and this is not the first time Pitchfork and I have agreed to disagree.

Still, while listening to this album an overwhelming flood of all the little irritants and nagging issues I have had with Pitchfork in the past began to amplify with each forced "I smoke a lot and drink late" breath that singer Jon Finley wheezed. Why a 7.5?! Why is the reviewer heralding this clearly redundant BS and not reviewing some other band that I have never heard of, some surprise band?! Why did Micachu and the Shapes, by far one of the most interesting and fun records of the year not make it to the "Best New Music" list (they got a 7.9, the injustice!)? Why do I need to hear every single thing laid to tape by Bradford Cox? Why does Pitchfork coin terms such as "chillwave" and "glo-fi" without an after thought? Why are they primarily interested in bands who play music that makes me feel sleepy and/or suggests the full experience would be had by gulping down a mental patients medicine cabinet? Why did Sleater-Kinney have to break up? Where is Kathleen Hanna?



Kathleen Hanna: Last seen with former band Le Tigre.

Okay, fine, those last two questions have nothing to do with Pitchfork. Although they could tell me where Kathleen Hanna is if they REALLY CARED.

Even the government agrees that monopolies are not good business. How is there no competing indie/underground music reviewing site yet? Can someone else please start a super cool, interesting music blog? Someone who is not famous already? Someone besides Carrie Brownstein? Then I will be able to officially break up with Pitchfork yet remain on friendly terms. The sooner the better cause my contempt is building.


Micachu and the Shapes. At least an 8.5 in my opinion.

-KM

Giant Shoe Mystery

A few weekends ago, we were executing an apartment re-org, during which KM was clearing off the uppermost shelf of the coat closet. Like a grandfather pulling a quarter from behind a kid's ear, she pulled a giant-size athletic shoe from the depths of the top shelf and proudly announced she had found "something special." Since we haven't seen a giant race of humans roaming around our building, we were mystified as to who the owner of this footwear could be.

Stereo is scared by the magic shoe

Perhaps a previous tenet got the shoe as a gag gift? Maybe his friends called him "bigfoot" because he had abnormally big feet, or he was so small and tiny the joke was that he would fit into a giant shoe.

Have you had a "shoe moment" lately?

Days went by, the shoe revealed no answers, and we left it sitting on the floor for the cats to sleep on and went about our lives. As the shoe continued to do nothing, I began thinking about our "surprise shoe" and looking for the "perfect fit." Is it a coincidence we found such a comical version of footwear hidden beneath the dust bunnies and plywood shelves of our closet while our government officials search for a health care reform bill that will fit the beat-up, gangrenous "feet" that is the state of our nation's health? Could its garish colors and outdated Reebok logo suggest that KM and I review our past fashion choices with a more discerning eye? Probably not, but I DID begin to wonder whether the shoe is something meant for US, a sign that we should forget our squabbling over finances and travel plans and whose hair clogs up the shower drain or who dances with footloose-style enthusiasm to avoid helping the other person cook dinner, and think more about the "foot" that we're all idealizing, the "size" that will be "perfect" for our collective closet shoe. Maybe the giant orange shoe we found in our closet will never be matched with a foot as large and warm as that of its original owner. And maybe that's okay. Like our unexpected suprise, we can all learn to enjoy the "shoes" life puts in our "closets" this holiday season.

-KE

Guilt and Reality TV

I once wrote a two page review of the movie Stealth, starring Jessica Biel and Jamie Foxx, for a humor website. The "review" basically consisted of me pointing out how ridiculous and unbelievable the plot, editing, and concept of the movie were, to the point that it was one of the most enjoyable movie-watching experiences I've ever had. I truly couldn't believe the movie had been made. From the opening sequence where Jessica Biel is introduced as one of the top three "ace" pilots in the U.S. to the HAL-like fighter jet that turns out to contain a mean streak malfunction, the movie was BAD in the most painful, excruciating sense.

For me, this type of BAD means movies and TV shows that cause me to lightly punch whoever is watching/listening with me, and embark on long monologues about quality, plot holes, cheese, idiocy, and brain damage within the human race. At some point I become depressed and ashamed, and I turn away from the entertainment in question, like a toddler that has accidentally shit on the floor and is both fascinated and repulsed by his-or-her own mess.

Everyone knows just how awful reality TV can be, yet everyone (who is not a complete pompous ass) will also admit that there is a seductive allure to these shows, be they bachelor-esque dating dramas, self-improvement (makeover, weight loss, home renovation shows), or pure competitions a la survivor and its ilk. It's actually kind of funny to think back on the original granddaddy of reality TV - MTV's Real World - and realize that there was no catch or prize or bonus round of selection.

But back to my original intention - addressing the guilt and slight self-hatred that often accompanies watching the worst of these shows, most of which glut the schedule of VH1 these days.

I will say that I enjoy some reality-classified shows practically guilt-free. Project Runway, Top Chef, What Not to Wear, and even The Biggest Loser are the fruit and yogurt of reality TV shows (as compared to the fried oreo on a stick of something like Rock of Love). In the "healthy" shows, no one is (usually) made to look stupid on purpose, contestants' public image generally is improved, and some people I think genuinely do change their habits or lives for the better.

I will also say that there are some dogs that eat their own shit without hesitation - a comparison that may ring a bit too true for some of us.

I guess my point is, I think watching trashy reality TV should be treated like junk food - okay once in awhile, as long as your brain is being stimulated by a variety of other forms of intelligent entertainment, and keep it away from children as long as you can lest they grow up thinking all women look like strippers, all men are complete dicks, and everyone has a vocabulary of three words: "bitch," "slut" and "daaaag".

-KE

Delusional Downtown Divas

As far as I can tell, the Delusional Downtown Divas are girls that live in and around lower Manhattan, were involved with the culture of the art world in some way, and saw its potential for mockery. It sure beats KM and I's improvised skits about pharmaceutical and tampon commercials.

Check them out on Index Magazine's website, or just watch this:

-KE

Can We Live Outside of NYC? Rhode Island Says: NO

In the spirit of all the zombie movies that are due to come out soon, I thought I would relay the zombie run-in KM and I had during our Forcation (Forced Vacation) to Rhode Island. Basically, we wanted a vacation that would provide us with the essence of nature, but that still involved running water. We found a "vacation cottage" in Rhode Island for pretty cheap here, and, a car rental and a google map later, we arrived for a long weekend. Unfortunately, we forgot that everywhere within driving distance of NYC is the suburbs. The cottage was fine, albeit decorated with the taste of a Midwestern schoolteacher and nestled along the same stretch of road as an Applebee's and a Super Stop n' Shop. We had a lovely day in Providence, strolling along and looking at houses built in the 19th century (we knew this because the person's name who built it, say Josiah Hamburg, 1852, for example, is printed in a plaque on each house). We did, however, run in to large groups of college kids, who all seemed to be talking loudly about how much pot their friend smoked, or how they never studied but didn't care, or how they couldn't believe what their friend did last night. Since KM teaches college kids on occasion, there was much eye-rolling among our group of two. Running into people kept ruining our vacation.

The next day we decided to tour scenic Newport, RI, where the main attractions are sailboats and really extravagant mansions built by the Vanderbilts and other filthy rich tycoons around the turn of the century. As we toured the mansions, the audio guide kept referring to this as the "gilded age". I thought it was more like the "throw up gold all over" age. The mansions were actually pretty fascinating to see, merely to marvel at the excesses these families went to to show off their wealth. Their is an entire mansion made of marble, for example, or entire rooms filled with statues of greek gods, or french royalty, or "sun kings". KM's favorite parts of these houses were the huge kitchens where we heard that french chefs threw tantrums and poor servants had to toil away washing dishes while the family played billiards or something. I am pretty sure she was just eyeing the cooking space in envy. My favorite part was imagining the family secrets being revealed by a young, arrogant son in the breakfast room or the verranda, or the crystal powder room. Perhaps one of the Vanderbilts was a transvestite or otherwise socially deviant and was forced to reveal his preference by the cathedral-like windows rimmed in silver, ice cubes tinkling in his glass of scotch. I guess the mansions kept turning into Eugene O' Neill plays for me for some reason.

The most interesting thing about the mansions though, and Newport in general, was that unbeknownst to us, it is a mecca for old people. The 70-plus set, to be exact. Old, white people. Old, white, pinch-lipped tourists in beige coolats and mauve tunics. As soon as we started driving around it dawned on us that we were probably the only ones under 60 on these tours, which made us feel slightly foolish and very rebellious. We both said later that we felt like our parents had forced us to go to this land of AARP zombies, which caused us to act like we were teenagers, especially in the "gift shop" where older women browsed like slow-moving cattle across a plain of tchotchkes, baubles, and marble house paperweights. We should have made some sort of effort to shake things up, like talking loudly about dildos or practicing african dance on the tailored lawns, but honestly the atmostphere was too depressing to do anything but glance at each other in horror everytime we passed a glazed-eyed tourist fingering an applique purse. Lest you think we are assholes, we tried to smile and be friendly in a this will be weird but fun! way when we first arrived. However, when KM bought our Mansion tickets, the woman not only took her sweet time, she didn't say one word to either of us and possibly appeared to be sleeping and/or in pain.

We high-tailed it out of Newport slightly depressed. If this scenic town could fail so badly, could we have fun anywhere outside of New York City? Sure Stop n' Shop is convenient, and it's funny to eat at Friendly's once, but eat at Friendly's once, shame on Friendly's. Eat at Friendly's twice, shame on us. In our attempt to "get away" we had been drawn back in to the unearthly flourescent glow of suburban america that we both felt we narrowly escaped from in the first place. So Rhode Island, thank you for the memories, but thank you more for the lesson. Next time we want to go on vacation, we'll save up our money and encase ourselves in a fancy hotel in the middle of Manhattan.

Here's KM when we first arrived at Friendly's for breakfast on the last day of our trip.





.....this was taken after five minutes



-KE