Last night I had a rather neat opportunity. For the past month or so, I've been going to McGinnis occasionally on Wednesdays and Saturdays. Well, I've been going on other days, too, when it's convenient. But on those particular evenings, a guy by the name of John Vermilye ("Johnny V") plays guitar and sings. He's got a good set that covers a lot of bases, including folk, early rhythm & blues, and classic rock. There's an emphasis on acts like Paul Simon, Neil Young, The Beatles, that sort of thing. It's a relaxed, laid back, and enjoyable atmosphere.
Johnny graciously offered to have me fill in on his break with a few songs that I had worked up to a respectable level, having never heard me play. (Crazy!) I was both nervous and excited. See, it has been over a year and a half since the last time I played guitar or sang in front of anyone. Yep. For the last, oh, nearly a decade, I've been in and out of bands, playing acoustic and electric; doing covers and originals; classic rock to modern pop to jazz; basement shows, battle of the bands, open mics; from high school through college. But since I graduated college, I sort of lost touch. I've been out of it so long, I don't even know how to get back into it, or what to play, and I've become pretty shy about my playing. Not that I wasn't before, but I guess now it feels more pronounced, more of an obstruction to the process entirely.
When he asked if I'd like to play, I had a feeling that it was something like fate knocking. I felt obliged to accept. I have a tendency to view things in this light right now; if something great comes along, I just accept it, embrace it, and move with it, figuring that all paths have led me here.
(To be fair, I actually had to turn him down the first time he offered, because I'd already had two pints of Dogfish Head IPA. And that does not make me into a better guitarist, by any means.)
So I spent a few days over the past couple weeks trying to work up several songs that I felt comfortable playing. I showed up at McGinnis last night and Johnny asked if I was interested in playing that night, and I said I was.
About an hour and a half later, I was sitting on the barstool with my stupid little book of lyrics (because after all this time I still can't get through most songs without a reminder), guitar and pick in hand, with faces of people I don't know watching me. (There were a few faces I did know, too. Thanks to Casey, Shelby, Kristen, and Rachel for being there!) It was a familiar feeling, but it also felt kind of strange and new. I got nervous all over again. I played my three songs. There were a few mistakes. Nothing fell apart or sounded like a disaster, though. Mostly just a flubbed note, a bit of rushing, or an extraneous beat to fit in a syllable because I dragged on a phrase. All in all, it could have been quite a bit worse. I got some compliments on "Clementine", which was nice.
I don't feel like I'm any closer to figuring everything out. I'm still somewhat perplexed as to how my life is supposed to make any sense regarding music, and what role it will ultimately play. But I feel that I at least took a good step last night toward continuing to rediscover the things that used to give me such pleasure and joy.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
The Accident
You may have heard that I was in an accident. If not, well, now you know. Here's how it went down.
Casey and Paul decided to have a co-birthday party in Indy last Friday, February 5. Nevermind that their birthdays are, in fact, weeks apart. Both Shelby and Casey had to sub that day, so when they were done we all gathered at the Brown house and made our departure. Shelby drove us in the trusty ol' Buick. We headed south on 421.
A winter storm had been hammering central Indiana all day, but the most Michigan City had gotten was a smattering of flurries. The further south we went, the more white we saw, and the more ominous it became. I had recently pulled The Hobbit out of my bag and began reading. After getting through not more than a page or two, I heard Shelby exclaim a loud, mono-syllabic utterance. I looked up from the backseat and saw that we were approaching a wide curve to the left in the road. I gathered from Shelby's reaction that something was not right.
We were sliding. The car suddenly lurched to the left as Shelby attempted to keep it on the road. Good thing, too, as we would have been headed full-speed straight into an electrical pole along our current route. As the car continued to swerve, we found ourselves mostly perpendicular to the road and edging into the other lane. A black pickup truck was headed right for us. I encouraged Shelby to just try to maneuver the car off the road. Because we were sliding at an angle into the turn, the far edge of the road, which we now faced, seemed elusively out of reach.
The truck loomed closer. Casey, in the front passenger seat, and I, in the back passenger seat, looked on. With a slam and a crunch, the vehicles collided.
We were completely at rest. I could see the truck out the opposite window some twenty yards away. Nobody was hurt. Shelby made an attempt to drive the car forward a few feet to get it off the road, and with a grinding of metal he was actually successful. We got out to assess the situation, although Casey's door wouldn't open and he had to crawl across the front seat. The front bumper was missing entirely, along with the passenger-side fender, and the door was crumpled in. We found the bumper on other side of the street, behind the car, about 30 feet away; this we found somewhat comical as we were at a loss to even contemplate the physics of its trajectory. The front left tire had come completely off the rim. Everything under the hood looked remarkably intact. The driver of the truck was completely unharmed. His vehicle was damaged but not nearly as badly as Shelby's.
We had no idea where we were. All of those little towns along 421 kind of look the same. We waited in the car for the police to arrive, which took a bit longer than expected, no doubt due to increased numbers of calls that day. After assessing the scene, he said he had to move on to an accident that involved a child. He told us we were a few miles south of Francesville, gave us the phone number of a towing company in town, and told us a county officer would arrive shortly. That also took way longer than expected. Eventually he showed up and took the report, followed shortly by the tow truck.
As the tow truck headed back in the direction of Francesville, we meandered aimlessly behind along the side of the road. Shelby said that the driver of the pickup truck had mentioned that he could help us arrange to get a ride to town if we needed. We didn't know what to do except awkwardly ask. As we walked in the direction of the truck, we passed the police car that had yet to leave the scene. The officer rolled down his window and asked if we needed a ride into town. We all got in.
He dropped us off at a gas station in Francesville that was conveniently right across the street from where Shelby's car had been towed. Gotta love small towns. We walked in and were greeted by an elderly couple that were sitting at a table inside, drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes, and just generally passing the evening. They invited us to sit, and we were soon joined by a friend of theirs, who looked to be about 30. They talked with us for a while and we told them what had happened while we waited for a ride back to Michigan City in the form of Rachel.
Shelby and I decided to go over to the car to get a few things out of the trunk. When we got there, the trunk latch inside wouldn't work, and we didn't have the keys. We walked back over and sat and talked some more. We heard a lot of stories from these people who knew each other quite well and, in fact, it was pretty entertaining. The 30-year-old fellow was quite fond of 75-person motorcycle racing on a frozen lake just outside of town. Fancy that.
Not too much later, the guys who had towed the car walked in. Gotta love small towns. They went over to the car with us and opened the trunk so we could get our stuff out. We walked back to the gas station and sat and waited some more. Eventually Rachel showed up, and our little gas station party was at an end, as they all went home and we piled into Rachel's car and headed back north.
The next day, Shelby and his dad drove down to Francesville to see what could be done about the car. I wondered if it might still be drivable, since everything under the hood looked completely fine, as long as a tire was put on the front left wheel. They discovered that the front axle was too mangled for that to be possible. So it goes.
The heroes of our story—Shelby, Casey, and myself—have quite a bit to be thankful for with regard to this accident. There are many different ways it could have played out. Casey told me later that he was certain that we (or at least, from his vantage point, he) would surely die. Automobile tragedy is no strange thing to me. My uncle and his wife were killed in a car accident caused by a drunk driver before I was even born. My cousin, with whom I was extremely close growing up, was killed only seven years ago, along with two friends of his, when the driver of their car fell asleep at the wheel.
Any number of factors could have been infinitesimally altered, and the outcome of this accident could have been very different. The only thing we can do now is be thankful that it wasn't.
Casey and Paul decided to have a co-birthday party in Indy last Friday, February 5. Nevermind that their birthdays are, in fact, weeks apart. Both Shelby and Casey had to sub that day, so when they were done we all gathered at the Brown house and made our departure. Shelby drove us in the trusty ol' Buick. We headed south on 421.
A winter storm had been hammering central Indiana all day, but the most Michigan City had gotten was a smattering of flurries. The further south we went, the more white we saw, and the more ominous it became. I had recently pulled The Hobbit out of my bag and began reading. After getting through not more than a page or two, I heard Shelby exclaim a loud, mono-syllabic utterance. I looked up from the backseat and saw that we were approaching a wide curve to the left in the road. I gathered from Shelby's reaction that something was not right.
We were sliding. The car suddenly lurched to the left as Shelby attempted to keep it on the road. Good thing, too, as we would have been headed full-speed straight into an electrical pole along our current route. As the car continued to swerve, we found ourselves mostly perpendicular to the road and edging into the other lane. A black pickup truck was headed right for us. I encouraged Shelby to just try to maneuver the car off the road. Because we were sliding at an angle into the turn, the far edge of the road, which we now faced, seemed elusively out of reach.
The truck loomed closer. Casey, in the front passenger seat, and I, in the back passenger seat, looked on. With a slam and a crunch, the vehicles collided.
We were completely at rest. I could see the truck out the opposite window some twenty yards away. Nobody was hurt. Shelby made an attempt to drive the car forward a few feet to get it off the road, and with a grinding of metal he was actually successful. We got out to assess the situation, although Casey's door wouldn't open and he had to crawl across the front seat. The front bumper was missing entirely, along with the passenger-side fender, and the door was crumpled in. We found the bumper on other side of the street, behind the car, about 30 feet away; this we found somewhat comical as we were at a loss to even contemplate the physics of its trajectory. The front left tire had come completely off the rim. Everything under the hood looked remarkably intact. The driver of the truck was completely unharmed. His vehicle was damaged but not nearly as badly as Shelby's.
We had no idea where we were. All of those little towns along 421 kind of look the same. We waited in the car for the police to arrive, which took a bit longer than expected, no doubt due to increased numbers of calls that day. After assessing the scene, he said he had to move on to an accident that involved a child. He told us we were a few miles south of Francesville, gave us the phone number of a towing company in town, and told us a county officer would arrive shortly. That also took way longer than expected. Eventually he showed up and took the report, followed shortly by the tow truck.
As the tow truck headed back in the direction of Francesville, we meandered aimlessly behind along the side of the road. Shelby said that the driver of the pickup truck had mentioned that he could help us arrange to get a ride to town if we needed. We didn't know what to do except awkwardly ask. As we walked in the direction of the truck, we passed the police car that had yet to leave the scene. The officer rolled down his window and asked if we needed a ride into town. We all got in.
He dropped us off at a gas station in Francesville that was conveniently right across the street from where Shelby's car had been towed. Gotta love small towns. We walked in and were greeted by an elderly couple that were sitting at a table inside, drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes, and just generally passing the evening. They invited us to sit, and we were soon joined by a friend of theirs, who looked to be about 30. They talked with us for a while and we told them what had happened while we waited for a ride back to Michigan City in the form of Rachel.
Shelby and I decided to go over to the car to get a few things out of the trunk. When we got there, the trunk latch inside wouldn't work, and we didn't have the keys. We walked back over and sat and talked some more. We heard a lot of stories from these people who knew each other quite well and, in fact, it was pretty entertaining. The 30-year-old fellow was quite fond of 75-person motorcycle racing on a frozen lake just outside of town. Fancy that.
Not too much later, the guys who had towed the car walked in. Gotta love small towns. They went over to the car with us and opened the trunk so we could get our stuff out. We walked back to the gas station and sat and waited some more. Eventually Rachel showed up, and our little gas station party was at an end, as they all went home and we piled into Rachel's car and headed back north.
The next day, Shelby and his dad drove down to Francesville to see what could be done about the car. I wondered if it might still be drivable, since everything under the hood looked completely fine, as long as a tire was put on the front left wheel. They discovered that the front axle was too mangled for that to be possible. So it goes.
The heroes of our story—Shelby, Casey, and myself—have quite a bit to be thankful for with regard to this accident. There are many different ways it could have played out. Casey told me later that he was certain that we (or at least, from his vantage point, he) would surely die. Automobile tragedy is no strange thing to me. My uncle and his wife were killed in a car accident caused by a drunk driver before I was even born. My cousin, with whom I was extremely close growing up, was killed only seven years ago, along with two friends of his, when the driver of their car fell asleep at the wheel.
Any number of factors could have been infinitesimally altered, and the outcome of this accident could have been very different. The only thing we can do now is be thankful that it wasn't.
Tuesday, February 09, 2010
Inertia
People of all walks of life, but mostly scientists, love to discuss inertia. Okay, probably no one actually loves to discuss it, but I imagine it comes up from time to time. It usually comes up in the context of a moving object, as it is the tendency of that object to resist any change to its motion.
Think of a bullet; as it's careening through atmosphere and ozone, it doesn't really want to slow down and most of nature is obliged to comply.¹ You are inclined to kindly step out of the path of the bullet and the bullet is inclined to tip its hat at you as it screams by faster than the speed of sound. The sound of the bullet, meanwhile, is struggling to catch up, trillions upon billions of bumbling air molecules bumping into each other as fast as they can. They give you a cursory glance as they stumble past and your ears pop.
Some people, like the moving bullet, might be said to have a high level of inertia. Figuratively. That is to say, they like to stay moving, and once they start, it's hard to stop them. These people seem to always be moving, doing, talking, walking, saying, playing, starting, finishing. They may tip their hats at you as they fly by faster than sound.
But the bullet wasn't just always tearing across the embankment or zipping down an alleyway. It was, at an earlier point, comfortably at rest inside the chamber of a gun. In fact, the bullet was so comfortable and so at rest there that, had it not been for an exorbitant explosion, it probably would be sitting there comfortably at rest forever. Rather than kindly stepping out of its path and rubbing your ears as the sound of it (trailing behind considerably) dawdles past, you would be sipping tea somewhere across town with no knowledge that there even is a bullet. This is another property of inertia, that of a stationary object that is inclined to remain stationary.
And just like moving persons, there are stationary persons. They are comfortably at rest inside their chambers. In fact, they are so comfortable there that, if not for an exciting explosion, they probably will be sitting comfortably at rest forever. You won't have to kindly step out of their paths, because they are on no path whatsoever.
Both types of bullets (the lethal, faster-than-sound kind and the harmless, comfortably-at-rest kind) are said to have inertia. Two contradictory states and one word to describe them both. It almost seems to invalidate use of the word entirely. What is the point in using a word to describe something if it can also be used to describe the very opposite?
And what about people? The always-moving-doing-talking-walking-saying-playing-starting-finishing person has inertia, just as the stationary, on-no-path-whatsoever person has inertia. You and I both have inertia. It all comes down to what that inertia means. It's the tendency of any object, moving or stationary, to resist any change to its motion or lack thereof. People waiting around comfortably for an extraordinary explosion to set them on their course may find themselves waiting an awfully long time.
¹ We're ignoring drag and friction.
Think of a bullet; as it's careening through atmosphere and ozone, it doesn't really want to slow down and most of nature is obliged to comply.¹ You are inclined to kindly step out of the path of the bullet and the bullet is inclined to tip its hat at you as it screams by faster than the speed of sound. The sound of the bullet, meanwhile, is struggling to catch up, trillions upon billions of bumbling air molecules bumping into each other as fast as they can. They give you a cursory glance as they stumble past and your ears pop.
Some people, like the moving bullet, might be said to have a high level of inertia. Figuratively. That is to say, they like to stay moving, and once they start, it's hard to stop them. These people seem to always be moving, doing, talking, walking, saying, playing, starting, finishing. They may tip their hats at you as they fly by faster than sound.
But the bullet wasn't just always tearing across the embankment or zipping down an alleyway. It was, at an earlier point, comfortably at rest inside the chamber of a gun. In fact, the bullet was so comfortable and so at rest there that, had it not been for an exorbitant explosion, it probably would be sitting there comfortably at rest forever. Rather than kindly stepping out of its path and rubbing your ears as the sound of it (trailing behind considerably) dawdles past, you would be sipping tea somewhere across town with no knowledge that there even is a bullet. This is another property of inertia, that of a stationary object that is inclined to remain stationary.
And just like moving persons, there are stationary persons. They are comfortably at rest inside their chambers. In fact, they are so comfortable there that, if not for an exciting explosion, they probably will be sitting comfortably at rest forever. You won't have to kindly step out of their paths, because they are on no path whatsoever.
Both types of bullets (the lethal, faster-than-sound kind and the harmless, comfortably-at-rest kind) are said to have inertia. Two contradictory states and one word to describe them both. It almost seems to invalidate use of the word entirely. What is the point in using a word to describe something if it can also be used to describe the very opposite?
And what about people? The always-moving-doing-talking-walking-saying-playing-starting-finishing person has inertia, just as the stationary, on-no-path-whatsoever person has inertia. You and I both have inertia. It all comes down to what that inertia means. It's the tendency of any object, moving or stationary, to resist any change to its motion or lack thereof. People waiting around comfortably for an extraordinary explosion to set them on their course may find themselves waiting an awfully long time.
¹ We're ignoring drag and friction.
Sunday, February 07, 2010
Resuscitation! Reinvigoration! Regurgitation!
First entry in over three years. This is an awkward transition, because in those three years I posted a hell of a lot of content on my MySpace blog. So it looks like I haven't written anything since I was a lowly intern at Echo Park Studios in Bloomington, but that's not the whole truth. I recently re-read some of those MySpace entries, and I'm pretty fond of them, so I recommend going to that blog and catching up, at least back through early 2008.
Actually, reading through all of these, I notice that 2008 seems to have been a pretty interesting and mostly good year, despite getting off to a rocky start. I recall fondly that I wrote quite a bit of music that year (even if not many of them turned into full songs, there are a lot of demos from that year that I still really enjoy), recorded even more of others' music, and I wrote a lot in that blog. So why was most of 2009 such a god damn train wreck? (That's not including the four-month layover in North Dakota, by the way.) Come to think of it, I wasn't too fond of 2007 either.
...Maybe it's something to do with odd-numbered years...
I've been doing a lot of reading lately. I mean, a lot. I have read seven books in the past month. They're mostly books whose names (or whose authors' names) I'm familiar with but had never read and just decided it was time that I did so. For example, Fight Club and Slaughterhouse-Five. I haven't read much in the past week or so, because my mind has been a little distracted. I decided for my latest round of choices I would revisit an old favorite: Tolkien. I'm currently halfway through The Hobbit, and I'm planning to enjoy The Lord of the Rings next. When I read, I often come across certain passages that strike me as particularly beautiful or moving, but I never write them down! I regret that. So I changed that very recently. I wish I had done it sooner, but what can you do. I'm now putting my favorite excerpts from books I read into my Facebook profile. Also, I've considered writing down my opinions on the books I read as I finish them to put online, but I haven't decided if the internet really needs any more opinions.
...Maybe it's because I was single for a majority of 2008...
The journey of teaching myself jazz guitar has also stalled momentarily. Again, it's mostly just because my mind has been distracted for about the last week. Up until this set in, I was making pretty good progress. The last thing I did was transcribe the first chorus of Wes Montgomery's solo in "West Coast Blues". That's about 30 seconds of music. It took me approximately four hours. I didn't realize before I started it that it's actually an incredibly popular solo, and that jazz guitarists frequently use it for audition material, and that ohmygodwhathaveigottenmyselfinto? I don't know that my playing and my ear are advanced enough yet to tackle this, but I'm going to stay on it for the time being. That is, once I pick up my guitar again.
...Maybe there's no connection to anything at all...
I'm actually going to stop this right here. I have a feeling that I could probably keep typing until, oh, the sun rises. And that might actually be a good thing, from a certain point of view. But if I slather my sloppy linguistic excrement all over the place tonight, there will be nothing to save for future updates, and you won't come back to read, and I won't be able to keep my sponsors happy, and they'll revoke sponsorship, and then I'll go broke, and then I'll have to sell my body for cocaine money.
Actually, reading through all of these, I notice that 2008 seems to have been a pretty interesting and mostly good year, despite getting off to a rocky start. I recall fondly that I wrote quite a bit of music that year (even if not many of them turned into full songs, there are a lot of demos from that year that I still really enjoy), recorded even more of others' music, and I wrote a lot in that blog. So why was most of 2009 such a god damn train wreck? (That's not including the four-month layover in North Dakota, by the way.) Come to think of it, I wasn't too fond of 2007 either.
...Maybe it's something to do with odd-numbered years...
I've been doing a lot of reading lately. I mean, a lot. I have read seven books in the past month. They're mostly books whose names (or whose authors' names) I'm familiar with but had never read and just decided it was time that I did so. For example, Fight Club and Slaughterhouse-Five. I haven't read much in the past week or so, because my mind has been a little distracted. I decided for my latest round of choices I would revisit an old favorite: Tolkien. I'm currently halfway through The Hobbit, and I'm planning to enjoy The Lord of the Rings next. When I read, I often come across certain passages that strike me as particularly beautiful or moving, but I never write them down! I regret that. So I changed that very recently. I wish I had done it sooner, but what can you do. I'm now putting my favorite excerpts from books I read into my Facebook profile. Also, I've considered writing down my opinions on the books I read as I finish them to put online, but I haven't decided if the internet really needs any more opinions.
...Maybe it's because I was single for a majority of 2008...
The journey of teaching myself jazz guitar has also stalled momentarily. Again, it's mostly just because my mind has been distracted for about the last week. Up until this set in, I was making pretty good progress. The last thing I did was transcribe the first chorus of Wes Montgomery's solo in "West Coast Blues". That's about 30 seconds of music. It took me approximately four hours. I didn't realize before I started it that it's actually an incredibly popular solo, and that jazz guitarists frequently use it for audition material, and that ohmygodwhathaveigottenmyselfinto? I don't know that my playing and my ear are advanced enough yet to tackle this, but I'm going to stay on it for the time being. That is, once I pick up my guitar again.
...Maybe there's no connection to anything at all...
I'm actually going to stop this right here. I have a feeling that I could probably keep typing until, oh, the sun rises. And that might actually be a good thing, from a certain point of view. But if I slather my sloppy linguistic excrement all over the place tonight, there will be nothing to save for future updates, and you won't come back to read, and I won't be able to keep my sponsors happy, and they'll revoke sponsorship, and then I'll go broke, and then I'll have to sell my body for cocaine money.
Saturday, October 14, 2006
Caffibacco
He looked me in the eye.
"I don't have any vices," he said, exhaling smoke.
"I know," I said.
We both slurped noisily from hot mugs of coffee.
This isn't meant to a completed work of sheer wonder. It just popped into my head because it's something that actually happened.
"I don't have any vices," he said, exhaling smoke.
"I know," I said.
We both slurped noisily from hot mugs of coffee.
This isn't meant to a completed work of sheer wonder. It just popped into my head because it's something that actually happened.
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
On the correct use of 'literally'
Let's talk for a bit about the word 'literally'. It's an adverbial form of the adjective 'literal'. Before we delve into literally, let's talk about literal. Forgoing the cliched inlusion of a textbook definition copy/pasted from any number of dictionary-esque websites, suffice it to say that literal means 'true to the meaning of words'. The opposite would be figurative, in which words have secondary meanings that may or may not be easily understood. From this definition of literal, we can then define literally as 'being used in a strict sense without exaggeration'.
The use of literally, however, has evolved in modern times with a sense of adding great intensity to a statement. I would like to narrow it down and say that literally, when used in such a way, means precisely the following: the statement, though seemingly exaggerated, is completely true. The problem recently is that two incorrect uses have begun to crop up, one of which directly contradicts the meaning of the word; the other is merely redundant and unnecessary.
Problem #1: Directly contradicts the meaning of the word.
"I'm so hungry, my stomach is literally eating itself." "She broke his heart. He was literally crushed." Today is hot; it's literally a thousand degrees outside."
The problem with using literally in this way is that none of it is literal at all. Literal would mean that the stomach has, in fact, eaten itself and no longer remains, or that the body was actually demolished, or that the thermometer reads one thousand degrees. None of these is true. They are not literal, they are figurative.
Problem #2: Redundant, unnecessary.
"In 1492 Columbus literally sailed across the ocean."
Obviously the problem here is that the statement is clearly fact and there has been absolutely no exaggeration. It is not important to remind the reader/listener of the truth of the statement. If we would find it difficult to believe that someone could sail across the ocean, or if we were led to believe that the entire ocean was not sailed, then literally would perhaps be used as a reminder of the validity of the statement, or against claims of exaggeration. As it is, it's just completely useless.
Words evolve and change, it's true. But using a word that is still in common usage in a completely opposite manner is debilitating to language. If you ask me how I feel and I say "terrible" would you be concerned? But what if I meant 'great' when I said 'terrible'? Would you be confused? How about the next time you ask me and I say "great"? Does that now mean 'terrible' or does it still mean 'great'? We should probably agree on what the words mean and then stick to it, so we are able to understand each other better next time.
Thanks for reading. Have an awful day.
The use of literally, however, has evolved in modern times with a sense of adding great intensity to a statement. I would like to narrow it down and say that literally, when used in such a way, means precisely the following: the statement, though seemingly exaggerated, is completely true. The problem recently is that two incorrect uses have begun to crop up, one of which directly contradicts the meaning of the word; the other is merely redundant and unnecessary.
Problem #1: Directly contradicts the meaning of the word.
"I'm so hungry, my stomach is literally eating itself." "She broke his heart. He was literally crushed." Today is hot; it's literally a thousand degrees outside."
The problem with using literally in this way is that none of it is literal at all. Literal would mean that the stomach has, in fact, eaten itself and no longer remains, or that the body was actually demolished, or that the thermometer reads one thousand degrees. None of these is true. They are not literal, they are figurative.
Problem #2: Redundant, unnecessary.
"In 1492 Columbus literally sailed across the ocean."
Obviously the problem here is that the statement is clearly fact and there has been absolutely no exaggeration. It is not important to remind the reader/listener of the truth of the statement. If we would find it difficult to believe that someone could sail across the ocean, or if we were led to believe that the entire ocean was not sailed, then literally would perhaps be used as a reminder of the validity of the statement, or against claims of exaggeration. As it is, it's just completely useless.
Words evolve and change, it's true. But using a word that is still in common usage in a completely opposite manner is debilitating to language. If you ask me how I feel and I say "terrible" would you be concerned? But what if I meant 'great' when I said 'terrible'? Would you be confused? How about the next time you ask me and I say "great"? Does that now mean 'terrible' or does it still mean 'great'? We should probably agree on what the words mean and then stick to it, so we are able to understand each other better next time.
Thanks for reading. Have an awful day.
Thursday, January 19, 2006
No pun intended
Use of the phrase 'no pun intended' is typically reserved for specific instances in which a pun has been made, whether intentionally or unintentionally. It is quite clear to the listener (or reader) that the pun is there and any sort of comical results are, by this point, unavoidable. It is hereby encouraged that orators and writers begin use of the phrase 'no pun intended' at specific times when no pun has been made whatsoever. A few good examples of this updated manner of use in everyday conversation might be:
"Did you hear about the rabbi who bought a used Mercedes Benz? He got leather upholstered seats. No pun intended."
"I don't know why Sarah took her dog back to the pet store; it was a perfectly good terrier. No pun intended."
"What great weather we have today, it didn't snow or rain. No pun intended."
This will be a welcome assurance for the audience, who can easily be confused by the presence of both the pun itself and the words 'no pun intended.' Immediate and thorough adoption of this new method is suggested for all communicators, both of word and voice. A streamlined and easily understandable conversation is a good conversation, no pun intended.
"Did you hear about the rabbi who bought a used Mercedes Benz? He got leather upholstered seats. No pun intended."
"I don't know why Sarah took her dog back to the pet store; it was a perfectly good terrier. No pun intended."
"What great weather we have today, it didn't snow or rain. No pun intended."
This will be a welcome assurance for the audience, who can easily be confused by the presence of both the pun itself and the words 'no pun intended.' Immediate and thorough adoption of this new method is suggested for all communicators, both of word and voice. A streamlined and easily understandable conversation is a good conversation, no pun intended.
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
Ben Folds
from Rock Music Review (www.rockmusicreview.com)
Ben Folds (website / MySpace)
Songs for Silverman (2005)
Reviewed by Andrew Malott (link)
Ben Folds (website / MySpace)
Songs for Silverman (2005)
Reviewed by Andrew Malott (link)
While the band does have a few opportunities to really rock out together, on the whole it sounds quite reserved. The familiar rhythm section of piano, drums, and bass is still intact and mostly unchanged throughout the majority of the album; there is a cello here and a guitar there, but they are few and far between. Compared to the highly produced Suburbs, complete with synthesizers, electric guitars, and harmony abound, Silverman feels stripped down. This is no doubt intentional as a production decision, to reflect the more introspective nature of the album and let the songwriting take center stage, but as a result the album is a little more low-key than past offerings. This feeling is only furthered by Folds’ singing, which sometimes sounds tired and weary, instead of bursting out of the speakers with life.
In the first track, “Bastard,” Folds evokes the cynicism of an old man. Although the lyrics are entirely in the third person, it seems as though he is singing about himself. Marked by interesting meter changes, this song stands out as the longest and most varied of the album. Following this is “You to Thank,” which has great lyrics and an incredible jazzy piano solo at the bridge that will perk the ears of seasoned fans. Unfortunately, it lacks a strong, memorable chorus to complement Folds' piano mastery. He returns to the cynical theme later in the album in “Sentimental Guy.” The swaggering, swung rhythm and beautifully dissonant chords of the chorus are very charming, and this simple song manages to work.
“Landed,” released as a single in February, is a combination of the best of Folds’ talents at this stage in his life. The chords are beautiful, the melody is memorable, and the lyrics are touching; it’s one of the best tracks on the album. “Give Judy My Notice,” a candidate for another radio single, is a reworking of a song from Folds’ 2003 EP Speed Graphic, this time with drums, bass, and a bit of slide guitar. Unfortunately, this remake pales deeply in comparison to its predecessor and any fan of Ben Folds is strongly urged to listen to a copy of Speed Graphic to hear the song at its finest.
“Jesusland” is Folds at his sharpest as he takes shots at urban America. This isn’t a far cry lyrically from his live show favorite “All U Can Eat,” from the Sunny 16 EP, although here he addresses the subject with a bit more class.
More touching and meaningful than any other song on the album is “Late,” a tribute to the late singer/songwriter Elliott Smith. It gives “Landed” a run for its money as best song on the album.
Ben Folds has earned a reputation for making the music he wants to make when he wants to make it, and Songs for Silverman is certainly no exception. Eschewing past formulas for success, Folds has chosen to write songs about the things he cares about, not what he cared about ten years ago. Nothing on the album is actually anything less than good, but taken in the context of Ben Folds’ decade-long history, it’s hard to measure up.
7.5 / 10
The difficulty of acquiring my morning grits
Dear Producers and Distributors of Edible Goods,
Please stop making your products so damn hard to open. You know the bag that resides snugly within the cardboard carapace of the cereal box? You don't need to seal that off with cement. Any standard grade adhesive will do. If I am forced to resort to the use of serated cutting utensils, then you've outdone yourselves.
Please stop making your products so damn hard to open. You know the bag that resides snugly within the cardboard carapace of the cereal box? You don't need to seal that off with cement. Any standard grade adhesive will do. If I am forced to resort to the use of serated cutting utensils, then you've outdone yourselves.
Monday, December 12, 2005
Margot and the Nuclear So and So's
from Rock Music Review (www.rockmusicreview.com)
Margot and the Nuclear So and So’s (website / MySpace)
The Dust of Retreat (2005)
Reviewed by Andrew Malott (link)
Margot and the Nuclear So and So’s deftly combine sounds of folky acoustic guitar, driving electric guitar, smooth cello, and catchy piano to create a wonderfully unique sound. Singer/songwriter Richard Edwards, formerly of the band
The first two tracks “A Sea Chanty of Sorts” and “On a Freezing Chicago Street” pass by without a big, catchy chorus, but they are no less important in their own right, nor are they altogether without any hooks to speak of. Both are exemplary of Richard’s uncanny ability to write songs that are catchy and undeniably pop, but unique enough to be called indie. The fourth track “Quiet as a Mouse” stands out in that it is the only song on the album to feature a truly rocking chorus. Distorted power chords and soaring vocal melodies are a nod back to Richard’s days with
Songs like “Jen Is Bringin’ the Drugs” and “A Light on a Hill” are wonderful showcases for Richard’s singer/songwriter roots. With lyrics like “Love is an inkless pen / It’s a tavern, it’s sin / It’s a horrible way to begin,” he’s no stranger to the loved-and-lost formula, but he avoids it and only hints at subjects other singers might have come right out and said. Richard’s use of metaphor is both highly romanticized and mysterious; he leaves out the details for the listener to fill in. On “Vampires in Blue Dresses,” “Barfight Revolution / Power Violence,” and “Skeleton Key,” the band really gets a chance to have some fun; they serve as a great contrast to the quieter, pensive mood of some of the other tracks like “Dress Me Like a Clown” and “Talking in Code.” With jingling bells and a sweet, descending piano melody, the final song “Bookworm” brings the album to a satisfying close.
Technically, the album represents a watermark for producer Tyler Watkins, who is also the bassist of the band. Every track is easy to listen to with an even frequency spectrum and balanced highs and lows. The loud parts are loud and rocking, while the softer parts have just the right amount of compression to bring out the intricacies of the performance while still retaining enough dynamic sway.
The talented musicians of Margot and the Nuclear So and So’s have a bright future ahead of them with a great debut album to boot. It will be a shame if future listeners, lured in by the band’s ever increasing popularity, never have the pleasure of hearing this album. It will be an even bigger shame if the band’s sound is waxed over by the suits of the recording industry in hopes of making even more money. Hopefully Richard and the band have enough wits about them to keep their musical integrity in highest priority as they start to show up on the big scene.
9.0 / 10.0
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
