September 25, 2002

japanimator ramblinator

My friend David is studying abroad in Japan right now, and he was thoughtful enough to set up a digital journal where he will recount his adventures with super robots and zombie attacks and sushi bars. So far there is no mention of giant mechanized suits that fight and level the city on a daily basis, but I’m optimistic for the future.

Suffice to say that Tokyo is an amazing place. The trains are efficient and crowded, and each stop is like an island in a sea of anonymity where anything could exist (and frequently does). I`ve explored some of the most famous areas of downtown Tokyo already, and their fame is justified; coming from suburban Minnesota I feel like a hillbilly in this metropolis. It`s easy to be enthralled by the light and sound that envelops you here… Just as easy as becoming captivated by the jagged green mountains and lurid, etherial shrines of the Edo period a scant two hours by bus from downtown Tokyo.

One of the first contradictions I`ve discovered in Japan is that it is a country both huge and tiny. Everything is compressed and extended upward, from the cities to the natural environment to drink containers to human bodies (well, not extended upward so much). You can move a short distance horizontally and it`s like you`ve warped to another universe when you explore the vertical dimension.


September 24, 2002

i think, therefore i drink

Last night I got ripped at the Buena Vista. The Buena Vista is a two-faced outlet up on the hill, with a splendid and expensive restaurant upstairs and a drunk lounge in the down. The Lounge is a classic iron range bar, with drink specials that range from beer to beer to beer. This is not a bar you go to on your 21st birthday and show off to the bartender all the crazy little froo-froo mixed drinks you know. This is a bar you go to on your 22nd birthday, when you have settled in to the whole drinking thing and just want booze.

The establishment soaks into your soul. A night at the Buena will leave your clothes smelling fine and dingy. You will need to burn your sweater. Clothes that you didn’t even bring to the Buena will smell dingy. Your skin will smell dingy, but can reclaim its neutral scent after a bath in brillo pads.

We tried to start the night off with three pitchers of Killian’s, but they didn’t have enough pitchers so they gave it to us in installments. The conversation was surprisingly lively, spanning subjects from Iraq, participatory government, outlawing stupid people from having a say in political matters, the rise of the nation-state, digging up Plato’s bones so we can clone ourselves a philosopher king, military might, and the recent re-election of Hitler in Germany (who rallied up the leftist vote by spouting anti-American sentiments (but that’s OK because now that Schroeder has been reelected he canned the minister of justice who compared Bush to Hitler and that should patch every up… right?).

Then the malaise of alcohol tightened its grip. I argued the non-existence of God with some ladies. They weren’t drunk enough yet and got upset. I started up conversations with a number of other people. One ended up being a guy from my modern philosophy class last year. Another ended up being a girl who’s birthday was today. I don’t remember what I said to them. Other people I knew kept fading in and out at the edges. I talked to them. I hope I said nice things.

The true test of any night of drinking is the walk to the bathroom. You make every attempt to pretend you aren’t drunk as you walk across the bar, but really end up stumbling around and banging into chairs and people. Luckily most of the chairs and people are as drunk as you are and don’t really mind. In the bathroom there was a chalk board that guys had been writing on during the night. I stood there reading it and muttered to myself. “Huh. Pussy is still free. That’s good to know.”

At around 10:30 I realized that my birthday was creeping up. At midnight the bartender gave me a shot of tequila. Under normal circumstances I can’t do shots (they always seem to come out my nose), but since I had had eight mugs of Killian’s and was already plastered beyond recognition, the tequila was no problem. Then Deet insisted on buying me a beer. I did not want another beer, but next thing I knew the glass was empty. “Who drank my drink?” I demanded in a Southern pa kind of voice. I eventually decided the only logical conclusion was I drank my own drink but didn’t remember it. I don’t remember a lot of things from that night.

By the end of the night our conversation had degraded to howls of “Hey, must be his birthday!” and toasts to the drunk yelling that resulted. You can always test the drunkenness of a room by hollering nonsense and seeing how many people holler back. The Buena lounge was liquid.

I don’t remember much of leaving. At one point we were sitting at the bar, and the next thing I know we were filing out the back door to get a ride home from Kelly. She had a nice car, but I don’t remember what kind it was. Memory or not, Doug and I got back to the apartment and I stumbled into my room. I tried to go to sleep but the room kept rotating every time I closed my eyes. I turned on the light and used my Big Wu poster as an anchor, but then everything kept spinning around it.

I must have fallen asleep at some point because I woke up to Oranges and Graphic Design. My head hurt so I went back to sleep for a few more hours. I finally dragged myself out of bed at ten, scraped the Buena off my soul and went to work at the Wooch! table.

I was still drunk.


diet crap

Ten points to whomever can come up with a good caption for this pile of cheeseball advertising dreck.


September 22, 2002

theme song to the mayhem

Every website should have a theme song. The guys at Chopping Block have a particularly good theme song, done by They Might Be Giants. You can even download the song in mp3 format.

But Dane, you ask. Where is your theme song?

I’ve got your theme song right here.

The flash video is pending.


classical gas

I’m trying to write an English paper but it isn’t happening. To grease my wheels of discussion I’m gonna ramble on a bit about classical music.

I’ve have a soft spot for classical music, but it has always felt so distant from me. When I listen to Beethoven or Mozart or whatever it has never seemed to reflect my existence. To me the orchestra has always suggested a world of holy battles, tyrannical rulers and violent uprisings. The bloody rush of good against evil. It is an art that reflects a world so far beyond my own that it borders on the incomprehensible. Classical music has always made me feel small, not in a “Lake Superior could whoop my ass” good kind of small, but a frivolous “Why the hell does my puny existence even matter?” small.

I revel in any wicked proclamation from the string section, but I am simultaneously attracted and repulsed by the music. It speaks too much. It shoots over my head to lodge in the skulls of Great and Noble Men, among whom I can only hope to be one day. Today I fought no wars, I defended no homeland, I vanquished no dread beasts. Today I ate breakfast at Betty’s Pies and pretended that the pie listing was a stock ticker. Today I sat in my room and avoided analyzing Sherwood Anderson’s Death in the Woods.

Today my troubles are not worthy of the first two chords of Beethoven’s Symphony no. 5.

But then I came to a startling realization. These songs, no matter how splendid, were never handed down from the mountains. There is nothing divine within them. They reflect mankind, and that is all. What’s more, they are simply the beautiful coherent ramblings of a couple mad men that were crazy and motivated enough to chain themselves to pianos and hack out this stuff.

Every note was written by a puny human. Classical music isn’t for the Great and Noble, but for every tiny being that takes the time to listen. It is not to be interpreted as something far beyond ourselves but something within. When I listen now I no longer strain to hear the clash of the heavens, but instead bend an ear to the thunder in my soul. My passions, relationships, toubles and toils span the skies and become heroic. I run my fingers across the dizzying crescendos and mire my feet in the dark depths. My feelings are externalized, filling the room and resonating in the walls. The music makes the human experience real.

What’s more, the music itself give us something great to which we can aspire. There is no need to lead a puny and insignificant life, as we all have the capacity to be heroes. Tune your mind to welcome challenge and hardship. Work at what you love until it hurts. Find the string section in your life.

Leave a legacy.



September 19, 2002

dance party for fiction

On Tuesday we were settling in to discuss literature in our Writing Fiction class when we were interrupted by a dance party in Ordean Court. We glanced out the fourth floor window to see that a shiny Coke trailer had unfolded like a lotus flower to reveal metal petals of amplifiers, speakers and radio personality rejects. The bass rattled my fillings and my Vanilla Coke I had picked up five minutes earlier from the same trailer.

Apparently Vanilla Coke is such a uniquely ubiquitious product that it cannot be contained in silent billboards, magazine placements and television adverts. On this momentous day they were dispensing both free sugar pop and infectious dance grooves. Normally I wouldn’t mind, as I’ll be the first to praise the cultural advancement inherent in pushing products via association with hip youth interests. However, this was during class, in the middle of the fargin’ day. We were trying to learn something, which, as far as my impression goes, is the point of college in the first place. We did close the windows, which managed to drown out all but the loudest hollahs from below.

“This poem by Dylan Thomas-”

“COME ON OUT AND PLAY, GUYS AND GIRLS.”

“has six stanzas written in Villanelle for-”

“WE’VE GOT VIDEO GAMES.”

“…”


September 18, 2002

wanna talk root-causes?

Steven Den Beste lays out his case for Iraq, which strangely enough sounds like a thorough analysis of root-causes. Those poor, poor liberals, who still think that answering the question “Why do they hate us?” will avoid any spilled blood and make the world embrace in green fields lined with oleander.

Soon. There’s some business that needs taking care of, first.

We must attack Iraq. We must totally conquer the nation. Saddam must be removed from power, and killed if possible, and the Baath party must be shattered.

“Put the hanky down, it’s clobberin’ time.”

But Saddam isn’t our enemy. bin Laden (may he rest in hell) is not our enemy. Iraq isn’t our enemy. al Qaeda isn’t our enemy. The Taliban weren’t our enemies.

Our enemy is a culture which is deeply diseased.

We’re everything that they think they should be, and by our power and success we throw their failure into stark contrast, especially because we’ve gotten to where we are by doing everything their religion says is wrong; we’ve deeply sinned, and by so doing we’ve won. They are forced to compare their own accomplishments to ours; we are the standard of success, and in every important way they come up badly short. They have nothing whatever they can point to that can save face and preserve their egos. In every objective way we are better than they are, and they know it.

And since this is a “face” culture, one driven by pride and shame, that is intolerable. Nor is it something we can easily redress. The oft-proposed idea of increasing aid and attempting to eliminate poverty may well help in South America and sub-Saharan Africa, but it will not defuse the hatred of our Arab/Islamic enemies, for it is our success that they hate, not the fruits of that success.

They face a profound crisis of faith, and it can only resolve one of three ways.

First, the status quo can continue. They can continue to fail, sit in their nations, and accept their plight. By clinging to their culture and their religion they may be ideologically pure, but they will have to continue to live with the shame of being totally unable to earn the respect through achievement that would be the only thing that actually would satisfy their grievance. Solution one: they can stagnate.

The second thing they can do is to accept that their culture and their religion are actually the problem. They can recognize that they will have to liberalize their culture in order to begin to achieve. They can embrace the modern world, and embrace western ways at least in part. They can break the hold of Islamic teachings; discard Sharia; liberate their women; start to teach science and engineering in their schools instead of the study of the Q’uran; and secularize their societies. Solution two: they can reform.

Some Arab nations have begun to do this, and to the extent that they have they have also started to succeed. But this is unacceptable to the majority; it is literally sinful. It is heresy. What good does it do to succeed in the world if, by so doing, you condemn your soul to hell?

Which leaves only one other way: become relatively competitive by destroying all other cultures which are more capable. You level the playing field by tearing down all the mountains rather than filling in the valleys; you make everyone equally tall by shooting everyone taller than you are. Solution three: they can lash out, fight back.

We’re facing a 14th century culture engaged in a 14th century war. The problem is that they are armed with 20th century weapons, possibly including nuclear weapons. And they embrace a culture which honors dying in a good cause, which means that deterrence can’t be relied on if they get nuclear weapons.

Why is it that the US is concerned about Iraq getting nukes when we don’t seem to be as concerned about Pakistan or India or Israel? It’s because those nations don’t embrace a warrior culture where suicide in a good cause, even mass death in a good cause, is considered acceptable.

It’s certainly not the case that the majority of those in the culture which is our enemy would gladly die. But many of those who make the decisions would gladly sacrifice millions of their own in exchange for millions of ours.

It may sound strange to say, but what we have to do is to take the 14th century culture of our enemies and bring it into the 17th century. Once we’ve done that, then we can work on bringing them into the 21st century, but that will be much easier.

I am forthrightly stating that it will be necessary to destabilize the entire middle east, which puts me exactly counter to European foreign policy. No bandaid will do. It isn’t possible to patch things up with diplomacy because the rot runs too deep. Diplomacy now would be treating the symptoms and not the true disease.

I am forthrightly stating that no amount of aid to the poor will stop the aggression against us, angering liberals everywhere. It isn’t our wealth they hate, it’s our accomplishments. The only way we can appease them is to ourselves become failures, and that is a price I’m not willing to pay.

I’ve parsed his argument down severely. It really is quite a nice piece of work in full.


September 17, 2002

laundry list

I really don’t like to write about writing my webpage, as it ends up being as exciting as telling my friends how I fold my laundry. I cannot even imagine visiting such an evil upon my fellow man. “Well, I take my socks and turn them inside out, and fold my boxers in half lengthwise before rolling them in a little ball, and then I feel the cold barrel of a gun on my temple and-”

No. It isn’t worth it. They’d be mopping giblets off the walls for weeks.

Even narcissism doesn’t justify an open forum on my hack abilities at web design. And yet I find the topic strangely alluring, like the sparkly models in Seventeen magazine showing off their ultra-low-ride pants that really only amount to a pair of denim garters. Filthy, foul, just plain wrong… and just what I’ve always, always wanted.

So with that, I introduce you to danesbored.com-transitory-version-something-or-another. The last week I have spent three hours a day FTPing files, writing entries and installing server-side scripts. I got all my entries exported from Graymatter and imported into Movable Type, my new and beautiful blogging love child.

And now I’m tired. The main weblog page looks nice, but it is merely the default Movable Type template and lacks moxie. The extra nonsense that existed on Cromlech still exist on danesbored, but in changing blogging tools I broke my links to them. Additionally, the ‘nonsense’ needs to be updated so it uses my new stylesheets and is consistent with the rest of the site (which still needs to be made consistent… er… still needs to be made existent, really). I have a desire to generate a photo album that runs parallel to the main blog, but to do so I need to know how to make the Movable Type templates sing and dance at my beckoning. The main template references a horde of sub-templates, which results in a mess of cross-referenced code that looks to me more like Elvish than HTML.

No worries. I can figure it out. I always have. I always will.

Just not yet.

For now, enjoy the pictures.