Merry Christmas to all...
December 24, 2008
December 23, 2008
December 20, 2008
Excerpt #2 From Jack London's "The Sea-Wolf" (1904)...
Before closing this incident, I must give a scrap of conversation I had with Wolf Larsen in the cabin, while I was washing the dishes.
“You were looking squeamish this afternoon,” he began. “What was the matter?”
I could see that he knew what had made me possibly as sick as Harrison, that he was trying to draw me, and I answered, “It was because of the brutal treatment of that boy.”
He gave a short laugh. “Like sea-sickness, I suppose. Some men are subject to it, and others are not.”
“Not so,” I objected.
“Just so,” he went on. “The earth is as full of brutality as the sea is full of motion. And some men are made sick by the one, and some by the other. That’s the only reason.”
“But you, who make a mock of human life, don’t you place any value upon it whatever?” I demanded.
“Value? What value?” He looked at me, and though his eyes were steady and motionless, there seemed a cynical smile in them. “What kind of value? How do you measure it? Who values it?”
“I do,” I made answer.
“Then what is it worth to you? Another man’s life, I mean. Come now, what is it worth?”
The value of life? How could I put a tangible value upon it? Somehow, I, who have always had expression, lacked expression when with Wolf Larsen. I have since determined that a part of it was due to the man’s personality, but that the greater part was due to his totally different outlook. Unlike other materialists I had met and with whom I had something in common to start on, I had nothing in common with him. Perhaps, also, it was the elemental simplicity of his mind that baffled me. He drove so directly to the core of the matter, divesting a question always of all superfluous details, and with such an air of finality, that I seemed to find myself struggling in deep water, with no footing under me. Value of life? How could I answer the question on the spur of the moment? The sacredness of life I had accepted as axiomatic. That it was intrinsically valuable was a truism I had never questioned. But when he challenged the truism I was speechless.
“We were talking about this yesterday,” he said. “I held that life was a ferment, a yeasty something which devoured life that it might live, and that living was merely successful piggishness. Why, if there is anything in supply and demand, life is the cheapest thing in the world. There is only so much water, so much earth, so much air; but the life that is demanding to be born is limitless. Nature is a spendthrift. Look at the fish and their millions of eggs. For that matter, look at you and me. In our loins are the possibilities of millions of lives. Could we but find time and opportunity and utilize the last bit and every bit of the unborn life that is in us, we could become the fathers of nations and populate continents. Life? Bah! It has no value. Of cheap things it is the cheapest. Everywhere it goes begging. Nature spills it out with a lavish hand. Where there is room for one life, she sows a thousand lives, and it’s life eats life till the strongest and most piggish life is left.”
“You have read Darwin,” I said. “But you read him misunderstandingly when you conclude that the struggle for existence sanctions your wanton destruction of life.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “You know you only mean that in relation to human life, for of the flesh and the fowl and the fish you destroy as much as I or any other man. And human life is in no wise different, though you feel it is and think that you reason why it is. Why should I be parsimonious with this life which is cheap and without value? There are more sailors than there are ships on the sea for them, more workers than there are factories or machines for them. Why, you who live on the land know that you house your poor people in the slums of cities and loose famine and pestilence upon them, and that there still remain more poor people, dying for want of a crust of bread and a bit of meat (which is life destroyed), than you know what to do with. Have you ever seen the London dockers fighting like wild beasts for a chance to work?”
He started for the companion stairs, but turned his head for a final word. “Do you know the only value life has is what life puts upon itself? And it is of course over-estimated since it is of necessity prejudiced in its own favour. Take that man I had aloft. He held on as if he were a precious thing, a treasure beyond diamonds or rubies. To you? No. To me? Not at all. To himself? Yes. But I do not accept his estimate. He sadly overrates himself. There is plenty more life demanding to be born. Had he fallen and dripped his brains upon the deck like honey from the comb, there would have been no loss to the world. He was worth nothing to the world. The supply is too large. To himself only was he of value, and to show how fictitious even this value was, being dead he is unconscious that he has lost himself. He alone rated himself beyond diamonds and rubies. Diamonds and rubies are gone, spread out on the deck to be washed away by a bucket of sea-water, and he does not even know that the diamonds and rubies are gone. He does not lose anything, for with the loss of himself he loses the knowledge of loss. Don’t you see? And what have you to say?”
“That you are at least consistent,” was all I could say, and I went on washing the dishes.
Related: From Jack London's "The Sea-Wolf" (1904)...
Hey! Gather The Kids And Sing Along With Gilbert O'Sullivan's "Alone Again, Naturally," The Most Depressing Smash Hit Single EVER!
From Wikipedia "...In 1972, his international star rose after his self-penned ballad, 'Alone Again (Naturally),' a No. 3 hit in UK, became a chart-topper in the U.S., spending six weeks at number one (!!!) on the Billboard Hot 100 chart and selling nearly two million copies there..." I have a theory that every song that was ever on any of the Billboard charts (1) is some couple's song and (2) served as mood music during the conception of a baby. "Honey! Honey! They're playing our song! They're playing 'Along Again, Naturally!'" At a bare minimum, during the six weeks it reigned the charts, the kids were fucking like crazy in the back seats of cars to this song about throwing in the towel. I'm also fixated with Gordon Lightfoot's "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald," a song which reached #2 on the Billboard charts in '76 and remains a cornerstone of mellow radio. Now, I'm a fan of Gordo's music, and I love the spooky production on that tune in particular,...but it's a DIRGE about a bunch of guys dyin' in a goddamn boating accident! And the kids were slow-dancing & fucking to it!
My Favorite Passage From Cormac McCarthy's "All The Pretty Horses" (1992)
Page 141 (punctuation is as the author intended)
...They'd ride at night up along the western mesa two hours from the ranch and sometimes he'd build a fire and they could see the gaslights at the hacienda gates far below them floating in a pool of black and sometimes the lights seemed to move as if the world down there turned on some other center and they saw stars fall to earth by the hundreds and she told him stories of her father's family and of Mexico. Going back they'd walk the horses into the lake and the horses would stand and drink with the water at their chests and the stars in the lake bobbed and tilted where they drank and if it rained in the mountains the air would be close and the night more warm and one night he left her and rode down along the edge of the lake through the sedge and willow and slid from the horses back and pulled off his boots and his clothes and walked out into the lake where the moon slid away before him and ducks gabbled out there in the dark. The water was black and warm and he turned in the lake and spread his arms in the water and the water was so dark and so silky and he watched across the still black surface to where she stood on the shore with the horse and he watched where she stepped from her pooled clothing so pale, so pale, like a chrysalis emerging, and walked into the water.
She paused midway to look back. Standing there trembling in the water and not from the cold for there was none. Do not speak to her. Do not call. When she reached him he held out his hand and she took it. She was so pale in the lake she seemed to be burning. Like foxfire in a darkened wood. That burned cold. Like the moon that burned cold. Her black hair floating on the water about her, falling and floating on the water. She put her other arm about his shoulder and looked toward the moon in the west do not speak to her do not call and then she turned her face up to him. Sweeter for the larceny of time and flesh, sweeter for the betrayal. Nesting cranes that stood singlefooted among the cane on the south shore had pulled their slender beaks from their wingpits to watch. Me quieres? she said. Yes, he said. He said her name. God yes, he said.
December 18, 2008
Combovers! Combovers! Combovers! Hooray!
(CLICK TO ZOOM EVEN CLOSER!)
If you have sadomasochistic inclinations, I recommend saving the image to your computer and setting it to tile as your desktop wallpaper. And if you've ever aspired to have your name added to a watch list, you might also wish to consider sending a copy in a self-addressed envelope to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
December 17, 2008
A Potpourri Of Reverb
From Wikipedia:
"Reverberation is the persistence of sound in a particular space after the original sound is removed. A reverberation, or reverb, is created when a sound is produced in an enclosed space causing a large number of echoes to build up and then slowly decay as the sound is absorbed by the walls and air. This is most noticeable when the sound source stops but the reflections continue, decreasing in amplitude, until they can no longer be heard. The length of this sound decay, or reverberation time, receives special consideration in the architectural design of large chambers, which need to have specific reverberation times to achieve optimum performance for their intended activity."
December 16, 2008
A Brief Recoil Anthology
(NOTE: Track 1 fades in very slowly)
From Wikipedia:
"Recoil is a musical project created by former Depeche Mode member Alan Wilder. Essentially a solo venture, Recoil began whilst Wilder was still in Depeche Mode, as an outlet for his experimental, less pop-oriented compositions. Once he announced his departure from the group in 1995, Recoil was transformed from a small side-project, into Wilder's primary musical enterprise."
Related: The Concise Guide To Alan Wilder-Era Depeche Mode
December 15, 2008
December 08, 2008
December 01, 2008
From Jack London's "The Sea-Wolf" (1904)...
“What do you believe, then?” I countered.
“I believe that life is a mess,” he answered promptly. “It is like yeast, a ferment, a thing that moves and may move for a minute, an hour, a year, or a hundred years, but that in the end will cease to move. The big eat the little that they may continue to move, the strong eat the weak that they may retain their strength. The lucky eat the most and move the longest, that is all. What do you make of those things?”
He swept his am in an impatient gesture toward a number of the sailors who were working on some kind of rope stuff amidships.
“They move, so does the jelly-fish move. They move in order to eat in order that they may keep moving. There you have it. They live for their belly’s sake, and the belly is for their sake. It’s a circle; you get nowhere. Neither do they. In the end they come to a standstill. They move no more. They are dead.”
“They have dreams,” I interrupted, “radiant, flashing dreams—”
“Of grub,” he concluded sententiously.
“And of more—”
“Grub. Of a larger appetite and more luck in satisfying it.” His voice sounded harsh. There was no levity in it. “For, look you, they dream of making lucky voyages which will bring them more money, of becoming the mates of ships, of finding fortunes—in short, of being in a better position for preying on their fellows, of having all night in, good grub and somebody else to do the dirty work. You and I are just like them. There is no difference, except that we have eaten more and better. I am eating them now, and you too. But in the past you have eaten more than I have. You have slept in soft beds, and worn fine clothes, and eaten good meals. Who made those beds? and those clothes? and those meals? Not you. You never made anything in your own sweat. You live on an income which your father earned. You are like a frigate bird swooping down upon the boobies and robbing them of the fish they have caught. You are one with a crowd of men who have made what they call a government, who are masters of all the other men, and who eat the food the other men get and would like to eat themselves. You wear the warm clothes. They made the clothes, but they shiver in rags and ask you, the lawyer, or business agent who handles your money, for a job.”
“But that is beside the matter,” I cried.
“Not at all.” He was speaking rapidly now, and his eyes were flashing. “It is piggishness, and it is life. Of what use or sense is an immortality of piggishness? What is the end? What is it all about? You have made no food. Yet the food you have eaten or wasted might have saved the lives of a score of wretches who made the food but did not eat it. What immortal end did you serve? or did they? Consider yourself and me. What does your boasted immortality amount to when your life runs foul of mine? You would like to go back to the land, which is a favourable place for your kind of piggishness. It is a whim of mine to keep you aboard this ship, where my piggishness flourishes. And keep you I will. I may make or break you. You may die to-day, this week, or next month. I could kill you now, with a blow of my fist, for you are a miserable weakling. But if we are immortal, what is the reason for this? To be piggish as you and I have been all our lives does not seem to be just the thing for immortals to be doing. Again, what’s it all about? Why have I kept you here?—”
“Because you are stronger,” I managed to blurt out.
“But why stronger?” he went on at once with his perpetual queries. “Because I am a bigger bit of the ferment than you? Don’t you see? Don’t you see?”
“But the hopelessness of it,” I protested.
“I agree with you,” he answered. “Then why move at all, since moving is living? Without moving and being part of the yeast there would be no hopelessness. But,—and there it is,—we want to live and move, though we have no reason to, because it happens that it is the nature of life to live and move, to want to live and move. If it were not for this, life would be dead. It is because of this life that is in you that you dream of your immortality. The life that is in you is alive and wants to go on being alive for ever. Bah! An eternity of piggishness!”
Related: Excerpt #2 From Jack London's "The Sea-Wolf" (1904)...
PIZZA TEEN! Readers Poll Results
QUESTION: Which of the following spam headlines did *NOT* appear in my inbox this week?
- Hot For Heft Whores And Harlots! 14%
- Kanye West Lays The Pipe! 57%
- Theodore Roosevelt Was A Gay Man 14%
- John Edwards Admits Fathering Clay Aiken's Baby 0%
- Men With Big Penises Go To Heaven! 0%
- Paris Hilton To Operate New Atom Smasher 14%
A Simulation Of The Effects Of Malnutrition On The Human Brain
I know it's an uncomfortable thought, but remember, this is all taking place in the imagination of an impoverished inner city black boy. And yes, your eyes don't deceive you: the three singers are molded from synthetic cheddar cheese and coagulated liquid shit. It's perfectly understandable if you stop the video after 30 seconds.
Here's That Video Of A Guy Clipping His Toenails In His Goddamn Underwear Which No One Requested
Recommended soundtrack...
Roof Vents As Far As The Eye Can See + Tiny Pointy Booties
I had a nightmare a short while ago that my girlfriend shapeshifted into Ronnie James Dio while I was making out with her and refused to switch back.
PIZZA TEEN! Krafty Kidz Korner
Can you spot the picture which is different from the others? Look closely. If you get stuck, ask an adult for help. Also, avoid smoking cigarettes.
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