The Elegant Mantle, The Meaning

The Elegant Mantle, The Meaning By James "Still hasn't made a damn handle" Bizzarro
The first word in this song is discorporate. It means to leave your body. -Frnk Zappalin Hey you! Out there in the void, clicking links, fans of floyd Validate me? Wish I had the crazy attention span to map things out on that intricate, grandiose scale that attracts conspiracy theorists like flames for moths. That is to say, it’s times like these where I wish HOV (read my little pink Floyd ditty downwards for teh secret message tech!) meant something… what are your thoughts, Wiki the treacherous? What’s that? High occupancy vehicle lane? …I guess… if you take the view, the internet really is a high occupancy vehicle, it moves places and it… sorry to waste your time, there wasn’t much meaning there to begin with and mining it for further meaning would prove disastrous for the town we’re mining under. That would make people feel bad; it would undermine the whole lot of them. Please don’t hurt me; it’s medical. Seriously, I think people who search for puns and wordplay are just suffering from some sort of linguistic dyslexia where they just keep switching words around. Skype I have an account with Skype. It’s about as user-friendly as the lethal injection, but that might be just my Unabomber genes (Dad’s side of the family). I do like the whole “we’re trying to be a legitimate useful thing for everyone” approach it has, instead of “lolfriendchat for the kiddies!!1!” It does leave that eerie residue on the page though. I just added a “contact”, instead of a friend. It’s always friends online. “Don’t mind us, we’re just priming your kids for real life, where they’ll die cold, friendless and alone. So very alone. I’m Mr. Skype and I didn’t have any friends in high school. I also casually state my name and adolescent history, regardless of their relevance to the conversation at hand.” Maybe I’m just a sucker for the false intimacy of electronically referring to people as friends. See, I would say I don’t, with the basis that I deleted a shit-ton of friends on facebook before I left for college, but then the counter is that there’s that other voice in the back of my head going “Yeah, I deleted my fake friends. These are my real friends, all 160 of them.” Fuck you, isn’t there those studies that people can only truly know like, 150 people? Minimum, and this is absolute best case scenario then, 10 people that are my facebook friends are nothing more to me than spectral silhouettes of humanity, artificial intimacy lining my unconscious because I clicked to see what were their favorite films, if that. “Hey, he’s in my class! Let’s shoot out the tendril of sociability!” Damn, this must be why I have trouble meeting new people. I need to get some more friends. Lemme find some people on facebook... Music Korn has a new album (or izzat a nu album?) coming out in July. For their next project, Korn is inventing a time machine to send it back to 1996, when we collectively gave a shit. Post-Metal band Isis broke up. Headline: PHTHISIS OF ISIS! (now I’m wondering what’s more obscure: the diction or the band) Arcade Fire is releasing a new single some time, accordingly to a press clipping. Some time. That’s all they had to say and the pitchforkternet collectively hyperventilated and peed itself a bit. Y’all in the Arcade Fire are probably running out of free digits, what with all the hipsters you have wrapped around your slim, smug Canadian fingers. Dillinger Escape Plan: Yeah, their new album’s good. Television At first, I was pissed at season 4 of 30 Rock taking a nose dive in quality. Then I remembered that this essentially means they’ve made ((fuzzy) math time! 3 seasons x 20 episodes x 1/3 hour/episode) 20 hours of funny material, which is an amount I would take a potato peeler to my genitals for (just to visit, no necking or “funny stuff”. Potato peeler hickies hurt like a bitch). 20 hours is being really biting, it’s probably more like 25 hours of mostly golden material, they’ve earned the right to the occasional pyrite. 25 freakin’ hours. sigh Despite their translucent nature, it’s impossible to get tear stains out of clothes. You always know that they’re there. Chuckles are a bitter mistress. House. I like House, but there’s a problem in the infrastructure of the show. House is a hugely popular program, partially because of the very toxic quality that is dismantling it like a chop shop savaging a Toyota. It’s a show with an audience divided and, as we learned from America in the 19th century, those cannot stand. Those who tune in to any given episode of House are watching it for one of the following: There are some people that tune into it for the medical, science-y mystery aspect. They like wrapping their freaky, biology obsessed heads around trying to figure out what it means when someone is bleeding from a place where they otherwise shouldn’t be. Then there are those of people that tune in for the wacky, misanthropic antics of Hugh Laurie obfuscating his non-Americananity with possibly one of the defining “American Accent”. Oh yeah, and those characters and their lives and drama and the sort. The point is this: I watched one of the more recent episodes (that’s not the point, but that’s what you get for not teaching grammar in your school systems, New York State!). In one scene, Laurie and two doctors (the black fellow and the aussie (didn’t want to wiki their names, pardon the –cisms)) are drunkenly performing karaoke at the bar, merrily bandying about a man’s walking cane, recklessly abandoning all tact and regard for the plight of the handicapped. They were having drinks, clinking a toast and... Jump cut to a lactating man infested with tumors. It’s like having an erection, except instead of sexual arousal, it’s “fun” and that jump cut will destroy your “entertain-rection” faster than your honest boner would be killed by… come to think of it, a lactating man infested with tumors would be dreadfully effective in both cases. There is a solution though: Edit each episode into two “sub-episodes” for viewing convenience. It will be online, mark my words, and it will be popular. There’s the blood ‘n guts illness mystery and then there’s the pseudo-soap opera/dramedy (dramedy: the portmanteau that shouts a defiant “take that!” to Greek theater classification). This way, each fanbase gets what they want, instead of fast forwarding through the respective offending section like they were commercials. My editing skills approach nil, so someone else must take up the elegant mantle. Go forth and improve the quality of life of people. The Meaning Whenever someone clicks on a link online, they are investing their time. There is an underlying, unspoken reader/writer contract: the reader believes that the writer will provide content. That is to say, the writer will not waste their… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … time (sorry, I was in the really intense part of tetris, where the music goes all Allegro). As the baseline, you want to be entertained equal to your time investment. It’s what defines why you get restless when you’re not enjoying something. Grains of sand ticking away and I’m still doing this shit? No man, my time’s more valuable than that. See, people view writing as an act of ego (People are going to want to use their time to hear what I have to say), but ignore the counterweight: reading is also an act of ego. The reader wants to be stimulated and entertained what they feel they deserve. Writers seem to have a hard time understanding why they get such a strong backlash (especially ones that hide behind the “it’s free, what do you expect to get for free?” technique). There are people that feel that whatever was produced was not worthy of their time and then they feel cheated. Justice is a very strong word to be invoking on a humor-ish website, but the fact it has that glowing aura when referenced means yeah, people will be fueled by self(centered)-righteousness if they feel it’s been betrayed. To all those of you who’ve clicked an article and been furious at how shitty it was, and I enlist myself in these ranks, I offer a simple fact: the writer spent far more time writing the offending piece than you ever would reading it. If it’s that big of a turd, picture the man slaving over a keyboard in the dead hours of the night. The screen’s pale blue illumination that can’t seem to permeate the lines etched in his face, under his eyes. He’s tired, so very tired. The only noise to register is the almost non-existent electronic hum of the computer, the fans working to keep it cool and the clacking of the digits on keyboard. Worse still were the moments when the click-clacking stopped and the void settles in. Fun? This isn’t fun anymore. The LiveJournal community has to know how he feels about TNG. He has speak his mind, or it’s like he’s lying to them. Or, if you have compassion, just say that he’s suffered enough writing a bad article for a few hours when you’ve only read it for a few minutes. In short: writers, stop writing shit and readers, stop talking shit about shit you’ve read. Shit’s just shit and shit on shit doesn’t turn dogshit to diamonds, it produces a landfill. Of shit. Shit. Fuck Moonlight Sonata It and Pachelbel’s Canon. Fuck ‘em. Two songs enter, one song leaves. The winner will still be overplayed but at least it’ll only be one song. More room for more important things, like I dunno, whatever I’m railing against at a given time. 5/19/2010 Email: contact@mwt-studios.com

By James "Still hasn't made a damn handle" Bizzarro

The first word in this song is discorporate. It means to leave your body.
-Frnk Zappalin

Hey you!
Out there in the void, clicking links, fans of floyd
Validate me?

Wish I had the crazy attention span to map things out on that intricate, grandiose scale that attracts conspiracy theorists like flames for moths. That is to say, it’s times like these where I wish HOV (read my little pink Floyd ditty downwards for teh secret message tech!) meant something… what are your thoughts, Wiki the treacherous? What’s that? High occupancy vehicle lane? …I guess… if you take the view, the internet really is a high occupancy vehicle, it moves places and it… sorry to waste your time, there wasn’t much meaning there to begin with and mining it for further meaning would prove disastrous for the town we’re mining under. That would make people feel bad; it would undermine the whole lot of them.

Please don’t hurt me; it’s medical. Seriously, I think people who search for puns and wordplay are just suffering from some sort of linguistic dyslexia where they just keep switching words around.

Skype
I have an account with Skype. It’s about as user-friendly as the lethal injection, but that might be just my Unabomber genes (Dad’s side of the family). I do like the whole “we’re trying to be a legitimate useful thing for everyone” approach it has, instead of “lolfriendchat for the kiddies!!1!” It does leave that eerie residue on the page though. I just added a “contact”, instead of a friend. It’s always friends online. “Don’t mind us, we’re just priming your kids for real life, where they’ll die cold, friendless and alone. So very alone. I’m Mr. Skype and I didn’t have any friends in high school. I also casually state my name and adolescent history, regardless of their relevance to the conversation at hand.”

Maybe I’m just a sucker for the false intimacy of electronically referring to people as friends. See, I would say I don’t, with the basis that I deleted a shit-ton of friends on facebook before I left for college, but then the counter is that there’s that *other* voice in the back of my head going “Yeah, I deleted my fake friends. These are my real friends, all 160 of them.” Fuck you, isn’t there those studies that people can only truly know like, 150 people? Minimum, and this is absolute best case scenario then, 10 people that are my facebook friends are nothing more to me than spectral silhouettes of humanity, artificial intimacy lining my unconscious because I clicked to see what were their favorite films, if that. “Hey, he’s in my class! Let’s shoot out the tendril of sociability!” Damn, this must be why I have trouble meeting new people. I need to get some more friends. Lemme find some people on facebook...

Music
Korn has a new album (or izzat a nu album?) coming out in July. For their next project, Korn is inventing a time machine to send it back to 1996, when we collectively gave a shit.

Post-Metal band Isis broke up. Headline: PHTHISIS OF ISIS! (now I’m wondering what’s more obscure: the diction or the band)

Arcade Fire is releasing a new single some time, accordingly to a press clipping. Some time. That’s all they had to say and the pitchforkternet collectively hyperventilated and peed itself a bit. Y’all in the Arcade Fire are probably running out of free digits, what with all the hipsters you have wrapped around your slim, smug Canadian fingers.

Dillinger Escape Plan: Yeah, their new album’s good.

Television

At first, I was pissed at season 4 of 30 Rock taking a nose dive in quality. Then I remembered that this essentially means they’ve made ((fuzzy) math time! 3 seasons x 20 episodes x 1/3 hour/episode) 20 hours of funny material, which is an amount I would take a potato peeler to my genitals for (just to visit, no necking or “funny stuff”. Potato peeler hickies hurt like a bitch). 20 hours is being really biting, it’s probably more like 25 hours of mostly golden material, they’ve earned the right to the occasional pyrite. 25 freakin’ hours. *sigh* Despite their translucent nature, it’s impossible to get tear stains out of clothes. You always know that they’re there. Chuckles are a bitter mistress.

House. I like House, but there’s a problem in the infrastructure of the show. House is a hugely popular program, partially because of the very toxic quality that is dismantling it like a chop shop savaging a Toyota. It’s a show with an audience divided and, as we learned from America in the 19th century, those cannot stand. Those who tune in to any given episode of House are watching it for one of the following:
There are some people that tune into it for the medical, science-y mystery aspect. They like wrapping their freaky, biology obsessed heads around trying to figure out what it means when someone is bleeding from a place where they otherwise shouldn’t be.
Then there are those of people that tune in for the wacky, misanthropic antics of Hugh Laurie obfuscating his non-Americananity with possibly one of the defining “American Accent”. Oh yeah, and those characters and their lives and drama and the sort.

The point is this: I watched one of the more recent episodes (that’s not the point, but that’s what you get for not teaching grammar in your school systems, New York State!). In one scene, Laurie and two doctors (the black fellow and the aussie (didn’t want to wiki their names, pardon the –cisms)) are drunkenly performing karaoke at the bar, merrily bandying about a man’s walking cane, recklessly abandoning all tact and regard for the plight of the handicapped. They were having drinks, clinking a toast and... Jump cut to a lactating man infested with tumors. It’s like having an erection, except instead of sexual arousal, it’s “fun” and that jump cut will destroy your “entertain-rection” faster than your honest boner would be killed by… come to think of it, a lactating man infested with tumors would be dreadfully effective in both cases. There is a solution though: Edit each episode into two “sub-episodes” for viewing convenience. It will be online, mark my words, and it will be popular. There’s the blood ‘n guts illness mystery and then there’s the pseudo-soap opera/dramedy (dramedy: the portmanteau that shouts a defiant “take that!” to Greek theater classification). This way, each fanbase gets what they want, instead of fast forwarding through the respective offending section like they were commercials. My editing skills approach nil, so someone else must take up the elegant mantle. Go forth and improve the quality of life of people.

The Meaning
Whenever someone clicks on a link online, they are investing their time. There is an underlying, unspoken reader/writer contract: the reader believes that the writer will provide content. That is to say, the writer will not waste their…
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… time (sorry, I was in the really intense part of tetris, where the music goes all Allegro). As the baseline, you want to be entertained equal to your time investment. It’s what defines why you get restless when you’re not enjoying something. Grains of sand ticking away and I’m still doing this shit? No man, my time’s more valuable than that. See, people view writing as an act of ego (People are going to want to use their time to hear what I have to say), but ignore the counterweight: reading is also an act of ego. The reader wants to be stimulated and entertained what they feel they deserve. Writers seem to have a hard time understanding why they get such a strong backlash (especially ones that hide behind the “it’s free, what do you expect to get for free?” technique). There are people that feel that whatever was produced was not worthy of their time and then they feel cheated. Justice is a very strong word to be invoking on a humor-ish website, but the fact it has that glowing aura when referenced means yeah, people will be fueled by self(centered)-righteousness if they feel it’s been betrayed.

To all those of you who’ve clicked an article and been furious at how shitty it was, and I enlist myself in these ranks, I offer a simple fact: the writer spent far more time writing the offending piece than you ever would reading it. If it’s that big of a turd, picture the man slaving over a keyboard in the dead hours of the night. The screen’s pale blue illumination that can’t seem to permeate the lines etched in his face, under his eyes. He’s tired, so very tired. The only noise to register is the almost non-existent electronic hum of the computer, the fans working to keep it cool and the clacking of the digits on keyboard. Worse still were the moments when the click-clacking stopped and the void settles in. Fun? This isn’t fun anymore. The LiveJournal community has to know how he feels about TNG. He has speak his mind, or it’s like he’s lying to them.

Or, if you have compassion, just say that he’s suffered enough writing a bad article for a few hours when you’ve only read it for a few minutes.

In short: writers, stop writing shit and readers, stop talking shit about shit you’ve read. Shit’s just shit and shit on shit doesn’t turn dogshit to diamonds, it produces a landfill. Of shit. Shit.

Fuck Moonlight Sonata
It and Pachelbel’s Canon. Fuck ‘em. Two songs enter, one song leaves. The winner will still be overplayed but at least it’ll only be one song. More room for more important things, like I dunno, *whatever I’m railing against at a given time*.

5/19/2010
Email: contact@mwt-studios.com

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