March-n-Beat Box

Your handwriting.  The way you walk.  Which china pattern you choose.  It's all giving you away.  Everything you do shows your hand.  Everything is a self-portrait.  Everything is a diary. — Chuck Palahniuk (Diary)

The Advert Planters of Kuala Lumpur

" ...please where can I buy a unicorn? " 

Thirteen months ago, the anonymous author of these seven words intrigued me.  Could this commenter be my long-lost friend with scars on all eight of his fingers?  (If anyone had reason to still remember the words on that sign it'd be him.)   I re-dredged my decrepit and bleary memory of that night with the word 'unicorn' as a spotlight—still nothing.  I replied with:  " Ano..., I think they still sell them for a buck 3.80 on the other side of this sign.  Tell ya what, I'll pick one up fer ya next tyme I'm sign time! "

This was not just flippancy on my part—this was me saying "Marco!"  About a buck three eighty was a term coined by a forgotten comedian-of-yesterday.  When my friends and I wanted to imply something was cheap or worthless we would say it was "worth about a buck 3.80" (it rolled off our late '80s early '90s tongues in a funny ha-ha way).  Twenty years ago it was a broadly-understood inside joke (like quoting some catchy phrase from Robot Chicken today). 

Almost a month later, I received this comment (which didn't contain the "Polo!" I'd been waiting for):  " Hiya,  I can't say thank you enough for all the advice the people here have given me over time!!  Love this site!  (:(:(: "

For several reasons—I'm not people (plural); I don't give advice; and...although I don't emote...aren't those scowling-sorry or worried-sad faces?—I chose not to introduce this comment to   but, instead, to reply as if she were the unicorn-guy...so I wrote:  " De Nada.  I'm still lookin fer yer one horned horse.  I'll get back to ya when I find one, kay? "

Nine months later:  " In my opinion you commit an error.  I suggest it to discuss.  Write to me in PM, we will talk. "

Although every week of those nine months I'd moderated-deleted two or more spam-type advert comments from this post (and one other)...which is weird in-and-of itself...I wondered if the error this stumble-translating commenter was alluding to was my faux-surmise that the unicorn-guy and the scowly-girl were one in the same, so I wrote:  " Which error dost youse allude to my dearest poorly-translating ay-no?  I continually commit errors all the tyme (intentionally and un).  And, any old evening you'd like to discuss the multitude of wayz I (errr we) fumble that there infernal ball, I'm wide open...only you'd have'ta do two things:  1 - Translate this comment of mine (and I've not made that easy for a computer program to do).  2 - Stop hiding behind the anonymous mask.  Can ya do it?  I doubt it. "

Within a month, twice-a-week became about two-a-day (still only on this post)—so, wrongfully concluding that it may be computerized, I embedded some spam-poison along with this sentence:  " I'm unsure why, but this page seems to attract 90% spam (and 10% anon-loonies) so, I'm attempting a solution: Fight Spam! Click Here! "

Last week I received (from stumble-translator, I'm sure):  " In my opinion, it is a lie. "

I (now) assume he is she, she is they, and they are all together (koo koo ka-choo)...one group of advert-planters who inject advertisements into Squire from a small village near Kuala Lumpur.  To make their job easier, they put a random word or words (Like: Sign Story) into the goog, plant advertisements, and then bookmark the page where they plant...returning every so often to see if their ad-weeds are flourishing.

I suspect that they get paid a bonus when advertisements aren't deleted.  I also suspect they occasionally post non-advert comments (sufficiently generic for continuous cut-paste) to determine if a moderator is deleting all comments or only advertisements.

Three days ago I wrote:  " You unicorn hunters are definitely the loonies.  And anonymous status guarantees that your opinion doesn't count. "

Today I had the pleasure of deleting ten of their advert-comments.

Although I'm getting tired of the persistent kudzu-planting fuckers, pissing them off has definitely brought me a measure of pleasure.

My goal is to create a metaphor that changes our reality by charming people into considering their world in a different way.  It's time—for me, at least—to be clever and seduce people by entertaining them.  I'll never be heard if I'm always ranting and griping. — Chuck Palahniuk

Sneaky Low Down Persistant Ellipsis
Kill Twitter, kill it dead and Happy Lunar New Year
Open Letter to Crazy
Is Complacency in Your Resume?

70 Million—Hold Your Horses!

We tend to live by rules that never made any sense, but we've forgotten they aren't the truth. — Chuck Palahniuk

John Hughes was a hack

I received an email from a good friend which contained the following giggle-ditty:  ...the John Hughes montage from the Oscars last night made me feel all warm and nostalgic inside.

The lengthy recognition that The Academy bestowed upon the late Mr Hughes (who's creativity died twenty-three years ago) was extremely generous for such a hack-writer.

For twenty-nine years between 1979 and 2008, John Hughes wrote almost 40 screenplays for film and TV.  While six of his films, released between '84 and '87, were good-to-great:  Ferris Bueller's Day Off; Sixteen Candles; The Breakfast Club; Planes, Trains and Automobiles; Pretty in Pink; and Some Kind of Wonderful (the last of which is debatable), Mr Hughes only directed four of those gems.  I recognize Home Alone is popular with six-to-eight year olds—and those who were that age twenty years ago—nonetheless it's as much a vacuous, ham-handed, template-driven, piece of shite, as Drillbit Taylor, Beetoven, and all his Vacation movies were.

For every good film that came out of John Hughes's head, he wrote four absofuckinlutely terrible movies.  He got by with a 15% good to 85% terrible ratio.  And don't forget...he was so ashamed of the dreck he was generating towards the end, that he wrote under the pseudonym Edmond Dantes (and yes, I think he was trying to send a message of some sort by using the character's name from The Count of Monte Christo, but I don't care enough about him to hypothesize what that might've been).

For comparison:

• Stanley Kubrick         wrote/directed about 15 films      60% good to 40% bad.
• Akira Kurosawa         wrote/directed 60+ films             18% good IN THE US!

• Cohen Brothers        wrote/directed 18 films                45% good to 55% bad.
• Kevin Smith               wrote/directed about 9 films        50% good to 50% bad.

This is how Kevin Smith could become the next John Hughes:  with the handful of good films he already has under his belt—all he has to do, now, is continue to spew out the same unwatchable movies he's shat for the last decade (at a rate of one-turd-a-year) and die of a heart attack around 2023.  The Academy could, then, compile a montage of Clerks, Mallrats, Chasing Amy, and Dogma and have Ben Affleck, Jason Lee, Matt Damon, Chris Rock, and Selma Hayek provide verbal tributes.
 
There’s always the chance you could die right in the middle of your life story. — Chuck Palahniuk

Paper Digital drafts

Davecat, a long-term pen pal Squire mate (my first two marriages were shorter than the six-years he and I've been equainted) wrote an article about the ephemeral nature of writing in this après-paper world.  He highlighted one quality that separates the convenient-for-archiving-medium of the last few centuries and the convenient-for-editing-medium which has become de rigueur.  His conclusion (I'm presuming...because his landing was a mite soft, stopping on a ? the way he did) was that one of the negative side-effects of the digital age was the loss of all the unsaved preliminary sketches, initial drafts, and index card outlines.   He questioned if there were some past tangible benefits from the preservation of the unrefined building blocks of the creative process.   

In an imaginary monastery in 1453 a similar treatise was written (by Brother Davidcatatoniacal of he Chanting to hear the Graduals order) about how the newfangled and inexpensive pulp caused fellow-scribes to discard preliminary scrolls, which—if they were still writing on parchment—would have been reused.

Man has communicated with himself in many ways.  To name a few:  Wax tablets (very etch-a-sketch meets twitter); papyrus (fantastic in the desert, but rots in the rain-forest); quipu (where messages were knotted and worn); and now—the new paradigm—digitally communicating with Squire.

Synchronicity may explain the thing—where you stumble across a word for the first time (a while back, for me, it was: abstruse) and then every time you turn a page someone else has found a way to utilize that neat-o abstract/obtuse combination-word you just learned.

Was it also synchronicity when, two days ago, I learned about Rudyard Kipling's preference for writing longhand and about his paranoia that the labors of his writing might profit someone besides himself—so much so, that he insured his "roughs" were burned, daily, under supervision?  Because I think it's an answer to Davecat's question:  that the largest thing lost by the digital-snake eating his own tail (second and third drafts consuming the initial) is the profits to be made from selling the "discovered in an old trunk" sketches and rough drafts of famous artists, authors, and musicians. 

As I was writing this Echo, I came up with a question which is related-in-a-abstruse-sort-of-way:  How long will the world's governments continue to subsidize socialized communication?  The postal service is being used less and less.  Squire is being used more and more.  Eventually (in as soon as ten years?) won't corporate shipping companies completely replace government postal services and if not, why not?   When was the last time you wrote a letter with pen and paper?  Will your children's children think of postage stamps the way we think of sealing wax?

Leonardo's Mona Lisa is just a thousand thousand smears of paint. Michelangelo's David is just a million hits with a hammer.  We're all of us a million bits put together the right way. — Chuck Palahniuk (Diary)