Sunday, August 26, 2012

How to Sound Passive

So, what, you want to be like Michael Cera? I guess you could, if you really wanted to, it's up to
 
But let's get down to business. the keyword for being passive is qualification. You have to qualify everything. Nothing is set in stone. A good helper is interjections throughout the sentence (e.g. "um," "see," "you know," "heurng"). Girls don't not like guys who might not know what they're not doing. You can rephrase that last sentence to sound even more passive than it already is (god forbid):

"Well, girls don't not like guys who, you know, might not know what they're, uh, not doing..."

That's your first-class ticket to being Charlie Brown (read: wishy-washy). Let's take another example. Say you and a friend were discussing a paper, and your roommate expresses his desire for peace and quiet. Here's a handy little chart that I hope isn't confusing to read (sorry if it is):


 But this could come in handy, right? Right. 
  • Stating negativity ("Well actually, I really don't think I can let you...do...you know...that")
  • Assserting your task ("If I, uh, said my boss liked you and wanted you alive...well I'd be lying, I guess")
  • Greeting an old friend ("Hey.............")
  • Expressing animosity ("See, I really want to like you...but I'm really really loyal to my employer. So, there's this clash of interests between us...so I don't think things will work out between us")
  In conclusion, grapes.

Sunday, May 27, 2012

Here Is A Paper I Wrote



Don't even try to steal my ideas because these ideas don't apply to anyone else in the world ever. You'll see.

            A Fear Unnatural
            If I could ask a group of sixty people to guess my greatest fear, I can guarantee you that zero out of sixty would be able to guess it. Well, let me rephrase that. I can almost guarantee you that none would guess it. The only thing that makes me say “almost” is in case somebody tries to be outlandish and tries, “Pinecones.” I would then be flabbergasted that they had guessed it, and scared that they now know it. None of those are pleasant states of being, but they’re nothing compared to my psyche after being around pinecones themselves.
            Before you stop laughing, let me make you laugh more. My cousins and my brother laugh and affectionately call pinecones “pineapple ice cream cones,” emphasizing the first and last syllables. My high school counselor classified it as “medium-intense,” asking me a battery of questions, such as “do you go out of your way to avoid them?” and, more embarrassingly, “do you get a sudden urge to get away when you see one?” most of which I answered with a sullen “yes.” I run under pine trees and very seldom look up. I have labels for certain types of pinecones, like dead or flaky. But the more I think about what I’ve experienced with them, the more I realize that this isn’t going to be something that I can easily avoid.
            I remember one particular experience with pinecones that I’ll never forget. Pulling into the driveway of our house on a fresh November afternoon, my mother noticed that a Christmas decoration—which I remember as a light-up sign—fell into our garden.
            “Alex, can you grab that and set it back up?”
            Being young and full of energy and vinegar, I was more than happy to oblige. I scampered out of the car and into the garden, but what lay among the fallen leaves stopped me dead in my tracks. Three pinecones, fully grown and fully expanded, scales outstretched, sat right next to the sign.
            “Alex, what’s taking you so long?”
            Feeling old and full of caution and dread now, I slowly crept up to the sign, trying my very hardest to ignore the scaly abominations inches from my goal. Creeping closer, I tried to make myself believe they weren’t there by closing my eyes, but their very presence transcended my eyelids. Hey. Hey Alex. We’re HERE. But I had to push on. For the sign. For Christmas.
Ever closer now, I opened my eyes, and what I saw (literally now) stopped me dead in my tracks. I admit I was exaggerating the last time I said it, but here it was quite real and quite intense. And then Mother said:
            “Alex, what is...oh.
            “Mom…” I replied, paralyzed.
            “Pick up the sign.
            “Mom, I can’t…
            “It’s not that hard, Alex!
            “I can’t…
            “Alex, you’re ridiculous. Go inside. I’ll take care of it.”
            Dashing out of the garden at a pace that rivaled the Starship Enterprise at Warp 5, I dodged my mom’s condescending glare, ducked under the half-open garage door, blew open the door to the house, and never looked back. I managed to make it out alive somehow, but at what cost? I had failed Mom. I had failed the sign.
I had failed Christmas.
And then, to top it all off, I was called ridiculous. And it wasn’t a cute kind of ridiculous, like a boy would say to a girl he likes. It was a ridiculous in the most literal sense of the word. But anyways, things like that don’t happen to your average Joe every day. And all of those things probably shouldn’t happen to me in the same day, right? I mean, who would want to fail their mothers? Who would want to fail Christmas?
Pinecones would, I guess.
It’s kind of ironic, though. You can’t go many places in the Christmas season without seeing pinecones. They’re synonymous with each other; Christmas tree, pine tree, pinecone. Funny how a symbol of Christmas would be ruining Christmas itself for me. But it’s true. Whenever I go Christmas shopping, I do two things: I look for nice things for nice people, and put my pinecone alert on code red. That’s why I try to avoid going Christmas shopping with other people; to avoid embarrassment on their part by avoiding embarrassment on my part. It’s immature, but at this point my fear is too hard to avoid. I look for them everywhere; I see them everywhere. Because of this, though, I know a thing or two about them. I know how to look at a pine tree and tell if the pinecones are going to fall. I know how to tell if it may rain soon by looking at a pinecone (the scales recede in moist air). I can even smell for pinecones. Most importantly, I know how to avoid them...but sometimes that can’t be helped.
Even though their presence scares me, any sort of action or movement with them scares me even more. Stationary, they’re not too bad; they aren’t going anywhere. Hopefully. In movement, however, is where the shit hits the fan and I start running. When a gust of wind blows and a pinecone skitters across the pavement, I’ll be within a 50-foot radius of it in a matter of seconds. When one ages and falls from a tree, I promise you I'll be within a 100-foot radius of it in a matter of milliseconds. The worst part about it is that people who try to help by moving one for me are doing the exact opposite of helping. I would much rather know that a pinecone is, for example, in a corner of a parking lot, as opposed to god-knows-where because somebody moved it.
“Hey Alex, I moved that pinecone for you,” they would say.
Okay…thanks. Where?
“Uh, I dunno, I just threw it somewhere.”
Even worse are domesticated pinecones (or, as anybody and everybody else calls them, decorative pinecones). I guess the adage “bigger is better” applies to them too, because most I’ve seen are big enough to be murder weapons. My friend’s house once had decorative pinecones larger than The Incredible Hulk's fists. After he gets angry. After discretely telling my friend about my fear, I came back the next day to find them gone. I was relieved, but only for a short while; my friend told me he put them into storage. Wait, what? “I put them into storage, Alex.” Well that’s great, because they’re in the house. Somewhere. Just waiting for me to chance across them one day so they can…they can…wait.
Why am I scared of them?
I don’t even know what they would do to me. Prick me? Rub off their sap on me? Slap me with a harmless skzx if they fell on me? I’ve never figured out why I’m scared of pinecones. It can’t be obvious reasons, because I would’ve figured them out by now, and I’m pretty sure it can’t be un-obvious reasons, because I’ve thought about (and ruled out) way too many possibilities. So what does this leave me? It leaves me a full-fledged irrational fear in my hands. I really hate that label. Irrational. I think through too many things already, so to not be able to justify my greatest fear is just…irrational. But since it’s true, I will have to begrudgingly accept that title and live it through for the rest of my life. Unless I do something about it.
Therapy!” they cry.
Exposure!” they wail.
No!” I shout.
I’ll be short about this: I can’t face it. Physically, I’m prepared to face them, because I like to think I’m pretty good at sprinting. Mentally, however, I am nowhere near close to facing them. Looking at a pinecone makes my heart rate spike, and seeing one in motion gives me stress enough to knock off a few days from my life span. The worst part about this is that I can’t remember where my fear started, so therapy that deals with my past is a far cry. But I can only imagine myself in a different therapeutic setting:

We sit at a table, facing each other. The doctor slams a pinecone on the desk.
“What do you think of this?! How does this make you feel?!”
I scream, “It makes me feel like DYING!!!” and I kick back the chair, flip over the table, and dash to the door, only to find that it’s locked from the outside.
Laughing maniacally, face contorted with glee at the prospect of therapy like this, the doctor pulls from under his robe several more pinecones—homing high-velocity pinecones!­—and throws them at me.
“Kikikiki!” the pinecones laugh in harmony as they fly at full speed towards me. “You can’t escape us!”
I yell, “I’ll show you escape!” and dash around the windowless room, ducking pinecones at the very last inch as they pin themselves to the wall like arrows. It’s only after a minute of action when one makes contact. I scream in agony, slowing down, as more and more pinecones stick to me. Flailing and struggling, I fall to the floor, and the last thing I hear is the doctor’s laughter as I pass out from shock and exhaustion.
End Scene.

Point is, I’ll have to face it one day, but, as my depiction of a therapy session implies, I’m not ready. Will I ever be ready? That’s a really good question. Maybe I’ll just deal with it for the rest of my life, avoiding pine trees and living inside, being a reclusive monk. Or maybe I’ll move somewhere without pinecones, like…Antarctica. I’m not going to falsely tell people that I’m not afraid of them. In fact, that has the exact opposite outcome; my aunt, after telling her that I really wasn’t afraid of pinecones anymore (really! I'm serious!), put a large tub of football-sized pinecones in the main room. For kindling, she said. It’s still there.
My mom thinks it’s ridiculous. My dad laughs and taunts me with them. My aunts and cousins make jokes about it. Whenever I tell people for the first time I’m scared of pinecones, they either laugh or test me. My ex-girlfriend’s sister did both, immediately shoving a nearby bowl full of decorative pinecones at me and laughing at my reaction (on a side note, the bowl was the first thing I noticed when I walked into the room). Is my fear worth it? Is any fear worth emasculation and scorn? As much as I hate to admit it, it isn’t. Something so crippling shouldn’t be happening to me, especially if it’s caused by something as silly-sounding as a pinecone. But at this point, life without my fear is nothing but a passing thought.

Tuesday, January 17, 2012

Things Scare Me That Shouldn't

Think of the scariest thing you can imagine. What is it? A bear? Cthulu? Economic recession? This cat? Whatever it is, I can assure you it's much scarier than the things that scare me.

You may ask, "Alex, what do you mean?" Or "Alex, now I'm curious; what sort of things do scare you?" Or, "Alex, can you make me lunch?" I can answer all three.

"Alex, what do you mean?"
Well, my dear reader, as far as un-scary things go, I am scared by some of them. And I don't mean it in the "whoa that freaks me out" sense; I mean it in the "you can smell the fear in my heart" sense. Take this ending screen to Yoshi's Story:


This scares me. I cannot fathom why. It's meant to be happy; you beat the game. The end. Happy end. Yoshi's mood is 11417. You beat AAAAAA. High score.

Yet, I get scared. The first time I saw this and heard the music in the background I couldn't move. Paralyzed with fear. I don't know what about it scares me.

Alex, now I'm curious; what sort of things do scare you?

Even worse yet is the ending to Legend of Zelda: Majora's Mask. While the game itself is dark, nothing scared me more than the ending. "Wait, Alex," you may ask. "It's the ending. Everything is supposed to be okay." I get that. The end. You're supposed to be happy. Yet, I sit there, paralyzed with fear at this:

I suppose the picture doesn't do it justice. The audio is what scares me more.

I almost see a pattern: ending screens in general scare me. Not just "the end" screens, per se, but other sorts of "ends." Take, for example, King's Quest VI, the 1992 Sierra game. Ring a bell? Anybody? No? To spare you details, there are ample ways to die in this game. While explanations of all of them would be tiresome, I can spare you one:

You are trapped in the Catacombs of the Ancients. You are surrounded in darkness. The only thing visible on the screen is the glint of your two eyes. You are alone, save a bloodthirsty Minotaur, who roosts in the Catacombs...somewhere.

There are two possible outcomes to this situation.

  • If you purchased the lantern from the pawn shop five million events ago, you can light the lantern, explore the catacombs, rescue the maiden who is prisoner to the Minotaur, and escape.
  • If you do not have the lantern, you hear the Minotaur enter the room. The last thing you hear is a ripping sound, and the last thing you see is your eyes traveling in two different directions.
There is a series of ten "ways to die" videos for King's Quest VI, all over six minutes each (link).

"So," you might ask, "What exactly is so scary about these?" "Well," I might answer, "I don't know." If I had to guess, I would have to attribute it to my youth. I very clearly remember playing through this game when I was young, and since I was young and knew nothing of the world [of King's Quest], I died an obscene amount. Every single time the death fanfare played and the voices of death sounded, "Tickets....oooonllyyyyy....NEXXXT," I got scared.

Another thing that scares me:


To this day, I get scared thinking about these things. I visualize the Majora's Mask scene, or hear the King's Quest death fanfare and then lose some sleep.

Alex, will you make me lunch?

Monday, December 5, 2011

But Even with Cruise Control You Still Have to Steer

The following is an e-mail I recently received.

subject: PERMIAS INDOMIE FUNDRAISING ON WEDNESDAY, WHAT????




INDOMIE INDOMIE INDOMIE INDOMIE INDOMIE


PERMIAS(Indonesian Student Organization) SELLING INDOMIE WITH EGGS AND MALING(Chinese Spam) AT DUDERSTADT CONNECTOR ON WEDNESDAY (Dec 7) AT 10AM TO 3PM.


WHAT? I SAID WE’RE SELLING INDOMIE.


WHAT? I SAID WE’RE DOING YOU A FAVOR.


WHAT? WHAT? WHAT? WHAT? I SAID WE’RE CHAMPS!


I SAID WE’RE SELLING INDOMIE BECAUSE WE’RE CHAMPS. WE’RE CHAMPS AND WE’RE TO ALL ENGINEERING STUDENTS NEEDS, BETTER THAN EATING AT THAT CHINESE RESTAURANT OR AT SOME SANDWICH PLACE. WHAT? BECAUSE WE CAN.


WE’RE ALSO SELLING A SECRET BEVERAGE. WHAT? WHAT SECRET BEVERAGE? WHY DON’T YOU COME TO DUDERSTADT ON WEDNESDAY AND FIND OUT YOURSELF? WHAT? YOU NEED A HINT? IT’S GONNA BE RRRRRRRRRRRRIDICULOUSLY TASTY.


I MEAN IT’S SO TASTY IT’LL MAKE YOUR MOUTH WATER LIKE YOU JUST SAW ZARA GOODS ON A 60% SALE. WHAT? IT’S SO TASTY THAT IF YOU THINK IT’S NOT TASTY THEN YOU’RE CRRRRAZY. WHAT? IT’S SO TASTY THAT YOU’D RETHINK YOUR LIFE ON THURSDAY WHILE REGRETING NOT GETTING ANOTHER PORTION ON WEDNESDAY. WHAT? IT’S SO TASTY THAT YOU GO RUN AROUND YOUR CLASSES TELLING THAM THAT WE’RE CHAMPS. THE CHAMP IS BACK!


IF YOU SMELLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL WHAT THE CHAMP IS COOKING


==========
Regards,
------------- (name omitted)
WHAT?


The preceding e-mail would be better suited for a social experiment on shock therapy and PTSD, but instead the sender decided to unleash it upon the hundreds, if not thousands of unwitting students. I can't fathom the irreversible amounts of damage done to the demographic.  It vaguely reminds me of a haiku I have recently read:


Car stops near bike lane
Cyclist entering raffle
Unwanted door prize

I think this is a perfect analogy for this situation. Think of the students as cyclists; and the car as an Audi A8 - the message. The Audi A8 is the nice picture of the food in the beginning; as the car is nearing the biker, he or she may think "Wow, that is a nice car. Perhaps someday when I win the lottery I will buy a car like that, or maybe invest in giraffes instead. But that is a nice car, indeed." And the car, the message, has two ways of reaching the biker:
  1. The driver would stop, roll down his window, and gently introduce himself and his topic:
    "Hello, my name is (name omitted) and I would like to tell you that we are selling Indomie at the Duderstadt center this Wednesday. That's December 7th, if you've forgotten what a calendar looks like. You can come if you want, but if you don't, that's okay too. I mean, I don't really know you and I suppose it wouldn't make any difference if you hadn't come and I had told you, or if you hadn't come and I hadn't told you anyways. It's your choice in the end. Now I am going to go in this pet store and invest in giraffes."
  2. INDOMIE INDOMIE INDOMIE INDOMIE INDOMIE
Either way, the student (biker) is probably skeptical about such an event. Especially when the message takes the second way. It's no fun dealing with a half-deaf e-mail. I can see the conversation already: 

"I MEAN IT’S SO TASTY IT’LL MAKE YOUR MOUTH WATER LIKE YOU JUST SAW ZARA GOODS ON A 60% SALE."

"Well, I think I...Wait, what's zara..."

"WHAT? IT’S SO TASTY THAT IF YOU THINK IT’S NOT TASTY THEN YOU’RE CRRRRAZY."

"I don't even know what Indomie..."

"WHAT? IT’S SO TASTY THAT YOU’D RETHINK YOUR LIFE ON THURSDAY WHILE REGRETING NOT GETTING ANOTHER PORTION ON WEDNESDAY."

"Actually I'm kind busy on..."

"WHAT? IT’S SO TASTY THAT YOU GO RUN AROUND YOUR CLASSES TELLING THAM THAT WE’RE CHAMPS. THE CHAMP IS BACK!"

"Well I...Wait.....tham?"


Perhaps I'm taking this too far. But the shock value of this e-mail was too much to bear. Oh no, emoting to the nearest people around me was not enough. This was not your normal excitement. I mean....the champ is back.

Thursday, November 17, 2011

Serious

... I call the arts “subjective truths” because, unlike math or chemistry, where there is only one solution, there are nearly infinite solutions to, say, a camera angle, colors to use, or an interpretation of a symphony. These solutions need not be right or wrong; they need only to be appealing. Something can be right and pleasing as much as it can also be wrong and pleasing. I immerse myself in these subjective truths.

I am an emotional person. I engross myself in what I play or what I write. I take the very extremes of emotion and empathy, and stretch them even further. My brother once said that it takes a sort of emotional genius to bridge the gap between the arts and beauty. In order to make true art, I must sacrifice part of myself to know what true beauty is. That’s how the deaf Beethoven wrote masterpieces; or, in a more modern setting, that’s how Nina Sayers from Black Swan was a showstopper. I want to think that I have not sacrificed something yet, so that when I finally do, I can finally be proud of my musical ability.

I am proud of the people who support me. It feels good to have people admiring and respecting what I do. From experience, standing alone onstage and acknowledging a thousand people—people I know, people I don’t know, people I may never know—is one of the best feelings in the world, because regardless of whether I know them or not, I will always have a lasting impression on them.

And as right as it was, or as wrong as it was, I will always be satisfied, because I know it pleased them.

Sunday, November 6, 2011

Daylight Saving Time Was a Social Experiment

Daylight Saving was originally a social experiment created by professors to see if college students would be more productive if they had another hour to work.

It might be the most spectacular backfire in history; instead of seeing it as an academic advantage, students saw it as an opportunity to drink non-alcoholic beverages in excess, sleep, or watch funny cat videos on YouTube,

In the hopes that students would eventually catch on to their extra hour, they continued the experiment until an arbitrary date, in which they eventually gave up. To hide their shame, they gave Daylight Saving its name, made the arbitrary time official-sounding (2nd Sunday of March), reversed the start and end time, and then chastised students for not paying attention to trends in clock-changes.

Monday, October 31, 2011

How to never lose your cell phone again

I have always had a nasty habit of losing things. Cell phones, mp3 players, keys...If it has been in my possession for over two weeks, chances are that I have probably lost it. However, after re-watching an episode of Lost, in which <it's relevant but you wouldn't care anyways>, an idea struck me.

Most of my habitually-lost possessions are metal, correct? And metals are attracted to - besides where I am not - MAGNETS.

What if I build a giant huge kerfricking electromagnet, and any time something of mine gets lost, I'd switch it on? Okay, I'd probably have to warn the general public about this so something like this scene from Lost doesn't happen. Sure, I'd most likely have to sift through the vast amounts of scrap metal, ancient Native American treasures, and (probably) cars. But once I find it, it's mine again! Then I can switch the electromagnet off, and life would resume.

Disregard the irreversible damage that a magnet has on most electronic devices. It's not lost anymore, anyways.

oh, but it's Lost all right

Thursday, September 22, 2011

Proper usage of "Myah"

The time was 3 pm.
Two figures emerged in the distance, atop a hill.
One, aloof, and the other, aloof.
College life at its finest.

Upon muttering "myah"  many times with my good friend Jessica (college life at its finest), we pondered the appropriate-ness of a audibly conspicuous "myah" syllable in public. A brainstorm ensued.

"Myah" can embody a myriad of emotions - you name the emotion, there is a fitting "myah" to accompany it. Here are some fine examples:

  • Happiness
    • A joyful "Myah." Instead of letting loose a high-pitched squeak in your efforts to conceal your joy, why not let it all out at once?  MYAH.
  • Sadness
    • "Mmm" can be a syllable of resignation, often muttered at a low pitch. Why not make it fancy and round it off with a lower-pitched "yah?"
  • Anger
    • Next time you've worked up a considerable temper, try venting in a stylish fashion. Flail the arms, and let out a vehement "Myah!" That'll teach them not to mess with you!
  • Surprise 
    • You know those times where you're so surprised you don't know what to say? Why not remember to say "myah" whenever you're surprised? Now you'll never just jump around in place awkwardly with your hands over your mouth (a common action I see in Deal or No Deal).
  • Desolation
    • Say, for example, you are waiting for a friend at a bus stop. What if he/she had never showed? What if he or she had stood you up and dashed your hopes of a romantic bus date, full of awkward odors and body contact and potholes? Hinging on Anger and Sadness, a paltry "Myah" will suffice, accompanied by sad body language. Keanu Reeves does it best.
  • Frustation
    • There are times when, no matter how hard you try, you cannot get something right. Be it a rubix cube, a lateral thinking puzzle ("shoutout to my roommate homie original gangsta phat vince thanx for da tip"), or the recollection of a J-Lo quote; sometimes it just isn't your day. Contorting your face and pounding the pavement makes you look only like a ninny. Why not show the world what self-control and discipline you have by looking stern and resolutely stating, "Myah?" This well-drawn fox (not of my creation) does it particularly well.
  • Confusion
    • Myah is now a question.
  • Reflective
    • "Myah"
    • "Myah"
  • Pensive
  • Sophisticated. Austere.
  • Elation
    • You won a million dollars on Deal or No Deal. Rather than being trite and jumping around in place awkwardly with your hands over your mouth, why not scream, at the top of your lungs, "Myah?" You're a millionaire now. You do what you want.
Very fine examples of proper "Myah." Very fine indeed. Now I'm going to bed, because I'm tired. Myah.

Sunday, September 11, 2011

How to get pumped

Coming back from a mildly exciting football game (read: UNDERSTATEMENT), I was ready to kick a large cast iron statue down and squeeze cumquat juice in my right eye. Willingly. What galvanized my persona in such a mindset?

Getting pumped, of course.

This was not your normal pumped. When I get pumped, I normally jump around and act visibly excited. However, in this case, you could not only see my excitement, you could also smell and taste my excitement.

That's right, it was very well possible to put my excitement into your mouth and taste it.

So how does one reach such a level of pumped? It's no easy task. There are a few essential steps you must take:
  • You must wear appropriate attire. If you are planning on being excited for a soccer game, it is probably best to not wear a Scottish Caber Toss shirt, regardless of your affection for said sport.
  • The event for which you are excited for must be worth the excitement. Being excited for a Firebird Football game is understandable, whilst my excitement for a music camp's annual dance is not.
  • Your excitement for the event must be genuine. It's the difference between:
~ AND BETWEEN ~
~ OR, BETTER YET... ~
  • You must have an appropriate outlet to express your excitement. Stay with a group of friends, or relatives you can trust not to tell the rest of your extended family about your grandiose undulation! That way you can avoid emasculation whilst still looking like an imbecile.
  • DO NOT CONTAIN IT. You will explode.
  • Accessories are optional, but they can be double-edged swords. Cowbells and boomwhackers are very appropriate, but if you don't keep them under control, you may end up with a miffed crowd around you.
Six solid steps to see maximum excitement within yourself. Now go do something exciting, like listen to Dale Carnegie speak, or play hopscotch with bears, or adopt kittens.

    Sunday, August 14, 2011

    Influence (and sh*t about which you probably don't care)

    Drugs and music are related, huh?

    George Harrison of The Beatles wrote the sitar-laden song Within You Without You while high. It's one of my favorite Beatles songs.

    John Butler smokes pot (frequency unconfirmed on my side), but he's one of the best guitarists I've ever heard.

    But they won't influence me in that way one bit. I'm clean, and I prefer it that way. Just because I listen to hippie music does not necessarily mean I will do drugs. Music influences me, but in a spiritual or emotional way more than a physical way.

    Speaking loosely of influence, one of the things that greatly bothers me is the way that pop music samples or copies music. I've been a fan of Modest Mouse for around seven years now, and hearing Lupe Fiasco copy "Float On" greatly disturbed me and prompted me to punch a large birch tree down. Even more aggravating was an artist directly sampling Eurythmics' Sweet Dreams are Made of This. I heard the unforgettable synth intro and got excited for a heavy dose of Annie Lennox, then  SUDDENLY, RAP. I was disgusted and shocked into submission and spent the next two days unconscious. The doctors told me I was muttering the letter Y before I awakened. I declined psychological evaluation.

    This makes me assume that the artists who directly sample other artists lack the talent to write their own music. Given, we're running out of original music that sounds good, but if Handel can write hundreds of original songs in the baroque period (roughly 17th-19th century), Aaron Copland can write original songs in the 20th century, and hundreds upon hundreds of composers between the baroque-20th century period can also be original, the 21st century is becoming trite.

    [fair warning; it gets technical from here]

    I say trite, because I've noticed a large shift in the pattern of pop lately. In a workplace where the radio is constantly playing popular music, I've been noticing a shift from the VI - VII - i progression (e.g. Tik Tok) to the i - III - VI pattern (e.g. Yeah 3x), focusing not on minor lifts, but mediants ( III ) and submediants ( VI ). The minor tonic ( i ) has been staying; I can only speculate that it gives the song a dark and dirty edge to it, and minor keys are suitable for dubstep breakdowns or breaks (dubstep; another rising trend I see).

    Artists have also been raping syncopated rhythms. Most of the songs I hear today are prime examples; Britney's Till the World Ends, the backing of Ke$ha's We R Who We R, and Chris Brown's Yeah 3x. It's something that is easier sung, not read. I can only imagine thousands of people at a Britney sing-along receiving a songbook and seeing:

    All this being said, I'm not going to listen to this stuff as a hobby. Don't get me wrong, I'm interested in pop music, but mostly for the direction. Where's it going? Only time can tell.

    Or Katy Perry will tell.