I am in musical love with Hype Machine. It is my new Youtube. It is magical.
Hype Machine collects mp3s from a million music blogs and compiles them in one place--it is a remarkably thorough music aggregator. This means you can type in any artist and receive not only sparkly and recent (and sometimes older) music from that artist, but also relevant live versions, covers of and remixes from that artist. Even better, type in a song you like and you'll more than likely hit upon covers and remixes of it. It delivers the fresh and revitalizes the tired.
Because it's put me in such a fine mood, y'all should partake of my bounty.
Basia Bulat - "Gold Rush" (New album drops in January, YES)
Basia Bulat - "Snakes and Ladders" (Mellower version of the Oh, My Darling track--much improved, IMO)
Canasta - "The Model" (Kraftwerk cover)
Ruby Weapon - "Two Weeks" (Grizzly Bear cover)
Laura Marling - "The Wrote and the Writ" (Johnny Flynn cover)
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Professional passion.
One of the (incredibly lofty) newspaper internships I'm applying for requires that I write an "autobiography" of at least 500 words. Writing about myself isn't terribly difficult (I mean, I do it on here often enough) but trying to remember and decide what's important from the 21 years of my life thus far is strange, at best.
Perhaps the most notable aspect is something I think about often--passion. I think about it and it confuses me. I'm not sure that I have a passion.
I'm a passionate person, that isn't the problem. I'm passionate about life. I still want to do many things. But mainly, these things are not productive on the measurable scale of capitalist development. I feel indifferent about things like running a company or creating products. The many things I want to do are controlled entirely by me--going to X country, learning X language, learning the capitals of every country in the world, learning to cook X kind of food, learning to play a certain instrument, writing a novel, walking or biking a long distance, learning to better understand and appreciate things like physics. None of these things are marketable.
In writing an autobiography for a journalistic internship, I am probably expected to express a passion for journalism. In fact, I do not have one. The truth is, as I've rolled around and peeked at various careers, journalism is simply the most appealing in that, I imagine, it allows me to be as much myself as possible. It gives me not unlimited, but very generous independence in constructing a "product." It allows me to continue learning diverse things on the job as part of the job. It allows me to leave the building and be outside and journey to new places. I am not passionate about the process of framing a journalistic story, but I am often interested in the subject and passionate about my freedom.
Because I have no "professional" passion, I fear the ease of being depressed or at least uninspired in whatever future occupation I am swept into. As I get closer to graduating, this "swept into" thing feels more and more likely. I am a picky human being, hugely idealistic and easily dissatisfied and discouraged. I will have to make money. My skill set, background, and experience are not unusually compelling. And I don't have a professional passion. That means, more than likely, I will have to devote hours to producing something I don't care about rather than learning.
Not sure how to spin this one, autobiography readers. You will want to hear about how my passion for journalism developed and I can't give you that one. All I can offer is why journalism may be one of the few livable options I foresee.
In any case, it doesn't matter a whole hell of a lot. This is the sort of supremely high-end paper that will hire wunderkids who set up makeshift video reports after the tsunami struck on their Thailand vacation, or did independent investigative journalism on the perilous refugee situation in a Central Asian country, and then published it on their blog.
All my blog's got are long-operated, occasionally updated reflections on my life.
Most people I know are excited about working. I am not. I feel dread. Where are you, marketable passion?
Perhaps the most notable aspect is something I think about often--passion. I think about it and it confuses me. I'm not sure that I have a passion.
I'm a passionate person, that isn't the problem. I'm passionate about life. I still want to do many things. But mainly, these things are not productive on the measurable scale of capitalist development. I feel indifferent about things like running a company or creating products. The many things I want to do are controlled entirely by me--going to X country, learning X language, learning the capitals of every country in the world, learning to cook X kind of food, learning to play a certain instrument, writing a novel, walking or biking a long distance, learning to better understand and appreciate things like physics. None of these things are marketable.
In writing an autobiography for a journalistic internship, I am probably expected to express a passion for journalism. In fact, I do not have one. The truth is, as I've rolled around and peeked at various careers, journalism is simply the most appealing in that, I imagine, it allows me to be as much myself as possible. It gives me not unlimited, but very generous independence in constructing a "product." It allows me to continue learning diverse things on the job as part of the job. It allows me to leave the building and be outside and journey to new places. I am not passionate about the process of framing a journalistic story, but I am often interested in the subject and passionate about my freedom.
Because I have no "professional" passion, I fear the ease of being depressed or at least uninspired in whatever future occupation I am swept into. As I get closer to graduating, this "swept into" thing feels more and more likely. I am a picky human being, hugely idealistic and easily dissatisfied and discouraged. I will have to make money. My skill set, background, and experience are not unusually compelling. And I don't have a professional passion. That means, more than likely, I will have to devote hours to producing something I don't care about rather than learning.
Not sure how to spin this one, autobiography readers. You will want to hear about how my passion for journalism developed and I can't give you that one. All I can offer is why journalism may be one of the few livable options I foresee.
In any case, it doesn't matter a whole hell of a lot. This is the sort of supremely high-end paper that will hire wunderkids who set up makeshift video reports after the tsunami struck on their Thailand vacation, or did independent investigative journalism on the perilous refugee situation in a Central Asian country, and then published it on their blog.
All my blog's got are long-operated, occasionally updated reflections on my life.
Most people I know are excited about working. I am not. I feel dread. Where are you, marketable passion?
Thursday, October 15, 2009
musings on internet boomers.
While looking through the photos my dad posted to Facebook today, I noticed one caption that struck me as odd: "A wicked game of water volleyball."
I hope you caught the oddball element--the gratuitous and colloquial use of the word "wicked", which I am certain my 61-year-old father would never use audibly.
While I realize that the walls have been scaled by baby boomers and middle school kids alike, and Facebook is now a watered-down and universalized version of its previous university-elitist empire, interacting with my parents via Facebook is still vaguely creepy, like running into them at a party after my second drink. I now know how my parents present themselves, and likewise, they know how I choose to display myself. I know that one of my dad's favorite quotes is from "Saving Private Ryan" (the other is from "Shakespeare in Love", apparently) and that my mom, given the chance, will flood those personal boxes with information about herself. (One of her interests is "heated discussions about God and the state of the World" and in the favorite quotes section--I love this--she has written, "be the change you want to see in the world (or something like that) by Gandhi I think.")
Now, using the parameters I drew up long, long ago (think: age 15) to judge people via the internet, I am faced with the ability to label my parents with specialty labels normally reserved for the guy from my biology class (i.e. "Oh my god, he lists Nickelback in his favorite music?" or [true story] "Ew, he's a Republican.")
Now, of course I know my parents better and in a completely different context than the guy from biology. But really, isn't so much of the information in the way people choose to display themselves, in the in-between stuff, rather than the facts? One of my "friends" updates her status bar hourly after each break up, to let the world know how crappy she feels. I know very little about her, but I do know that she's something of an exhibitionist. I can also identify several narcissists, who happily spend hours photographing themselves in slightly varied positions in front of their closet door, or some other mundane space, in order to post all 57 on Facebook and wait in the glow of the screen for the hoped-for compliments.
OK, so I sound a little judgmental, but don't we all have new ideas of people due to the wily internet and the opportunity it gives people to package themselves? It's this realm that creates a new, weird social space. My mom now calls me to tell me she read the link or watched the video I posted to Facebook. That's not bad. It's just weird.
It's particularly curious for me to watch all of these adults represent themselves in such a clunky way. Being "friends" with more than my parents has given me a decent sample size, and a lot of adults just can't seem to adapt. Their messages and updates are rife with spelling and grammatical errors. Is the internet bringing baby boomer stupidity to the forefront, or are older adults just really lazy and clumsy?* (Bonus question: are younger people growing up and expressing themselves in writing likely to be better spellers?)
*Aside: I don't claim that young people are somehow more intelligent or better educated.. maybe more are just familiar with spell check.
My thoughts are that basically, we have a younger population that "gets" the internet, and an older population that doesn't. Some things--memes, pervasive irony, evolving netspeak ("zomg"), themed blogs--are more intuitive than anything, a sort of dog whistle separating those who understand this part of pop culture from those that don't.
What I find interesting is that older people are taking so long to learn. Maybe they just don't care?
Sunday, October 11, 2009
an atom in a world of molecules
Let's talk about...
First of all, I feel like an atom in a world full of diatomic molecules.
Aside from that, tonight I finally got to go to a party. Last weekend made me beg for the week again (how is it that at 21, all of my friends put "doing homework" at the top of their Saturday circa 11pm schedules?) but this weekend I got a text from C. relating the glorious news: "I found a party, big and impersonal! Come join?"
It was what I needed. When I say needed, I mean it with a capital N, and possibly with a preceding "desperately". I needed something outside of hanging out with a couple, which is basically my only option anymore. How did the world turn into only a combination of twos? How is everyone so fortuitous? I mean, I expect there are other people in my sorry position of have-I-seriously-been-alone-so-freaking-long-lyhood. But really--it's a bit ridiculous how I know so few of them. My friends are almost all in the love bubble, and oh, how I believe they take it for granted.
On TV, there is an illusion of the bar scene, where attractive singles order their margaritas and sup them in a sultry fashion before the personal and understanding bartender. Always in these situations, other attractive singles float into the picture, as if life were fair enough to grant attractive singles. I am nearing the D-word--I am nearing the need to put on lipstick and go to a bar and sit alone on the stool and wait for the illusion with which TV presents us.
So tonight--the party of someone I didn't know--was needed. I got to nearly flirt with a third-year physics major/Vermonter for a while, someone I was perfectly happy to continue the conversation with, until he left at a friend's prodding. And there it went. But for a moment it was there--a prospect, a possibility. The reminder that I'm not entirely dead to the world of relationships. If he had stayed... well.
I wouldn't, by the way, be using this language if it weren't for years of caked on loneliness leaving me feeling so sincerely left out of the loop. Sincerely in the most sincere way. It makes me fear how no one I know who reads this will actually know what I mean. No one has gone so long without what can be called a significant other. When it starts to feel like true alienation from society, you have what can be called a problem. You have a serious fixation problem and you need to give in.
My friends have been filling in the gaps recently, and I've learned to adapt to calm. But if the third-year physics major had stayed at the party, I might feel differently right now. As it is, I feel a bit better in that at least I met someone. Really, that simple. I met a human that might have theoretically been interested.
I am this far gone. Even as I apply lipstick in the morning and feel curiously positive about myself. This is the result of knowing no one in my situation. It is freakish. Knowing no one who can have an actual boyfriend history at this age. It is alarming. It is a case study. I am a case study.
In other news, there is other news. But really, when you're this girl, who wants to write about anything else two gin & tonics under?
First of all, I feel like an atom in a world full of diatomic molecules.
Aside from that, tonight I finally got to go to a party. Last weekend made me beg for the week again (how is it that at 21, all of my friends put "doing homework" at the top of their Saturday circa 11pm schedules?) but this weekend I got a text from C. relating the glorious news: "I found a party, big and impersonal! Come join?"
It was what I needed. When I say needed, I mean it with a capital N, and possibly with a preceding "desperately". I needed something outside of hanging out with a couple, which is basically my only option anymore. How did the world turn into only a combination of twos? How is everyone so fortuitous? I mean, I expect there are other people in my sorry position of have-I-seriously-been-alone-so-freaking-long-lyhood. But really--it's a bit ridiculous how I know so few of them. My friends are almost all in the love bubble, and oh, how I believe they take it for granted.
On TV, there is an illusion of the bar scene, where attractive singles order their margaritas and sup them in a sultry fashion before the personal and understanding bartender. Always in these situations, other attractive singles float into the picture, as if life were fair enough to grant attractive singles. I am nearing the D-word--I am nearing the need to put on lipstick and go to a bar and sit alone on the stool and wait for the illusion with which TV presents us.
So tonight--the party of someone I didn't know--was needed. I got to nearly flirt with a third-year physics major/Vermonter for a while, someone I was perfectly happy to continue the conversation with, until he left at a friend's prodding. And there it went. But for a moment it was there--a prospect, a possibility. The reminder that I'm not entirely dead to the world of relationships. If he had stayed... well.
I wouldn't, by the way, be using this language if it weren't for years of caked on loneliness leaving me feeling so sincerely left out of the loop. Sincerely in the most sincere way. It makes me fear how no one I know who reads this will actually know what I mean. No one has gone so long without what can be called a significant other. When it starts to feel like true alienation from society, you have what can be called a problem. You have a serious fixation problem and you need to give in.
My friends have been filling in the gaps recently, and I've learned to adapt to calm. But if the third-year physics major had stayed at the party, I might feel differently right now. As it is, I feel a bit better in that at least I met someone. Really, that simple. I met a human that might have theoretically been interested.
I am this far gone. Even as I apply lipstick in the morning and feel curiously positive about myself. This is the result of knowing no one in my situation. It is freakish. Knowing no one who can have an actual boyfriend history at this age. It is alarming. It is a case study. I am a case study.
In other news, there is other news. But really, when you're this girl, who wants to write about anything else two gin & tonics under?
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