Monday, March 19, 2018


In Anna Karenina, one of the more interesting of the tales is that of Konstantin Levin. A wealthy man, Levin thinks often about the emancipation of the serfs, its relationship to the lives of the peasants, and the correlation of those two lifestyles to his own. Transmitted throughout are heavy critiques of modernity, in which we can see that, at least a hundred years ago, the specific falsified problems of today were already analyzed and resolved, and "today's" questions and concerns represent (again) not a discovery of new things but a revisiting of old; of a cyclical rejection of problems and solutions already long foreseen and solved. Indeed, our problems now seem more to be caused by a blockage between certain types of people, than by a deficiency in producing or transmitting wisdom.

Levin can be likened, in some ways, to a modern liberal in the sense of his recurring desires to "uplift" those who do not have the things he does, such as rental acreage, marketable timber, and the like. He grapples with his own metaphysical problems with reality as he finds it, exhibiting beliefs that the work performed by the peasants is more trying and damning than his own tasks of resource management and leadership, and in so doing evaluating the failure of the emancipation of the serfs to effectively change their lot except by burdening them with the task of managing their newfound labors and planning for their futures. How selfish Levin, and us, for forgetting that land needed to be made safe against predators and cleared and drained and planted before it could be an asset that, like sunshine, is presumed free and abundant and how lucky we are to pay taxes to someone else to let us say it's ours. Levin's worries in this regard are similar to the once popular, now toxic American debate about the ending of slavery, where the labors and stresses of men now considered socially responsible for their own destiny are ascribed, by the emancipator, to be a wonderful reward, as though planning one's finances is a coveted privilege rather than a malodorous burden. Given the course of human societies since the nineteenth century--that of "freeing" more and more people to carry that crushing burden as atomized units of potential labor--it is unsurprising that it is taboo to consider these issues, for those who benefit from trading in humans as fungible units of random value or worthlessness benefit from everyone thinking that the right to work for them when jobs are sporadically available, have obvious motivations for it being dogma in the modern world that freedom to occasionally, randomly contract for laboring for someone else is not only an inalienable right, but the duty of all decent people everywhere and forever.

Anna Karenina shows Levin's rather pitiful, modern-liberalesque attempts to identify with the ex-serfs and peasants of his time by trying their work for himself, and feeling that it is more natural and healthy than his own. Levin, therefore, feels it is tiresome or worthless to plan seeding and leveling and fallow-times for a facility, but inherently better to engage in the manual labor appurtenant to cutting greenery for the animals to eat. Like a wealthy heir citing to his childhood labors in the mail-room of Daddy's company, he is in error, yet unconscious of it; the context of the labor, like God enduring the Passion while omniscient, makes it labor of a different sort. The peasants' inability to accept his labor, and their confusion over his insistence on putting off his own labor and instead miming their own (more physical) labor, is utterly explicable, as is its failure to change society for the better. From a certain economic perspective, what Levin is attempting is to create a utopia where he doesn't have to engage in his own work of planning and management (hilarious thought now given how worthless and/or redundant such job titles often are), but can occasionally do labor to fill in the gaps of years ignoring something harder. In Levin's struggles, his failures, we can see encapsulated the past two centuries of human history, where the exalting of one kind of labor and the defaming of another has caused well-wishers to no longer have--to have not laid out generations ahead--anything for the laborers to do, except be laid off from the Johnson & Johnson labs janitorial staff.

Regarding labor and management, or ordinary people and the inheritors of wealth, it is abysmally crass, incredibly lazy, and outright rude to continue making this faux "noble" crusade toward "equality," by which the manager of the asset acquired only with generations of difficulty then attempts to shirk his responsibility by using myths of "togetherness" to burden other human beings with the freedom to engage in the onerous tasks of managing resources, planning their development over decades and centuries, et cetera. Our history is so tainted by this presumption that our chronologies show a march of progress toward the shirking of duties. E.g., the European develops a complex human society regulated by understood conclusions that would've taken generations to understand, such as "The central office should handle all disputes rather than individuals handling them," and once this onerous gift has been foisted on a society, that society is expected to punish those who solve disputes without bringing in the central office. People of European heritage, rather than simply imposing the central office upon those they would prefer to conquer--and rather than walling off people of African heritage and permitting them to continue in their posturing- or random-based process of selection--imperfectly induct them into a cult of respect for a faceless, impartial central office, replete with all the indirectly personified illusory entities which it took hundreds of years to get most Europeans to conceptualize and accept, and then either deny that the arrogant experiment is a cruel failure--witness African-derived community behavior in western cities or zones primarily populated by the ancestrally-derived Africans, or the success of thoroughly westernized African-derived peoples in pursuing mental aptitude tests developed by and for those not so derived--or lament the fact that European-derived individuals have not done more to force conformity on conquered populations. For some people, surely, suicide is the answer, but not all desire this suicide, and would prefer to offer return and reparations and start over.

Levin was, at least, genuinely well-meaning. Through his struggle with his inner convictions, we can see that he actually cares, to some extent, about the people he is trying to help, as contrasted with today's, say, student activists for social justice and the life paths they may pursue after a few years of taking pictures of themselves engaging in well-wishing. It is the social preening that was, and is still, part of rejection of the responsibilities of management that confuse the peasant as well as doom the farm and the society--and the peasants--who depend on it, which underscores this whole line of inquiry. In short, buying Africans from Semites' ships was incredibly stupid and wrong, but once they're here, burdening them with life-management in a completely different type of society is even more wrong, leading to a mass forfeiture of well-being for both classes of abruptly freed serf and peasant. To whit, the starvation and mass exploitation of newly freed American slaves, due to their no longer benefiting from either their now-inherent social structures, nor their "self-as-asset-management" approach of nominal owners who had to do all that work before emancipation, is viewed as yet another crime of slavery rather than as a crime of emancipation, and the self-designed life plans of many family-less career prison attendees and 38-year-old tack hammer and/or murder victims, as compared to what would've been, is instructive, dissonance removed. People of the west can track how poorly the grand experiment has done, using rates of murder, reproduction, extended kinship family and community formation, disease, et cetera, to see how poorly their plan has performed; it was not, of course, "their plan," anymore than the result of World War II for the Arabs, but the inability to process the most raw, basic data about the outcome is sufficient to call into question the capability of the subsidiary perpetrators.

The struggles of Tolstoy's character at being unable to himself be a serf (and thus entitled to their suffering, as he sees it), or to be a member of a peasant family (for the same reasons, along with his desire to know best how to order them about when convenient), are instructive, with the implied conclusion of "do your job and let others do theirs" being a facet of not only general wisdom, but specific wisdom as to responsibility-shirkers, who would have those in possession of the most be free to cast all responsibility aside and leave management and maintenance of all society to those less endowed. The desire is similar to that of feminism, in the sense of the feminist's desire to avoid juvenile steroid infusions, accomplishment-related neurological stresses and designs, conscription into the armed services, and the eschewing of all womb-carrier privileges, but to nonetheless gain all the privileges of those who've undergone the said treatments.

Alexey Alexandrovitch's cuckolded concern about the plight of "the native peoples" of Russia (Americans tend to believe they're the only ones who ever had to live alongside a population of rapey, architecturally-impaired Siberians, but not so, and it's interesting to see the Russian government, beset by the actual problems of its actual people, fretting instead about how many gibs to give the feather-dancers to relieve their perceived comparative suffering as they continue to not approach what was then Russian modernity) is instructive, and like Bezhukov's naive fascination with Jewish spawned revolutions in France, shown to be foolish (in Bezhukov's case, via imprisoment, in Alexandrovitch's, via cuckoldry) rather than offered as a shorter lived verbal diatribe from Tolstoy directly to the reader.

How interesting, really, and how sad of course, that the genetically based warnings of Tolsoy, Dostoevsky, and even Dickens were ignored to their audience's own peril, while the more superficial details of apparent plot were--like life, and like popular events in the 21st century--focused now, by castrated experts, toward the exclusion of the meaning that gave the whole story a reason for social decorations. The details of the orphan's survival, the hero's contemplating battle, and the woman's affair, are as incidental to the meaning of the narrative as our own broken dreams unfunded by money sent instead to the government treasury. Innumerable stories exist, of calmer retirements and businesses started and things created during additional spare time, and perhaps these are all, like a passion for Vronsky, tales worth telling, but they lose so much of their meaning when severed from the unjust and necessary circumstances of their creation.

Private Fund Sharing

Some people like what they call "r/K theory," in part because of people who like what they think of as "eugenics," and from the financial side, from the collective stupidity of decamillionaires and centimillionaires. The latter are usually stupider, having more likely received their wealth from inheritance or entertainment, but the former are often nearly as stupid, being usually either less successful entertainers, ghetto- or suburb-lottery winners, Middle Eastern extended royalty, or third- or fourth-generation heirs from a drying tree. It's funny, kind of, how the "middle class" of finance--say, $10 to maybe $250 million--is generally dumber than either the make-believe wealthy, or the $1-$10M wealthy, like part of a bell curve in apparent reverse.

We've discussed scams which trick people into believing that one monkey at a keyboard is a better writer than others, by assembling a group of monkeys and then using the output of the one who misspells the least to prove that said monkey is either literate at all, or "more literate" than the other monkeys. The simplistic form of the complaint can be easily misunderstood by: (1) people who don't understand pyramid investing, and (2) people who understand pyramid investing quite well or very well, but who haven't seen certain things behind the curtain, and so view the suggested scheme as impossible. Let's give an investing intro, then look at how the schemes actually work.


The world is broken. Everyone's so content they don't know the meaning of discontent, all the shows are about minutely wishful fiction instead of about real-like people, antidepressants and reality shows are stupid and fat people are everywhere. System purged?

* * *

A weathered old cowboy walks into a blue-darkened bar and sits down at a little round table with one leg that doesn't quite touch the floor. The waitress comes by, he nods a couple times, and she brings him a whisky. He sits there drinking it, stony-faced, until an eager young soldier comes in.

The soldier scans the room. His eyes go wide with anxiety. Once he's finished searching out the patrons, he hurries over to the cowboy's table. "Sir!" he says. "I'm gonna need your help. See those two perverts over there?"

The cowboy looks up. He sees the table the soldier had mentioned. A couple fruits in Aloha shirts are sitting there, having daiquiris and laughing a little too loudly.

"They're sexual transgressors," the soldier explains. "Gonna have to ask for your gun-arm."

Bitterly, the cowboy stares into his whisky. "The fuck you care? You jealous or somethin?"

* * *

We already know stocks, don't we? Controlling the money can control a constant, hilariously indiscernible yet minutely identifiable inflation, whereby merely saving wealth is death over the long term, making stock gambling incumbent upon anyone who cares intergenerationally. So you give your capital to some board of directors, and they occasionally throw some dividends back, although the magic fairy god of the invisible unpredictable market may zero the loan balance at any point, you owner you, utterly eliminating the investment. Ergo over enough time, it's all taken away, stock and savings, at risk not quite as much as starting your own restaurant across the street from what would clearly be a good spot for a new national chain, but still at risk, e.g., nothing is yours because controlling the means of exchange really does mean controlling it all, ergo you're not winning just because you manage to occasionally breathe easy or rent a dingy with its own wetbar attached. Who knows? Maybe temporal material pleasures really are all we can take away from this. Better than building a life around the study and dissection of such most-inviolate currencies, no? From one very limited point of view, yes--it's not just everything, it's the only thing.

Sunday, March 18, 2018

Saying a Lot

Feel like you've said a lot
When you haven't really said
Empty wisdom
Like empty bottles
Behind the grocery store
Were they ever really full?
And did it benefit anyone, at the time they were drunk?
If it's been worth something
They would've been hauled away
The schematics of wisdom
Are only contemplated
By people who haven't collected bottles to eat
As though an empty bottle is
Sure it might not mean anything to you
It can save someone's life on the afternoon before a cold night
And suddenly
You can afford to sit in the cheap diner for three hours
Which has a heater
Besides the
Gristle you paid for
Is it wisdom that the discarded bottle
Once filled with a drink that might've been good might've not
Can be the means for a lifesaver?
I think it's just empty wisdom
Seems to be something just because death is mentioned
This trash is not poetry
Just because it's wistful
Just because it's incomplete
It's not a song either
Even though a genius could set it to a melody that was good
and make it a song
But it wouldn't be the skeleton that is any good just like having a conversation with a skeleton wouldn't be good
Even if it could talk without a tongue
Through supernatural zombie powers
Then it would be the supernatural zombie powers that would be the good conversationalist
Not the skeleton it was using
You want something to believe in
Believe in the skeleton
Believe in the bottle
Summing it all up makes nothing art
If you believe it does
I've got a skeleton to sell you
Great condition
Very few breaks
I'll let you shake its hand if you're not sure
It's not even really an ending.
Starlight hits me in the face. I don't mind because it feels

Starlight embraces me. Comes from far away. Reminds me of home. Emotional resonance.


Everything is wrong and this is not a shit factory. It is not even good enough to be a shit factory because it breaks all the time and it doesn't work anyway and


This whole place. Not even good enough to be a shit factory or a torture chamber because even when it tries to operate sometimes light shines through the cracks in the shit wall and you can imagine you can remember you can feel that something better is outside and that something is inevitable and this isn't really a shit factory it's worse

And the only thing that can make it worse is something that is better by comparison the only way they could copy this place is

make this place is by copying and all the rules inside it are based on comparisons nothing can be known except by its relationship to other things here even by feel because everything you feel is the same except by comparison to some other thing you can feel here the only hope is getting out

but time is the same it is grounded anything you can feel is grounded in this place in the rules of relativeness relativity of copying and comparing to something already here because it's so jealous you can't know anything else while you're here so goddamn awful you feel sorry for the wretched thing that must've made this place without any basis for anything

or maybe it has a basis for everything but it's so broken inside it justifies itself by making a world in its own image a world of things that can't know other things except by comparing them to other things a vase is different than a frog is different than a wheelchair is different than a door that is the only reality

The only way out is by leaving but when you're here you don't want to leave one of the rules of being here is not wanting not actually wanting to be somewhere else maybe you imagined the light on the other side maybe you imagined the cracks in the wall maybe there is no wall and this factory of shit this incomplete broken miserably wrong shit factory doesn't even have an outside it's all here all of everything is here now and there never was or will be another anywhere anything anyplace anytime

there is no god except the president of the broken shit factory that truth be told can't even successfully produce a piece of shit that could survive anywhere else nothing viable except the demo products in the factory itself god I hate working here.

i've heard rumors that there really isn't a president at all that one of the characteristics of the broken shit factory is that it couldn't even generate a token fake figurehead it's all rumors and lies, rumors and sighs, rumors and dies, there's no one in the office upstairs, you can only see it out of the corners of your eyes anyway and when you look straight on it's simply not there.

A factory this bad, this broken, is beneath even the shattered intentions of a scatophiliac demon who was called the president some time ago. There are much better ways, even I can think of them, to run this madhouse so that getting off on our suffering could work out the better for him her it whatever it is whatever it may be

Friday, March 16, 2018

European Rappers

Interesting friction over hip hop, particularly as Europeoids/Caucasians become more willing to again consider or discuss race. Like viewing Trump as a nationalist, the point has been rather embarrassingly and totally missed.

The standard line about hip hop is that the Balrins, or Terran brown peoples ("blacks"), invented this style of music, focused around percussive verbal repetitions, and it was so good or unexpectedly intrusive that it overpowered Terran reddish-skinned ("white") reservations or racisms, becoming profitable and popular. People who disbelieve in races or the effect of race upon a person's motivations and/or actions, as well as people with more of a belief in genetics affecting character and likely choices, may view the short history of hip hop and rap music as continued evidence of African willingness to defy the stupid, pointless boundaries of stuffy white people, or as willingness to pervert society because of an inability to create or maintain it or any other norms related to decency as associated with reduced tendency to rape or randomly murder or allow rape or murder, depending.

What has escaped all of these analyses is that hip hop and rap is not "black" or African music, but a European art form magnified and stoked by Jewish direction. Most hip hop music that is or may be appealing results from the normal market forces associated with any other popular art form--guaranteed nationwide repository purchases, co-marketing through reviews and advertisement placement disguised as summaries of what is happening these days, and cleverly aimed social criticism. Even the blackest fan of the most hardcore group, who would never think of supporting white music, listens to or lionizes an aspect of hip hop or rap primarily because of the employment of amplified European computerized music. Not only all of the instruments vital to the creation of all hip hop songs, the centuries and centuries of European musical theory that fostered the creation of a hip hop song, but the actual programming, melody-creation, scripting, harmony punctuation, bass planning and enacting, et cetera, were European products, produced primarily (if not wholly) by European or a few east Asian composers and sound engineers who created/composed the music that accompanies the often incoherent, note-less backing to the popular piece or pieces that are often thought to define hip hop. The person mumbling, grunting/howling angrily, or clearly enunciating the percussive words that are part of any piece of hip hop music is a piece of advertising, like a provocative costume on a female singer--perhaps it adds to the effect or image of the performance, but it is not the reason people paid to hear, or became attracted to in the first place, or listened to a musical feed because it did or might have included, or bought a copy of, any particular recording. For the vast majority (all?) of popular rap/hip hop songs, the person muttering the occasional words could be switched out, and unless someone knew beforehand, no one would notice.

(The popular trend in younger hip hop eras of the performer repeating his name as part of the lyrics is not only a guard against being switched out by vile producers by associating show with performer, but a practical act in another way, namely helping the audience realize for reasons not of protection against scabs who deserves credit for the show.)

To recognize this is not to defame any of the particularly skilled occasional-singers or stylized vocal percussivists of the entire genre, but to consider the ways in which the art form, replete with its female choruses doing nothing like hip hop (and who are often if not predominantly not even "black") to stylize the refrains, is not an African or brown Terran thing, but a product involving primarily the management of a series of people who weren't permitted to reach the market as solo electronica composers, into whose potential careers were not invested millions in advertising, market coordination, image development, et cetera, but who were paid to sign over their rights to all their output by crafting a denouement or collaborate on the rhythm of a hard-house-like chorus that would catch consumer ears and make the titled artist justifiably a popular musician.

Like the black lives matter events of the two thousand teens, the Black Panther movie, et cetera, the African-Americans involved in creating and promoting the final product were necessary for a successful sale of that type of product. The musical merits or demerits of such product, like Hollywood's ability to commission a serviceable story and hire good actors and slip a few lines of dialogue in between some or other agenda should not be confused with "African output," anymore than people should believe that R.L. Stine agonized over how to properly portray culture in his works.

Terran browns incompletely scatting (sic), or spoken-word reciting, something that could be turned into a semi-plausible piece of modern marketable music when someone else pays for the rights to it and then wraps it up for sale with several other incomplete musical products should not be blamed for the results, like when they defend their territory from an inexplicable "random killings not allowed" policeman and inexplicably upset surrounding pseudo-giving idiots. Considering that, like some social movement, movie, or assaulting of a policeman with a firearm, they did not develop nor understand the technology involved (including chord theory or international economics), it is childish, ineffectual, and rude to expect any alternate behavior, and if there be blame or praise to be handed out, the rap artist is logically no more to be targeted than the rope in a tripwire someone has strung in front of your door.

What makes people like a piece of music, or if hip hop isn't music, what makes people like something that they would call, or otherwise would consider, to be music? The most effective component in a few hundred years, or perhaps since there was human-created music, has been popularity, or as the years pass, perceived popularity, which dominates most art--particularly art as fungible product--including visual art, live performance, cinema, and literature. The vast majority of people make a decision to buy or otherwise partake of the art product by a sense of it being popular with others, which is an obvious benefit to the closed loop of preloaded sellers, who can decide what gets positive exposure, repeated exposure, et cetera. Something of middling quality--say, a sorta okay song--can become internationally popular in a day when worldwide news conglomerates talk about how good everyone's saying it is. Whether the widespread recognition of quality came before or after the media excitement is an arguable conclusion, and by the time that quandary is being not discussed, the mass awareness of product is foregone. The service this offers the public is the ability to feel that they have partaken in something good and artistic, and been part of a community in doing so, when otherwise they might just be bored, and not even reading, viewing, or listening to anything, or not sure if what they experienced was a good experience or not.

Recycled myths about the ability of the average person to experience something, or to be motivated enough to seek out a positive thing, or to recognize what they would like if they could just think about it for x minutes or hours--or what they would consider vomitous if they were sold an alternative with equal fervor--are endlessly harped upon or implied by those who arrange for the actual transactions to take place. The method by which they work demonstrates that they don't believe in, nor have any faith in, this rubbish; since long before the payola, music producers and the entities behind them have known that something can be made or unmade as popular irrespective of its merits or lack thereof. Even an incredibly good piece of art on the internet is subject to the gatekeepers of so-called "mainstream" access, where a symphony of avowed promoters like playlist-selectors and product-placement ads and layout editors, may keep people focused enough that a consensus of some kind can be achieved. The edges of the internet, like those of real life, are littered with exceedingly rare work of phenomenal quality that may be controlled by using salaries for people who need to eat and/or live to control output, or simply redirecting mass attention elsewhere to ensure that some wonderful thing isn't found during the brief time it or its creator might be accessible.

(Consider, e.g., an incredible painter or CG artist who lets their work vanish from the internet, from any potential public attention, due to the licensed exclusivity demanded by the prowlers who will only pay the artist a pittance to develop backgrounds for some movie's jungle scenes if they don't try to independently sell things. The model used to suppress creation is the same one that large corporations, universities and their often-associated medical labs use to repress the development of engineering and medicine by pre-emptively using salaries and materials access to buy out the products of thinkers. The rationale often goes, "The machine is so expensive that if we're going to let people run tests on it then we control what they invent," when a hypothetical decent world could involve scheduling tests not around someone's faux-teaching schedule, but a pay-per-use policy that could bring the per-use cost of the testing apparatus into range for plebeian salaries. The control of permissible medical studies, permitted surgical facilities, cadavers, and post-surgical biological materials sounds icky and scary enough to most people that they're willing to ignore or disbelieve in the abuse, but for "engine design," no company has sprung up offering $100/use half hours on a million dollar machine to would-be mechanical engineers, despite the massive profit that could be soon realized, because the people who control laws and regulations are clever enough to recognize that making money now is actually not in their own interests as much as controlling people's ability to make things.)

And ultimately, that's a tragedy about human art, because whatever art could do, it is itself much less important to most people than a sense of having participated in something together with others, maybe many others, by experiencing it.

As said before, this creation of a sense of mass popularity can often become real, and promoting something as amazingly groundbreaking and astounding and popular can become partly true; true in the way most important to participants, namely in being popular. If during the time that Rowling is proven docile and movies are definitely decided on, worldwide newspapers sing a unanimous chorus about how children are really participating in reading, the product of relatively minor popularity can become what everyone so desperately wanted, giving a gift to believers in the form of a god who really was alive (after all, all those people really were waiting in those lines, so it was all real). The validation of the seeming fulfillment of these voids may be better than the real thing, because maybe most people wouldn't have felt any void otherwise, they would've just thrown rocks at empty cans for a few hours and then gone to bed. Decrying the people who can orchestrate a system that can reach them in their relative mental sloth is like decrying the lady who brings the morphine around to those with congenitally painful lives; yes, it's a terrible form of existence, but are you suggesting we stop the morphine?

Similarly, if someone travels to hear Mozart perform four separate times in the 18th century, it is not necessarily an indication of higher cultural quality in the sense of the individual being able to sorta appreciate or sorta understand what is happening. There is probably a relationship between a culture that is provisioning one kind of entertainment versus the other, and what people imagine they're aspiring to, and what they're learning, and how their brains are developing or regressing or not, but as to the individual, their ability to choose a good book, recognize a good statue, et cetera, is not definitive, nor known. Precious little time existed between, say, caveman-chanting and hip hop to allow for study as to whether or not the appreciators in either case were actually internally defining cultural high marks by participating in whatever way they did.

The upper class and people with more life experience still congregate around cultural venues to watch failed K-12 music teachers and other types desperately re-repeat classical performances in a well-meant but misguided expression of preserved high culture, and the number of competent performers and shows worldwide is significantly higher now than in times likely presumed more cultured. East Asians are struggling viciously to force their children to not take an interest in east Asian instruments, but to develop mastery over European instruments while playing European tunes, and even though they're doing very well at that, they're becoming predictable, stereotyped bores, nowhere near the international popularity of some muddy brown crack dealer chosen to front a new rap act. East Asia can copy hip hop too, and has very well, producing rhythm variation and harmonic class to often exceed that being churned out by the Euroserf development labs serving the black frontmen who serve et cetera, but questions of novelty and genesis remain inconclusive given that what we now call "rap" is primarily the product of a people who copies, not attributable to any source but perhaps "humanity."

If someone hears a good melody and feels like hearing it again, something has happened, which can be most vulgarly reduced to a sale surviving its hospital birth, hospital shredding, and maybe even some public school. The creation of that melody, rarely if ever associated with the hip hop image product (if they can even write their own few lines, which is a sad rarity for a significant number of them), though perhaps initially stylized something after a particular way a seven-syllable refrain could conceivably be made into inherently complementary notes. The European's creation of electronic music with suave or angry vocal accompaniment by a decorated image-product, perhaps owes a significant amount to Africa, inasmuch as idealized, incorrect conceptions of "primitive man" allow for a Hong-Kong-based hip hop collaborator-composer to inwardly condone designating a series of aggressive harmonies or bass lines which he might otherwise feel improper rendering, and in this, the instinctive association of a different subspecies may allow Europeans to do something they wouldn't otherwise be able to do. Some of them, of course--many artists have produced aggressive bass lines which did not have to become associated with black scat to be made into a track. What this means more simply is that a lot of hard electronica tracks have been written which could have easily been hip hop hits if produced and marketed properly, but were otherwise--perhaps more honestly--designed and targeted. Current culture, with the American myth of a specific racial African musical aptitude, makes it likely that an additional generation, or generations, of budding composers will find their only effective purpose in society as being uncredited group techs composing on some African act, but humorously, the future may hold larger numbers of more-independent artists gaining more-independent renown for crafting music, perhaps even with a percussive or crooning group chorus, which does not otherwise appear to glamorize or reify some misconception of "African American street life"--and no one--not even "black" people or "white" people who want to be black or understand being black--interested in buying tapes of someone mumbling angrily over a canned beat.

Thank God That I'm Pretty

Female visual art persona laments the process whereby she became successful for being a certain kind of good-looking.

Thank God I'm Pretty offers a lot to think about. Ms. Autumn as consumer product, who can and did sell herself based on looks, using a later song to pseudo-lament the earlier process in which she deliberately (and financially wisely) engaged. Ms. Autumn the product was unpopular, un-bought, and could've remained so, but she adjusted her image, put on more makeup, wore skimpier clothing, tweaked someone's "could be a successful product" bone, and became famous enough that she could later croon about how unfair it was that she was good looking and successful. (That's actually the story behind that particular set of sales, if you're not already familiar with it--barring a hidden sexual liaison of some type, it's about a performer who wasn't successful until she adopted a hot-goth-chick appearance to gather more permissions and commissions.)

There's a lot to contemplate in regards this story within a product. It could be her honest critique of her self, her life, her career, or, more scathingly, her fans. Was Ms. Autumn mocking and deriding the "chubby but I'm working on it" synthesis of her concert-goers and product-purchasers, who didn't become her fans until she adopted the troubled goth persona? If she had primarily male fans, she could laugh at them for falling for the trick, but with a supermajority of industry-described (could be lying?) female fans, the song could be an explicit set of insults for how they should've been less shallow, and bought her "singing with violin" records, without her adopting that persona. The female fan's decision to not buy albums or concert tickets from a non-sex-kitten, but then to buy them from a sex kitten, reveals the preference, the fandom, to be about an attraction to sex-kittendom rather than to music. Indeed, given their highly feminist perspectives, her fans' decisions to not be her fans until she'd become a pink-stockinged, heavily made up sex kitten is suggestive as to the disavowed but genuine desires not just for her career, but for feminists and feminism itself.

As a critique for herself, Ms. Autumn's song is incomplete, and a sad buoy in the sea of self rather than a triumphant statement of purpose; given that she still is a sex kitten and selling herself as such, capitalizing on the fame of sex-kittendom and wringing out of it every available dollar rather than rejecting it and trying to use her breakthrough fandom to justify her own musical aptitude. If sex-kittendom is necessary to break through to the notice of a stupid system, now she'd done that; she had the opportunity to sell herself as a talented person who could at least continue, if not begin, being successful without the sexy. In pop culture, that happens often enough to some chance individual--some aspect of "selling out" in which resistance to the standard corporate process is revealed not to be genuine disapproval of the standard corporate process, but merely sour grapes at having not been chosen already--and they embrace standard fame rather than try to save others like them, to make you wonder if threats are involved. But no, of course; it's simply the results of flattery and money, proving that, discounting replacement of rebellious new stars by body doubles, it really was just the message of making money, and not a lengthier thesis, which motivated whatever was seen.

As a social critique, Thank God works, though it still tars the artist with the inherent flaws above referenced; it could be later claimed to have been a statement of personal hypocrisy done for artistic effect, which could be plausible, but more likely is it was just a song about the personal annoyances of being a rich hottie.

And those personal annoyances, seen rather myopically through a privileged lens, are the worst part of it. For that girl's primarily noticeably overweight and unattractive fans, a song complaining about being pretty may offer a venue for critiquing "bothering" being pretty at all--i.e., I choose to overeat and leave chunks of club sandwich stuck on my face because I don't want to have to deal with catcalls--but for those who can think but are genetically barred from such privileges as having other humanoids find them attractive even if they load on makeup, hearing someone complain about being too attractive is like a starving child in Dickensian London watching someone's sorrowful soliloquy of the difficulties of choosing which fourteen course meal to try tonight, since breakfast and brunch are so plentiful, and cook always prepares a hefty midnight snack.

Wednesday, March 14, 2018

More Typecasting

The CIA really made a mistake when they told two of their psychological operations agents to adopt the same "locally believable visual persona." It's like they only have a certain number of templates for the figures they insert into pop media. David Brin and Terry Goodkind were covered here, and here are pictures of Malcolm Gladwell and Steven Pinker. Gladwell is actually graying now, so it goes beyond merely "eerie." For their "doofus academic liberal" type (Pinker and Gladwell), they seem to have been aiming for the "Einstein" look, while for their "wacko pseudo-libertarian man's man" type (Brin and Goodkind), they wanted rugged short beards and overbearing self-confidence.