Densmore strikes again.
So the "ex-Door" doesn't believe in getting his kicks before the shithouse goes up in flames. How refreshing.
(via BoingBoing)
Thursday, October 06, 2005
Wednesday, October 05, 2005
Speak, Memory
"wet, beneath the blue suburban skies I sit and meantime..."
It's a Yahoo Groups thing. We are about 180 members and what brings us together is Space and Time. You see, we all grew up and lived in this little town in Northern India. Many of us were born there and some moved there when their parents found work in our little town. We love this place dearly.
Everybody in the group is desperate to relive the past. Remember, remember, remember. We remember names of pets and dead friends and plaster of paris statues of women; we remember our teachers, our crimes and their punishments. It's like a never-ending school reunion party except there are no jokes about receding hairlines and no drunken confessions made to the ladies in the room.
"So", one of my friends writes in, "does this place even exist or am I imagining it?" He is talking about this park that he visited once as a child. It was high up on a hill, overlooking some river and there were picnics under a giant bargad-tree.
Some members post helpful suggestions but none seem to satisfy my friend. "Are you talking about this park by the dam?" No. "You mean this park and this tree?". No, that's not it either. Another person thinks my friend is indeed imagining things.
I think there is some anxiety in his question. Our childhood memories are a huge mash-up of sounds, smells, textures, photographs, paintings, films, pictures from story-books and descriptions that we have only heard from other people. So how the hell does anyone know anything for sure? We are so convinced of our past. After all, we lived it once, didn't we? So why can't one of you tell me where this goddamn park is!
Every community grows closer with memories. Be they memories of songs, films, books, TV shows or even news stories. For example, if you too remember the Ranga-Billa case, you and I have something in common. Culture is memory, tradition is memory, even nationality is memory. But how much of our memory "really exists" and how much is imagined? If everyone remembers the past differently, how is it still a shared past?
Still more worrisome is the fact that if a sufficiently large number of people challenge your memory, it becomes (at best) a product of one's imagination, something insubstantial. Truth is heavy. Imagination, being lighter than light, floats on the surface of our memories.
I carefully read the responses to my friend's question. Every new response convinces me it is the correct answer, but sadly, everyone is wrong. I am disappointed but I am also delighted to read about all those places. And even though we all remember it completely differently, this is a community. By some fantastic coincidence, we travelled through the same Space at the same Time! How do the details matter, there is something much more important than just names, locations and street addresses - all mere facts.
At every such intersection of truth and imagination probably sits a beautiful park (with an infinite number of empty swingsets and see-saws) high up on a tree-covered hill, overlooking a sparkling river and on the tiny island in the middle of the river stands an old bargad-tree with millions of inseparable branches and roots, and under that tree stand our mothers with their battered Milton water-coolers and casseroles and badminton rackets.
And somewhere in a battered old temple sit three men on a rainy afternoon, swapping stories, each insisting what they saw was the truth.
It's a Yahoo Groups thing. We are about 180 members and what brings us together is Space and Time. You see, we all grew up and lived in this little town in Northern India. Many of us were born there and some moved there when their parents found work in our little town. We love this place dearly.
Everybody in the group is desperate to relive the past. Remember, remember, remember. We remember names of pets and dead friends and plaster of paris statues of women; we remember our teachers, our crimes and their punishments. It's like a never-ending school reunion party except there are no jokes about receding hairlines and no drunken confessions made to the ladies in the room.
"So", one of my friends writes in, "does this place even exist or am I imagining it?" He is talking about this park that he visited once as a child. It was high up on a hill, overlooking some river and there were picnics under a giant bargad-tree.
Some members post helpful suggestions but none seem to satisfy my friend. "Are you talking about this park by the dam?" No. "You mean this park and this tree?". No, that's not it either. Another person thinks my friend is indeed imagining things.
I think there is some anxiety in his question. Our childhood memories are a huge mash-up of sounds, smells, textures, photographs, paintings, films, pictures from story-books and descriptions that we have only heard from other people. So how the hell does anyone know anything for sure? We are so convinced of our past. After all, we lived it once, didn't we? So why can't one of you tell me where this goddamn park is!
Every community grows closer with memories. Be they memories of songs, films, books, TV shows or even news stories. For example, if you too remember the Ranga-Billa case, you and I have something in common. Culture is memory, tradition is memory, even nationality is memory. But how much of our memory "really exists" and how much is imagined? If everyone remembers the past differently, how is it still a shared past?
Still more worrisome is the fact that if a sufficiently large number of people challenge your memory, it becomes (at best) a product of one's imagination, something insubstantial. Truth is heavy. Imagination, being lighter than light, floats on the surface of our memories.
I carefully read the responses to my friend's question. Every new response convinces me it is the correct answer, but sadly, everyone is wrong. I am disappointed but I am also delighted to read about all those places. And even though we all remember it completely differently, this is a community. By some fantastic coincidence, we travelled through the same Space at the same Time! How do the details matter, there is something much more important than just names, locations and street addresses - all mere facts.
At every such intersection of truth and imagination probably sits a beautiful park (with an infinite number of empty swingsets and see-saws) high up on a tree-covered hill, overlooking a sparkling river and on the tiny island in the middle of the river stands an old bargad-tree with millions of inseparable branches and roots, and under that tree stand our mothers with their battered Milton water-coolers and casseroles and badminton rackets.
And somewhere in a battered old temple sit three men on a rainy afternoon, swapping stories, each insisting what they saw was the truth.
Monday, October 03, 2005
Eight Hundred and Eighty Five
When XPN carried the "885 Greatest Songs" last year, it was beyond cool to see some really unusual songs popping up. Like so many music lovers, I was sick and tired of the stranglehold of those classic rock tunes. So when they announced the "885 All Time Greatest Albums", I knew this would be fun.
The list cannot be matched for its sheer variety of styles and sounds: Lou Reed, At The Drive-In, Zap Mama, Frank Zappa, Sly & The Family Stone, Modest Mouse...
You think you know rock music? Well, check out the list as it unfolds (they'd reached 560 or so today) and see how many you have in your collection.
This, my dear friends, is why we need Public Radio.
The list cannot be matched for its sheer variety of styles and sounds: Lou Reed, At The Drive-In, Zap Mama, Frank Zappa, Sly & The Family Stone, Modest Mouse...
You think you know rock music? Well, check out the list as it unfolds (they'd reached 560 or so today) and see how many you have in your collection.
This, my dear friends, is why we need Public Radio.
Sunday, October 02, 2005
Songs I Don't Want To Hear
Bruce Springsteen's Townbound Drain: A haunting, melancholic song about a man whose life is going down the toilet.
The Beatles' Lee Shoves You: An infectious, high-energy song about a brawl in a 13th century Chinese bar.
The Doors' Fight My Lire: An epic-jam about foreign currency fluctuations and Italian nationalism.
Led Zeppelin's Hairway To Steven: Zeppelin's mysterious song about - who cares, I just like to make the devil-sign. (btw, that is a real title of a GREAT album by The Butthole Surfers)
Johnny Cash's I Lock The Wine: The Man in Black keeps his woman away from the boozin'.
Prince's When Coves Dry: The irrepressible funkster's lament on the devastating climactic changes along the lakes of Minnesota.
Elvis's Railhouse Jock: And finally, the King's unforgettable ballad about life in the railhouse as he fights the resident Jock over a girl they both love.
The Beatles' Lee Shoves You: An infectious, high-energy song about a brawl in a 13th century Chinese bar.
The Doors' Fight My Lire: An epic-jam about foreign currency fluctuations and Italian nationalism.
Led Zeppelin's Hairway To Steven: Zeppelin's mysterious song about - who cares, I just like to make the devil-sign. (btw, that is a real title of a GREAT album by The Butthole Surfers)
Johnny Cash's I Lock The Wine: The Man in Black keeps his woman away from the boozin'.
Prince's When Coves Dry: The irrepressible funkster's lament on the devastating climactic changes along the lakes of Minnesota.
Elvis's Railhouse Jock: And finally, the King's unforgettable ballad about life in the railhouse as he fights the resident Jock over a girl they both love.
Saturday, October 01, 2005
So What Did You Watch Last Night?
"Kurosawa's 'Yojimbo'"
"Liked it?"
"Liked?"
"So you liked it"
"Pass me the butter"
"So why does this guy on IMDB message board say that the Whitney Houston version is better?"
"He WHAT?"
"He said the WHITNEY Houston version was better"
"Promise you won't ever say that aloud in public?"
"Liked it?"
"Liked?"
"So you liked it"
"Pass me the butter"
"So why does this guy on IMDB message board say that the Whitney Houston version is better?"
"He WHAT?"
"He said the WHITNEY Houston version was better"
"Promise you won't ever say that aloud in public?"
Supremo Stalks Nightingale; "He creeps me out", Diva Complains
You know something's up when a guy sends a girl flowers. But to send an eight-foot tall bouquet? To be fair, we don't know, he may have promised her a rose garden, but an eight-foot tall bouquet is just too much.
It was her birthday. Her phone was off the hook, she says out of exasperation, and the very first calls she received were from these two two men.
She moaned some more: "Ideally I'd have liked to keep it completely low-key. But there are people to whom you can't say no."
You mean guys who send girls 8-foot tall bouquets, no?
It was her birthday. Her phone was off the hook, she says out of exasperation, and the very first calls she received were from these two two men.
She moaned some more: "Ideally I'd have liked to keep it completely low-key. But there are people to whom you can't say no."
You mean guys who send girls 8-foot tall bouquets, no?
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