An alternate history in which Lefteye inserts herself into all music ever made.

If I could, I would charge academia’s Ivory Tower and ring its bell with this thesis.

Lefteye-Thesis

The backbone of the thesis would be an alternate-history novel in which Lefteye lived. The plot would chronicle her rise to power.

When, in 2250, she ultimately dies, she uploads her consciousness and hella-tight rapping skills into a super-computer.

Her digitized self inserts her raps into all music, starting from Gregorian chants. No “classics” will be safe. She will drop the a sick hook onto Mozart. She will put Beethoven on blast. She’ll improve upon Elvis, the Beatles, Louis Armstrong, and all country music. Whole genres will finally become listen-able.

Her digitized self would do some world-peace stuff, too.

Anyway, along with this full-length doorstop of a novel, my thesis would also include the actual songs mentioned therein. I would learn how music works, then extract Lefteye raps and lay them over every genre.

If anyone is interested in this thesis, you should pay my way through grad school.

RIP, Lefteye. You’re missed.

Oh Edward, You Are So Brooding and Mysterious

Did you know that narwhals’ tusks are actually a protruding left canine tooth?

One in 500 males produce the vampiric-looking double-tusk.

It’s probably very appealing to the ladies — only 15% of which produce even a single tusk. (There’s only one instance in recorded history of a double-tusk lady-narwhal).

Mysterious-Edward

You know what else is appealing to ladies? Pale, brooding behavior.

Heck, according to Wikipedia, “narwhal” is derived from the Old Norse word nár, meaning “corpse.” It’s in reference to the animal’s greyish, mottled pigmentation, like that of a drowned sailor.

That’s dark, bro.

Almost as dark as the fact that the guy who played Edward Cullen in Twilight made him “a manic-depressive who hates himself.”

If anyone else can find a Twilight/narwhal connection, feel free to let me know.

MTV Unplugged Presents: Super Starling’s weekend!

One day, the Starling got home from her job and, instead of going inside to play on her computer, she took a walk outside. She linked arms with her husband, a tall man with the face of an elegant ferret. Her spare arm clutched a thick black leash attached to a monochrome hound.

They walked in the dying light to a park.

She climbed high on the rarely-used playground equipment. She called to the pooch below. He looked up, worry in his brown eyes, fear speckling his face. His mother was so high, so far away. The dog knew that she was a klutz, and could tumble down.

Perhaps directly onto him.

IMG_5023

Meanwhile, the Robot Overlords who owned the Matrix or what-have-you were displeased.

“Why has she not returned to us?” they chirped in their fuzzy dial-up-modem language. “Have we not offered up a veritable feast of Facebook, YouTube, Tumblr, Vine, Twitter, Tumblr, Goodreads, Instagram, Amazon, and more? What else could this hussy possibly desire?”

Then the girl and her husband ordered in Chinese. When it arrived, they ate at at the table instead of in front of the television.

They spent the rest of the evening hanging a gallery wall of the artwork they had collected during their 12 years together.

IMG_5019

The Robot Overlords gnashed their teeth, chipping them into a gritty spray if ones and zeroes.

“What can we do to bring her back?”

The following morning, Starling went to brunch with visiting friends.

IMG_5040

At an antiques store, all photos and paintings were analog.

IMG_5052

The Overlords screamed. The Internet trembled.

IMG_5059

Dinner was flatbread pizza, wings, locally-sourced rum, independent soda, and craft beer. The Starling and her unfeathered flock toasted to an upcoming wedding. The lady fiancées held hands, not phones.

Exhausted, they went home, made dessert from scratch, and discussed a lavender-grey-black literary color scheme.

The morning came, and Starling heard the call of the Internet. She went back to it, like an old friend. In the time apart, she and the Robot Overlords’ relationship didn’t feel the same.

Some parts of the Internet felt good. Starling liked sharing photos and stories. She liked looking at images of smiling people she knew with their pets and children. She relished the unearthing of a new font, discovering an artist with a fresh vision, reading a news story with a happy ending.

The Overlords had gifts for her. And she had scraps of herself to give to it in return.

But they would have to spend time apart occasionally.

She had to speak with her voice, not her fingertips, sometimes. She had to smell food instead of looking at pixel depictions of it. She had to let the sun dye her skin while she walked; and ink dye her palms while she drew. Books begged to be read. Flowers longed to be planted. Sneakers and whiskered friends called out for dirt, grass, and pavement.

It was time to leave. Not forever. But now and again.

The blog post is wrapping up, and it’s time to go outside.

Another Damn Thing I’ll Have To Boycott

A couple days ago, shit hit the fan in New Zealand. You know — that place you never think of. Well, there are a lot of places you never think of, but anyway, some X-Factor judges down there tore up a contestant for… wearing a suit.

The whole thing is so fucked up you have to see it to believe it.

As I watched the video, I thought “this chick looks super-familiar.”

Natalia-Kills-Controversy-Music-Video-natalia-kills-33731082-1280-720

Turns out, she’s the same person I’d been listening to nonstop on Spotify.

Dammit.

I am so tired of finding out that I’m going to feel guilty about liking the things I like. (Or indulging in the basics that everyone else does.)

My list of things to ban just keeps getting longer. New things don’t seem to be cropping up to replace them. It’s like this “why it’s socially unacceptable to do anything” video.

I worry I’m going to wind up living in a stone convent, wrapped in a used sheet, trying to sustain myself on grass from the yard.

Below this cut is a list of things I’m trying to avoid patronizing. It’s incomplete, I’m sure.

Continue reading