So it has come to this: "They are lucky we allow them to exist on the same continent."

"They" are Canadians (that's me!) and "we" are Americans.

If you haven't heard by now, Ann Coulter (darling of the conservative section of the US) has blasted my country. The above comment was uttered on some Fox news show (for more details).

By what right does one country "allow" another to exist? (Let alone on the same land mass.)

Now that the Republicans have the House, the Senate and the Presidency; now that the Democrats can no longer be the "whipping boy" of intellectual discourse in the American landscape: Canada can take their place?

But in my usual manner of addresing things, I have two words for anyone who puts too much thought into these things: fuck it.

Fuck it all: Coulter is entitled to her own (however asinine) opinions.

Fuck them all: All who believe the tripe that is spouted by talking political heads on TV ought to be ashamed of themselves.

Yet at the same time, their comments are absurd. Not "I wonder what was going through her head when she said that" absurd, but a more cerebral absurdity. Comments like that make you step back and re-examine yourself. Lewis Black describes it best:

"I'll repeat that, because that's the kind of sentence that, when you hear it, your brain comes to a screeching halt. And the left hand side of the brain looks at the right hand side of the brain, and goes, 'It's dark in here... and we may die.'"

And then there are times when no words can be used to describe the situation; it is now utterly pointless to exert mental energy.

We're in day 2 of "How long does it take for Prashant to notice that this blog has been reactived?"

Of course, I will be lenient with him: my colleague is in the midst of preparation for the most important test of his life. No, nothing health related (me thinks he be too young for a prostate probe), I trust his body is performing at optimum levels. Rather, he is currently studying for the Graduate Record Examination.

However, let's leave him to his devices, vocab lists, math equations and writing modules, as I'm sure he's revelling in his brief return to academia.

Instead, let's turn our attention to more important issues. Not the election (neither of us will vote on Tuesday, and despite our strong political beliefs, I really can't be fucked to add anymore anaylsis, commentary to it anymore - What Happense Will Happen.) Not anything from my personal life, cause quite honestly, its boring. And who really wants to read about what I had for dinner or breakfast, or who's my latest infatuation etc. etc. etc.

Actually, let's look at the whole culture of nosiness.... from reality TV shows, to personal blogs, to websites peddling up-skirt photo wares, voyeurism is running strong in our society. I will admit, I am voyeuristic. Sitting at some cafe in a crowded city, I enjoy watching people. People moving from point A to point B, people yakking endlessly to some mysterious party on their latest cellular device, people picking their noses, scratching their asses, adjusting
undergarments, people just being people.

People being themselves....now there's a novel concept.

Wow.

Look at that date... Saturday, August 21 2004. That's 69 days.... a lot can happen in that time. Unfortunately that's not what happened here, at least in my case. I'm just plain lazy. No way about it.

However, even I'm disgusted at the lack of literary output being ascribed on this here blog. It is a shame in particular, since I write everyday in my professional life. I work in words, crafting them into the sentences, that tell my story. But as conceited an ass I am, I have come to realize that as a result of writing constantly, day after day, I haven't been reading as much.

But enough about my sorry life, let's perk things up a bit and talk about politics. Bush or Kerry? It is quite amazing to see a country practically split right up the middle. All this talk about swing states and the Electoral college, thrilling stuff. ... Runs shivers down my spine...seriously though, this year will prove to be monumental I'm sure. History will look back at 2004 and marvel (or bemoan) the spectacle that was our annum.

If you don't believe me, let's just wait and see how the world is on November 3. We've already survived one apocalypse, but can we do two?

As a sign off, let's see how long it takes before Prashant realizes that I've started writing the blog again?

I say 9 days.

While on the topic of language, as recently brought up by Nick, I have spent some time reflecting on how it shapes our perception of the very concepts it attempts to describe. For one, consider the title of this blog. While we claim to be advocating evolved thought, are we really making any headway in doing so? Or, as the skeptics would likely prefer, are we just cloaking our feeble attempts with a hubristic title? If a change is in order, what should it entail? I invite comments from our readers on this particular linguistic dilemma.

On a more general note, improper use of language, whether intentional or not, can easily bias commonly held beliefs. This is, of course, an age old debating technique, especially in the context of controversial issues. Now I'm sure there are vast volumes of literature on the subject which I am yet to read but here is one amusing anecdote:

A few blocks from my apartment in Cambridge is the headquarters of a small high-tech firm named 'Predictive Networks'. At first glance, one would falsely assume, as I did, that they develop technology that responds retroactively to some phenomenon. In academic circles, the concept of a predictive network or the 'predictor' in a neural network has a well-defined meaning.

However, a cursory look at the website of the company reveals that they, in fact, make devices that snoop on people's TV watching habits! One can only hazard a guess as to what they proceed to use this information for.

Furthermore, and sadly, a quick web search of the phrase 'predictive network' yields an interminable slew of links to the business-related activities of this firm and its various cronies in the cable TV industry. One has to go to the third page of results to find something that even remotely approaches what a predictive network actually is. For the more curious reader, a good introductory reference on the subject can be found here:

http://www.doc.ic.ac.uk/~nd/surprise_96/journal/vol4/cs11/report.html

In any case, enjoy your respective evenings.

This latest missive from me comes shortly after my successful romp through history, modernity and chaos. Or: just a pretentious way of saying I recently took a trip to the US. Though I spent but just over a week south of the 49th, mine eyes were indeed opened.

Opened to the preponderance of language that permeates in Boston and New York.

Mine ears were opened to the idioms and dialects of "Valley Girl," "Frat Boy" and every other conceivable form of human species.

Prashant was "shocked" to hear me quickly pick up the language of the Bostonian mass transit system, quaintly called the "T" by locals. When I merely uttered, "Let's T it," the look of dismay on his face clearly showed that I had fully assimilated some semblence of local slang.

Likewise, after a few short days in New York, I quickly talked about riding the 6 uptown to the Met, and taking the 7 express to Main Street. To the uninitiated, this language may seem foreign, but makes perfect sense to those in the know.

All of this verbal spewage was sparked in part by an article I read in the New York Times Magazine (Sunday August 15) here: Mouthfuls, by William Grimes. (Viewing this piece requires FREE registration to the New York Times...and if you aren't already subscribed, do so now!)

Language is an important concept; it allows us to communicate the describable and attempt to decipher the indescribable. How many times have you floundered for a certain word, reduced to flubbering your tongue? How many times have you erased or crossed out a certain word because it's just not "right"?

Yet at the same time, language involves two of the most important senses we possess: sight and hearing. One unit of language has to be represented in both media; visually and aurally. Without one, the other is merely a whisper in the wind, merely the organization of curiously shaped objects.

Next time you read something, stop, take a step back, and marvel at the wonder that is language. The first step towards evolved thought is to recognize the power of language.

Class dismissed!

By the exponential decline in comments from our readers of late, I can infer one of two things. Either the content of our posts is breaking new ground in the area of soporific writing, or as Nick has suggested, you're all a bunch of apathetic lackies.

Frankly, it may well be that this blog has temporarily lost its momentum. After all, there's only so much self-important ranting that one can indulge in. But the overwhelming lack of enthusiasm hasn't helped either. Nevertheless, we continue undeterred.

Last night I had the pleasure of watching an interesting piece of avant-garde film: '24 hour party people', a pseudo-documentary chronicling the rise of post-modern culture a la Manchester. While it can be hard to empathize with the scenes of people licking liquid methadone off an airport floor, or for that matter, feeding rat-poison laced bread to pigeons and proceeding to watch them drop out of the sky, its a film of sheer genius.

At the same time, it reveals one of the recurring flaws that seems to plague all progressive cultural movements: flakiness. The film poignantly depicts the decay of The Hacienda, a uniquely innovative nightclub, from counter-culture hub to gang-war battleground to abandoned warehouse. In the mean time, everyone is too fucked up on (insert drug of choice here) to care.

Now, if only these wankers were to get their acts together from time to time, our generation might not have been held hostage by vapid pop-culture for so long.

Virtues of a Virgin Voter: Or Why I’m Voting NDP

As vociferous a reader I am, Tuesday June 22, 2004 will mark the first time in my 21 years of existence that I have bought a book on the day it is released to the public. I have committed that “sin” with other forms of media: opening day for films; the purchase of an album on its release; every Wednesday I purchase new graphical literature (comic books). Normally with books I carefully peruse the relevant reviews and ratings (online and word-of-mouth) that they have received before making my selection.

However, with My Life, by Bill Clinton (which at 900+ pages is a tome, not a book), I instead am taking a blind plunge into the literary unknown. Why Clinton’s memoirs, you may ask? Simply, he was the first US president that I can clearly remember. I grew up during the Reagan years, and I very vaguely recall Bush 41, but Clinton was the one president that I can associate with that country south of the 49th parallel. That being said, there’s a lot I don’t know about him and hopefully My Life will sate my curiosity.

This leads me directly into the meaty section of today’s post (which should placate the cerebral urges of some of our readership). Monday June 28, 2004 will also be a day to mark in my life calendar, as I will join many across Canada in my very first general election. The last election, which elected the second official that I have some recollection of, Jean Chrétien, was held 2 days before my 18th birthday, so unable to participate in this “joyous” of civic duties, I eagerly look forward to next week when I elect my MP.

I use “joyous” in quotation marks, because, like many in my demographic (the beloved 18-to-24 slice), I honestly have been ambivalent and to a certain extent, ignorant, of Canadian politics. (I shamefully admit that I probably know more about American elections than Canadian, but my associate The Smalrus probably understands this predicament, with him being a Canada-&-Franco-phile American). I belong to the youth that needs to “Rock The Vote,” to participate more, to show an interest in government.

So why the New Democratic Party (NDP)? My choice was 80% made up when the election was called, and these past 2-3 weeks of campaigning has solidified my decision. There are a multitude of reasons why I’m voting NDP; for one, Jack Layton has a moustache. Another reason is that my riding will be represented by Olivia Chow. Yes, my primary choices are base, superficial and nonsensical (but honestly, Layton wears his ‘stache with a certain je ne sais quoi).

Ultimately, campaign promises and platforms don’t mean much to me as: a) I’ve reached an age where policies only begin to apply; b) I haven’t any loyalty to any other party before; and c) I like to consider myself a progressive leftie.

In the end, I can’t guarantee that I will continue participating in future elections. But as they say: there’s a first time for everything.

(System Of A Down, System Of A Down)

I’m playing System Of A Down’s self-titled album (no, this is not a “review”) as the black dog that shares my current domicile seems to be going apeshit upstairs. I’m calmly sipping water from a brandy snifter, staring at a room which looks cleaner than it has ever been in the past 5 months. Welcome to my life.

I’m making this point, as this is the anti-thesis of the generic blog you find populating digital domains. For one, I’m sure our more intrepid readers have noted that infrequent nature of our posts. One of the reasons that Prashant and I began this venture was to give ourselves a platform to voice our often tangential views. We agreed however that the best way to express ourselves was in our own sweet time, so to those who complain: Screw You!

A more personal reason for me to convert these various swirling thoughts into electronic immortality is that I can’t stand shitty writing. And believe you me; there are cartloads of elephant dung out on the Internet. Hopefully we’re not contributing to that festering pile. I’d like to imagine that our writing is collective, as Mao would proudly say, “First among equals.”

I have been called an egotistical bastard by some, that my writing carries about it a pretentious stench. I take pride in the fact that what I write and say touches nerves and sets people off.

(The Who, Meaty Beaty Big And Bouncy)

I’ve never been a fan of the compilation. While Best Of’s tend to showcase, arguably, the best songs recorded by a band, I take to heart a lesson I was taught many moons ago. An album is a snapshot of a musician’s current state of mind, and should stay a snapshot.

That being said, compilations are an excellent way to introduce virgin ears to the exquisite experience that is (insert favourite band name here).

(Vivaldi, The Four Seasons)

For those keeping track, yes, it has taken me about 2 hours to write this drivel. On the other hand, I could have spewed this literary diarrhea in one minute. But you wouldn’t know.

Coherency is simply an illusion created by the oppressors. Revel in the chaos that is stream of consciousness.

Is there some relevant point to all of this? Robert Frost said that it was just a poem about another road.

Propelled by another bout of glowing rhetoric in the alternative press, I sauntered down to Central Square last night to take in the sounds of Boston's 'The Good North'. Little did I know that a relatively unknown opening act would totally overshadow them.

The evening opened with a whirlwind set by another one of the city's avant-garde up-and-comers, The Bon Savants. Having seen them at the same venue a few months earlier, I could sense an overall tightening up of their moody, introspective set. Their seminal single: 'Post-Rock Defends the Nation' sounded far more crisp and gig-tested than on the previous occasion. Its quiet-loud chorus refrain though, was as emotive and haunting as ever. They concluded their set with a highly textured instrumental track that I hadn't heard before and left the stage on a fairly sombre note.

At this point, the club was still only about half full. A motley gathering of the city's mods and hipsters was filing in and out of the place. One got the general feeling that the night's spectacle was still a while away. At approximately 10:30 pm, many of us were quickly disabused of that notion.

From the first synthesizer beep to the last vocal inflection, New York City's 'The Bravery' were an exercise in effortlessly stylish performance. Never sounding contrived or overwrought, their fusion of electronic dance-pop and uptempo art-punk was a delightfully tasty combination. The dynamic interplay of each band member onstage was also pretty remarkable. The brooding 'electronics guy' huddled over his sequencer and laptop was a perfect foil to the animated theatrics of well really, the whole rest of the band. But really, words don't do justice to these guys' stage presence. Go see them if you get the chance. As a last point, it was refreshing to hear the odd outbreak of quickfire guitar solos. Following in the footsteps of Dinosaur Jr., The Bravery aptly demostrate that a little bit of tastefully placed 'shredding' doesn't detract from the indie ethic.

They were, however, a very tough act to follow. While both 'The Information' and 'The Good North' were seething with creative energy, they simply could not match the aura and dynamics of their out-of-town guests. Not to be unfair though, I would really need to go see those two bands independently to make a better assessment. But really, there's no doubt in my mind as to who stole the show last night

Prashant has chastised me for my utter lack of literary contribution to our collective blog. What can I say in my defence? That procrastination is a bitch? That I’ve been preoccupied with a host of other issues in my life? Unfortunately, in this day and age, no excuse will be good enough for the extreme detractors. Take a look at the situation in Iraq (or as the impeccably witty Jon Stewart calls it, “Mess-o-potamia”). No amount of excuses can be made to atone for what has happened. Whenever the dust has settled over the current crisis/atrocity/emergency/, another one will pop right up and take its place.

There will always be fodder for the critics. And as I am a critic myself, I notice things everyday that makes me stop and I and ask: “Why do they even bother?”

One area where I find myself proverbially slapping my forehead in disbelief, is during my daily trips along Toronto’s metro system. The most common occurrence: watching hapless commuters rushing to the closing doors of the subway, knowing too well that they: a) won’t make it; b) even if they did reach the doors, would not fit (what with the mass of bodies already crammed into an individual car); and c) there’s always another train coming in a few minutes.

(On a side note, the public transit system in downtown Toronto is a right mess. My normal route has since March been in disarray, as renovations to the streetcar tracks are scheduled to be completed by October)

On the opposite end of the spectrum of stupidity, I have witnessed the following: In one station, there is one escalator going up, and a flight of stairs next to it. Now, the lazy individual who normally rides the escalator arrives and discovers that, much to his chagrin, this marvel of convenience is not working! Instead of simply walking up the escalator, he steps back (into the crowd of worker drones rushing to work), causing much consternation, and proceeds to climb the flight of stairs.

Instead of wracking our brains for a plausible explanation for this utterly inane behaviour, I leave you with the words of the new Foreign Affairs Minister of India, who made this statement to Outlook, a weekly magazine. I wish our world leaders have half the wit this man has:

“They say Natwar Singh is a hawk. I don’t understand this language of hawks and doves. We’re running a foreign policy, not a bird sanctuary.”

Two long years ago, while still a green and youthful college junior, I decided it would be a good idea to enlist myself in that glorious spectacle that Nick has likened to cattle droppings. 'McMUN', the annual McGill Model UN conference was a much hyped and anticipated event in the lives of many an IR major and the odd outsider like myself.

The lead-up to the three days of theatrics consisted of several 'committee meetings'. As a veteran of MUN from high school, I knew fully well that they had a sole purpose: To offer the committee leaders an opportunity to bolster their egos with a silly sense of self-importance. They waxed eloquent about the worthiness of the Economist Intelligence Unit yet lacked even the most rudimentary knowledge of the issue at hand: Post-Soviet Nuclear Power Infrastructure. It was amusing.

To the contrary, the conference itself was a 72-hour immersion in every aspect of a hypothetical present-day Chernobyl. Corrupt finance ministers, KGB interrogations, nuclear fallout and mutated hamsters were just a few of the highlights. With the exception of the few waking hours of the evening that were spent by participants in drunken or otherwise compromising states, it was a learning experience second to none.

Now, as every transcultural wanderer knows, the firsthand overseas experience is so formative that most of us have difficulty even associating with the rest of the world because of it. But those are no grounds to dismiss MUN. Apart from being far more educative than 'study abroad' programs often spent in small and insular groups, it's also way more fun.

Lastly, Nick makes one jarring error in his argument. Model UN conferences don't attempt, by any means, to model themselves after the real thing. Rather, the idea has always been to create a model that reality itself should attempt to emulate.

Now, whether or not life imitates art is an entirely different question.

While making my weekend jaunt around my neighbourhood, I encountered a herd of well-dressed young men and women. “Sophisticated lot,” I thought to myself, observing them meandering towards various eateries for lunch. Upon closer inspection, however, I found that the suits were a little too loose, the skirts a little too high, and their demeanors a little too naïve. Was this merely a flock of poorly dressed youths? Nay, this was the local incarnation of that global exercise in futility, Model United Nations.

(If you have no idea what this is, Google it, do your research and come back. For the more enlightened readers, carry on.)

Now Prashant might wholeheartedly disagree with me (he was once a delegate, many moons ago) but I find the entire idea of MUN to be a right crock of steaming bullshit. Who in their right minds would want to model themselves after that inept bureaucratic behemoth?

(Truth be told, Prashant assures me that the only reason people actually attend this play-politicking is that insatiable urge that everyone gets every now and then: to get laid).

I suppose that these naïve children would say that they participate because it gives them a chance to experience international politics. Do these kids actually learn anything by spending months preparing for 3 to 4 days of playing dress up? No they don’t. You don’t learn anything by pretending to be world leaders.

If you want to learn something real, travel to Jakarta, Johannesburg, Singapore, Mexico City or Colombo. If you want to “feel” international, you experience it first-hand, not by reciting rehashed arguments of how countries need to do this and that.

Harvard University recently suffered poorly in a review of its undergraduate curriculum, where study abroad programs received a less than positive grade. We lament about the lack of understanding our students have of the world. We instead should stop bitching and start sending them overseas, for at least 6 months. In that short period of time, I assure you that their eyes will be opened a hundredfold.

Who am I to say that this is the utmost education that anyone growing up can?

Anyone who’s lived overseas can answer that question. A global nomad, that’s who.

If you feel the need to feign a vibrato, you may as well become a professional air guitarist.

Unfortunately, this was a nuance amongst many others that was lost on the hopelessly pretentious members of a band named 'Moonraker' tonight. I guess I should have put two and two together when I noticed that both the Boston Globe and Boston Herald presented positive reviews of them. Nevertheless, I suspended my disbelief and forked out the cover charge to go see this supposedly 'hip' show.

The opening act, 'The So & So's' performed a melange of pandering commercial ballads and cliche 'angry girl music'. At least they were honest about it. For that sole reason, their set attracted a sizable crowd of vapid overgrown teenie-boppers.

But then 'Moonraker' took the stage and the mass exodus began. I have never seen, to date, so many people walk out in the middle of a set as I did tonight. They had good reason to do so.

By combining the worst of Portishead vocals, mediocre prog-rock keyboard fills and generic electronic cheese, this hapless quintet created an utterly insipid and uninspiring sonic aura. The female vocals were exhaustingly invariant and the guitar sounded like a token overdub thrown in for no good reason. I was bored to tears.

Note to self: In future, be more diligent in your research before going to a show.

Writing late at night is the best feeling ever. Emerging from a drug induced stupor, you grasp at those last vestiges of inspiration, compelling you to quickly enunciate your thoughts on the flickering screen of your computer. My inspiration comes from a variety of sources; the magazine I was reading, Pat Methany playing in the background; the usual hubbub that happens in my house on a rainy Sunday evening.

What sparked me to electronically scribble down these thoughts was my somewhat hazy recollection of a TV5 (French channel) News broadcast. Perhaps I had stumbled across the “International” section of the show (my French comprehension is, admittedly, shaky), but for the full 10 minutes that I watched, both stories tackled international issues. AIDS and disease in Africa and the recent explosion in North Korea. Presenting the facts of the story, some analysis and some shocking footage (emaciated children and a town leveled are pretty intense images), the French program did justice to the notion that things out there are damn right scary.

It’s fitting then when I switch on CNN earlier today, that I witness a completely different approach to news. Now I was greeted with tales of human courage, of the Michael Jackson trial, of the latest on the Atkins Diet. People often have an image of an ignorant American population, unaware of world events. A sample of this “leading” news network clearly lends credence to that claim.

But I’m not saying that American airwaves are filled with shlock. OK, let me rephrase that: What little space set aside for quality programming produces an excellent array of information and entertainment. If I wanted to watch a documentary on the life of some ancient Egyptian high priest, I could.

Eventually what you have is choice (and a wide range for that matter). We are free to select either a mind-numbing piece of garbage or an intellectually stimulating broadcast. When watching the dregs of TV-shows, a sense of guilty pleasure washes over us, as we are both intrigued and revolted by whatever is enacted on our boob-tubes. When the latest live telecast of the 9/11 Commission is on every news channel, we are gripped with an intense desire to seek out the truth.

Who knows what the next generation of television programming bring us? Our children? Our children’s children?

"Hypocrite, Opportunist, don't infect me with your poison."
-Thom Yorke, from Punch up at a Wedding

In his indictment of society's collective dyslexia, Nick brings up the important topic of fallacious arguments. "Name Calling", a classic case of the Ad Hominem fallacy is perhaps the most rampant in all societies. One only needs to open a newspaper or any other form of popular media to be inundated with instances of it.

Currently, meaningless one-liners like "axis of evil" or "rogue state" seem to be particularly popular examples. Worryingly, these and other such nonsense are often propogated by what is foolishly considered to be the 'Intelligentsia'....a distinguished graduate of Harvard Business School in the above examples.

Of course, this sensationalist garbage gets lapped up by millions of undiscerning media-consumers who need only a handful of trite catch-phrases upon which to base their entire philosophies on life. Proponents of insightful writing and journalism, take heed: The seemingly endless 'spectacle' that Nick refers to is in its golden age.

As I pondered this topic last night, I came to appreciate the fact that only a minute minority have the chance to learn basic epistemology or linguistics and thereby familiarize themselves with such pitfalls of language. It would probably take a Herculean leap in global education standards even to get the average college graduate to know and understand the meanings of the two words. So, in the mean time, we should perhaps just try to teach people to be civil.

According to a body of research documented at the following website, empathy-inducing drugs would help.

http://www.biopsychiatry.com

Two nights ago, I tried to compose something coherent to be posted on this ol’ Blog. Unfortunately, what came spewing forth from my keyboard was complete and utter crap. I had no sense of direction, purpose or clarity in my writing. Not only was it unintelligible, but I was vainly attempting to criticize poor writing on the Internet. How ironic that my feeble attempts resulted in a feeble effort on my part.

Was it simply writer’s block? That, in my opinion, is much like stepping into the bright sunlight after being holed underground in a dank and dark cave. Blinded momentarily, you have a vague idea of what’s out there, some piddling idea of what you mean to write, the proverbial “on the tip of your tongue.” The best way to overcome this feeling of inadequacy is to simply step back. In my case, I turned on the television.

Expecting some sort of inspiration, I was instead struck by images of sheer stupidity. No, it wasn’t Spike TV’s “Most Extreme Elimination” (an amusing show by the way, an English-dubbed 1980’s Japanese version of American Gladiators). Rather, it was the leader of that country south of mine, George W. Bush.

Following a rare press conference, in an even rarer question and answer period, Bush stuttered numerous times as he tried to answer specifics about 9/11, Iraq, Oil and what not. (I’ll leave an analysis of WHAT he actually said to Prashant perhaps, or visit http://slate.msn.com/id/2098810/). Bush’s stumbling speech was reminiscent of Porky Pig signing off an episode of Looney Tunes.

Which brings me full circle to my original thought. If you can’t say it properly, you have 2 options: a) learn how to speak or b) don’t say it at all. The same applies for writing, and for a prime example, visit any message board or Usenet newsgroup on the Internet. You have your capable posters, who argue their point coherently. You also have your literary jackasses, often resorting to name calling, illogical sentences or just plain poor writing.

I am in full support of free speech, as that is exactly what I’m doing here. I know Bush isn’t eloquent. I know I can do little about educating the masses online. But the question still remains: how much longer must this spectacle go on?

Our readers appear to have spoken. Thanks. As for the culture industry debate, I have the following to contribute:

Those who believe that artists can and will ever be exempt from a well-defined microeconomic model are living in a fool's paradise. The heavily biased 'buffet' of mainstream music today, otherwise known as a collusive oligopoly, is just a skewed model that mostly rewards adherence to identified 'trends'. These 'trends' or 'scenes' are often artificially manufactured and may or may not have a basis in the actual existence of a localized community movement. There are notable exceptions though, as evidenced by my review of a few days ago.

Fairer distribution models that encourage originality are emerging but are still very much on the fringes. In the mean time, select parts of the buffet offer us a glimpse into what the undiscovered eclectic kitchen has on offer.

A major factor that will determine whether or not real musical movements will enter the public eye is consumer apathy. As Nick astutely points out: "The incessant need of the blind audience to be satisfied with the familiar has driven the industry to continue generating carbon copies of past acts." He then argues that it's the consumer's responsibility to make a conscious choice. But can we really expect the minimally educated public to do so? If not, has artistically integritous music been eternally condemned to exist on the fringes?

YEEARRRRGHHHH!!!

Hmm. Trying to emulate Beck's opening scream in "Lord Only Knows" doesn't seem to translate too well in the written form. However, the sound is exactly what I need to describe the current state of music, as well as the convulsions that my stomach was going through following an Indian buffet feast Sunday evening.

The music-buffet analogy works on a variety of levels. Entering a dining hall with rows upon rows of steaming dishes, salivating at the thought of sampling the roast beef, the beef vindaloo or the chicken parmesan, is akin to walking into the nearest HMV/Music World/"insert-record-store-here," on a Tuesday, eager to select from the multitude of albums: your favourite beats, tunes and riffs.

Behold, the roast beef is placed upon a separate carving board, with inviting heating lamps strategically placed to reflect the right amounts of grease and juices oozing from the block of meat. Examine the cardboard cutout of Britney Spears, immortalizing some provocative pose, enticing you with a look that says "Come hither and buy my album."
(I'm not equating beef to Britney; perhaps in a future post.)

Unfortunately, this is where the analogy stops, as the buffet challenges us to explore new tastes and expand our palates, while the music industry has left its audience "musically castrated." Much like the culinary dolt who sticks to his boring serving of meat-and-potatoes, the music industry has force-fed processed tripe down our ears. Latching on to each new fad as if its life depended on it (and in some cases it does), labels are delivering countless variations of Britney, The Strokes and Korn to our deaf ears. The incessant need of the blind audience to be satisfied with the familiar has driven the industry to continue generating carbon copies of past acts.

We have got to break free from producing the same garbage, staying within the categories imposed upon us by the music industry. Theodor Adorno said "He who integrates is lost."

When faced with choices, stand firm and make a decision.

Being a part of the audience at the downstairs concert hall of the Middle East club last night, I had a tangible sense that I was witnessing something unusually progressed. The NYC art-rock scene seems to have delivered its latest flourish of genius and it goes by the name of Stellastarr*.

Probably the most distinguishing characteristic of the show was the utterly cathartic audience response. A crowd of about 500 was able to generate arena-sized energy and the band rose to the occasion. While this can partially be credited to the city of Cambridge and its demographic cross-section, it's the members of Stellastarr* and their prodigious talent that made it happen.

The vocal styles ranged from anthemic to bubbly to shrieky and the contrast between the male lead vocalist's chaotic delivery was complemented well by the female bassist's smoother backups. The interplay of the two guitars was also worthy of mention. The mostly uptempo overdriven rhythm sounds were exquisitely tempered by ambient delay-infused melodies. Manic drumming gave way to subtle percussive fills. Few bands are able to accomplish this kind of balance.

Lyrically, they're art school kids and it shows: cryptic but fun. In 'In the Walls', the opening tune of the night, Christensen crooned "The falling chains and falling lies make pretend you're mine." Could someone please explain? In the chorus of 'Pulp Song' on the other hand, he poignantly asserts, "We're lying, we've lied to you, we've lied to make our point of view."

The greatest strength of these musicians, however, is their ability to effectively modulate the level of energy within their songs. The transition from quiet introspection to a disco-era frenzied climax in 'My Coco' had the crowd bouncing, literally.

By combining their individual talents, Stellastarr* create a picturesque soundscape that is uniquely their own.

So I'm sitting at my computer with an empty bottle of Wolf Blass 2001 Shiraz from South Australia, contemplating this task before me. Earlier on my "commute" (a 20 minute streetcar/subway ride) from work today, I came to the conclusion that my first post would focus on the concept of indecisiveness. As Prashant wrote, this idea had indeed been brewing for quite some time. I remember the exact time when this idea first exposed itself. Prashant and I were enjoying one of many pints at McKibbons in Montreal one February weekend. Even so, after countless discussions (online and in Real Life), arguments and drunken ramblings, we have decided that a Blog would be an ideal start, for wherever this endeavor will take us.

Yes, I will attempt a "deconstructionist analysis." I use quotation marks because (I will freely admit) don't exactly know the complete meaning of "deconstruction." I will however examine this title that we have decided upon.

Uncluttered: To be free of clutter - clutter (as propounded by William Zinsser in "On Writing Well"):

"Clutter is the ponderous euphemism that turns a slum into a depressed socioeconomic area, a salesman into a marketing representative and garbage collectors into waste disposal personnel."

(You may have noticed that I have incorporated various quotes in this first post. I blame it on my History training in university.)

Advocating: advocate - vt. To plead in favor of.

Evolved: developed, grown, progressed, advanced. It signifies change, from recognized historicity to (to borrow a Prashant word) "contemporary" ideas.

Thought.

My colleague has said that we might meander. I would rather argue that this blog (which I guarantee will NOT become a tool for us to pour our emotions onto our readers) is a journey. Meandering connotates an image of being lost, wandering. I say that every step contributes to our (and hopefully, your) understanding of what we are attempting here.

Aerosmith said "Life's a journey, not a destination."

I invite criticism and compliments from our readers-to-be.

This idea has been brewing for a while. After some debate over the title, content and style we've finally managed to reach a consensus.

The title was probably the greatest source of contention. We were struggling to find a compromise between brevity and accuracy. Nick's a posteriori deconstructionist analysis will follow.

As this is an idea board, the content will undoubtedly meander into the surreal. We make no apologies for that.

So fucking come on and break the door down.