On How Advertising Ruins Music.

It is a fairly two sided concept- advertisers want something that resonates with people, that they recognise and will associate with good memories and good feelings. You hear The Beatles‘ ‘ Come Together’ or the Stones’ ‘You Cant Always Get What You Want’ or even Hot Chocolates ‘You Sexy Thing’ you, through the magic of music, remember the good times, vibes, memories or connotations that song induces. And through to the marriage of image and music you associate those good feelings with the product. It is fairly deceptive, but it works.
Then of course there is the viewers side. The viewer is blinded by the ad for a time, and when they can see again they realise they almost ,universally, despise the song.
The trick for advertisers is to use the chorus or hook of the song, being the most recognised fragment and that which people will most deeply identify with, the trouble is its also the most repetitious element of most songs.
It has caught me in its trap more than once, picture this; you are tapping your toes to a song you love but havent heard (or so you think) in a good while, everythings fine, your feeling good. Then- the chorus, and boom. You remember the million times you’ve heard the overly familiar chorus, and not its overly unfamiliar surrounds, in that ad selling Pepsi-Cola.
Part of the hatred for the song comes from obnoxious repetition and another part from the real value and art of music being pimped out for quick gain.
It shouldn’t be suprising, of course, as music is a money game. The intention is to be in the green, and well in the green, at all times and a song that is 30 years old will mean as much to people as it ever does and so is no longer sacred. Beyond that even, you’ve paid for the single, now someone else is buying the chorus.
Its frustrating, and if I were a richer man id buy out all these ads and force them to write a jingle like the true heroes of the ad-music world. But I am not and I cant, so we will have to watch some of the better songs we all know and loved be harvested for those with more in their pockets, like black market kidneys.
NP.

On Baldness: Male Curse….or IS it?

For around 10 years I have experienced anxiety, and for 5 of those the anxiety has been gut wrenching. As is natural, even the mind wrapped in anxiety gets bored once in a while, so its best to spice it up. It started innocently enough with burglars when I was ten years old.
That faded once I grew to a stature where burglars weren’t a reasonable concern and right around the time male pattern baldness was.
My father, my fathers father, my mothers father and one of my uncles are bald and they all have dealt with it in varying ways.
My grandfathers both seemed to be incredibly sensitive over the issue. My maternal grandfather (deceased) wore a comb over and when he wound up in hospital, a lifelong drunk, he was most upset that the nurses cut the lengthy locks off the one side he bore them. It seemed for the first time he had to wear a crome dome with pride. According to my mother he wore a hat as much as possible but, ever a traditional gentleman, would take it off when inside or in the company of women. At which point the come over would take over.
My paternal grandfather has worn a rug as long as I have known him, we used to enjoy putting it on when he wasn’t around or stealing it from his scalp to his frustration; Pappa you devil, no-one knew you wore a rug until we stole it, your secret is OUT.
As for my father, he mentioned nothing of it until one night. When discussing his youth he mentioned his discomfort with haircuts in his 20s, assuming the hairdresser would suspect his thinning and dreading any mention of such.
My own fear of baldness came when I was around 14. My assumption was that no woman would ever find me sexually, or otherwise, attractive and so due to my lack of locks I was bound to be alone. But it faded once more real concerns came, thick and fast.
When your worried about terminal cancer or dementia, a naked scalp SOMEHOW takes a back seat.
But there are those who would look strange any other way…for instance.
I cant imaine Hunter S. Thompson with a thick head of hair, nor Jason Alexander, nor Ron Howard, nor Riff Raff….so its all about owning the look, really.
Some people work it better than I will, that’s for certain. And in those cases its become a case of using it as something to distinguish yourself from the other, boring, throng of mopped gentleman.
NP.

Batnamn: An excerpt from Batmans Namn Journal.

An Excerpt From Batmans Vietnamn Diary.

Day 23-
I sure wish the guys here would stop being such dicks to me. They know I don’t like guns, they love them. So, with nothing much to do in a war without guns I have been spending my time in brothels and bars. I have a borderline drinking problem, but hey, you might call it my one flaw…besides my crippling fear of guns and orphan status. I also have a series of red ulcers south of the border that I am hoping is just a sweat rash.
The other annoying thing about this country is the uniforms…did someone say DRAB!? I mean, I get that we gotta hide from the enemy and thus dressing to suit the surrounds is sensible, but couldn’t we dress it up a little. Green is so not my colour, but my disdain for guns already has some of the men suspecting I am gay, and I think they still kill gay people here, so I will keep the luxury bat suit out of sight.

Day 44-
I miss Gotham. I could sure go for a slice of za right now, Asian food doesn’t agree with me. I mean, its ridiculous, I am rushing to the john every five minutes. At least there is beer, good, AMERICAN beer. I got a telegram from Alfred saying keep your head up, not too far up, and that it was just the same in Korea. I don’t think he went to Korea. I hope he isn’t taking the bat-mobile out to wine country, I warned him about that.
I am learning Vietnamese since I don’t have anything else to do, not that eloquent a language. I also lost many thousands of dollars in a card game against some guy named Ning. I think Ning is now one of the more wealthy over here, don’t let it be said I am not a contributor.

Day 50-
Really starting to hate it here, they don’t even have broadband. How can I stream gossip girl without broadband? Matter of fact, they are years behind, they don’t even have gossip girl in most places, Charlie is raving about the OC and in some of the poorer areas Dawsons Creek. Remember Dawsons Creek? God, those dudes must be like 40 now.
Alfred keeps texting me saying Robin is trying to enlist. He assumes it will make him a Man, from boy wonder to man wonder. I don’t wanna see that guy, it’s the only mistake I ever made.
Come to think of it, why the fuck am I here? Rich dudes don’t go to Vietnamn, they chill by the pool and chisel their guns, fighting crime by night.
There is not a looker in the bunch over here, but my raging libido continues to force me well below my usually impeccable standards. Luckily no-one has to know about it, that kind of thing could ruin the ‘Mans sterling reputation.

Day 67-
I threw a canister of mustard gas into a schoolhouse today. Not my proudest moment. I guess you could say this war is growing on me. Or I am growing on it. Hard to say really. My sergeant is pretty pushy, I try to tell him to calm down, that he’ll have a stroke, but I don’t think he cares.
I have been auditioning black guys as sidekicks, its hard to find one who isn’t too cool. The caped crusader cant be overshadowed. I take some of them out to the forest and make them watch me practise karate, so they know who the boss is.
I have also been running some Shakespearean productions, in between blanket bombings, to keep morale up. Sadly there is a distinct lack of culture amongst the ranks and most of them question the lack of naked chicks.

Day 81-
Now the Batman is really starting to get war crazy. Fuck fighting crime, ill fight everything! A Charlie chopper passed overhead on a scouting mission yesterday and instead of ducking for cover I gave them the finger and mooned them. They didn’t shoot me, probably intimidated by my bat-buns.
The only really annoying thing is its hard to keep my coke habit going. I brought a shit ton with me and it was cool cause im a military man and the customs are pretty laxed here. But I have just about run through that.
I don’t have any servants to go cop for me and I don’t know shit about buying drugs, especially here. We are a long way from Mexico after all.
Getting drunk is still fun, the Batliver is a resilient little devil.

Day 100-
Just ran into Robin Williams, he is on the wagon now. Damn Shame.
It looks like I am getting discharged, thank god. I can get back to my first love, fly fishing. Talk about exhilarating, fishing’s bad over here though.
I have SUCH a craving for chocolate and strawberries, maybe with a little ‘Clueless’ thrown in. O..M..G I LOVE that movie.
I think its safe to say I am done with war, from now on the only fight I will engage in is the fight of emotional vulnerability….oh and crime, also crime.

An Adults Guide to Getting Your Very Own Mouth From The South.

We all like to swear, actually this is blatantly untrue. A good amount like to swear, some don’t but do it any who and some don’t and slap themselves on the wrist like a child if a dreaded four letter word should pass their lips.
If you should want to work more cusses into your vocabulary, and what individual worth their salt doesn’t? I have a detailed guide, applied aptly to my own filthy mouth but open to adaptation for anyone’s needs, abilities and levels.
As we well know, substitution is the key to a healthy unhealthy vocabulary;

1. Words pertaining to random objects, or clusters of objects, shall be referred to as ’Shit’. This includes stuff, things, knick-knacks, possessions, belongings and personal property. In addition to putting a lot of syllables back in the word bank, you also come across as kinda badass.

2. A lie shall no longer be any of the following- poppycock, hogwash, piffle, fibs, bulldust or any hybrid of the two (poppy wash anyone?). The only proper response to someone’s bending or breaking of the facts shall be ‘bullshit’ or, when over used, any other variety of ‘shit’. Get creative, but not too creative, ‘penguin shit’ is liable to confuse even the wittiest of fibbers.

3. Fuck shall be considered with as much potential as possible. It should not be considered naturally detrimental or insulting as it shouldn’t be considered positive or humorous. The fuck muscle (more innuendo, you devil) shall be flexed at each opportunity available should it be in anger, sadness, surprise or shock, good fun or happiness. Again one should take into account context and tone before making assumptions on meaning and so it should be given a little more consideration in use on mediums where such things might not register (computers and text messages primarily).

4. Cunt shall be accepted in this country and possibly New Zealand the only other addition. On the stipulation that no women or children are present. And if women are present, on the stipulation that they use it first or it is during some kind of kinky, vulgar birthday sex. Again this can be an insult or an apt substitute for the word “person”.

5. Words shall not be taken as literally as they once were and, again, might be considered apt substitutes for person or individual. From henceforth a cocksucker isn’t someone who sucks cock necessarily, and a motherfucker isn’t someone who sticks it up their mother. The literal versions are dead and these words may be used as friendly, tongue-in-cheek greetings or as vicious insults at the speakers discression.

Another note: No-one who swears should be considered of less style, class, intelligence or sophistication. My hero Stephen Fry explains this more eloquently than I could:



Swearing is fun people, and so long as you don’t infect anyone who mightn’t want it, this could be a bug we all enjoy.

NP.

On Saying I Love You….Or Not.

This is a recurring issue in my life, what to do when someone drops the L Bomb.
Of course, anyone who says this is casting an open net to reel it back in turn, but I just can’t do it. The reasons are numerous and not, as they might otherwise be, elements of my stunted personality. Others, and yes predominately the penis bearing kind, take issue with it and for, by and large, precisely the same reasons.
For one thing, we already know and would hope the other half already know. In truth, once a day is over-adequate number of utterings for me, but it should be at worst the upper limit. Granted I forget phone numbers, names, home addresses and what I had for lunch, but I wont forget that.
Since I am so stringent on not reciprocating as much as might be expected or demanded, yet wary of the outcomes to such an attitude, it becomes tense each time it is said which, with those who chose to say it, is every few minutes.
The other thing is, it seems a shade forced. As though at first you are trying to convince me, then yourself. That it is thrown around far too easily and so loses its punch. I.e If you say it forty times a day, it wont mean much on the wedding day or when crowding around the scone of a newborn. Its akin to saving your stomach for lobster instead of cereal.
A very good friend of mine had another point of view on the matter, as well as the aforementioned views. I shant credit him in name, as I have the feeling he wouldn’t want his name thrown around and another feeling that he wouldn’t mind the lack of credit.
He said to me that the ‘love yous’ come largely in the honeymoon period, the puppy love stages when things are fresh and new. That you might want to express with each breath how darn pleased you are with the arrangement, though after that period the love you’s die off as the love does and, to quote; ‘its all downhill from there’.
I have the feeling that insecurity may come into it. That those who love you, want more to be loved and understand the universal obligation to hit them back. In theory I should abide they are only words and it is physically an easy enough thing to say , though my convictions to words prevent me- I try to keep some power in them and misuse and abuse burns power and meaning faster than most things.
Of course all the ‘sayers’ tell me that its so if something happens to me, it would be the last thing they told me. I would rather they tell me to look for buses or get some mental help.
Though in seriousness I think this has something to do with them covering their bases perhaps, so that they wont have to regret not saying it enough. But for each who tells me those dreaded words, I should hope they know that I know and that I wouldn’t doubt it on my deathbed.
The problem is so bad that whenever I am told it in phone conversation or otherwise, the best I can muster is ‘you too’ or ‘same here’.
A word of advice though to those who choose to mention it all the time, after a while we start not believing you.
Just a thought.

NP.

On Why I Cant Make Films, But May Be Able to Make Dirty Films.

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

On Playing The Cards Your Dealt.

I once, strangely, thought mental illness was largely a myth. I am speaking of mood disorders mainly, I was aware that things like Schizophrenia and Parkinson’s were as real as the shining sun, but the bipolars and Post Traumatic Stress Disorders of the world seemed nothing more than an over hyped fairy-tale.
When I asked a relatively realist-pessimist friend of mine if he believed in depression (as he has his doubts on dieting, toxin theories and male anorexia) he replied that of course he does, that is science. While you can’t realistically believe in god all the way or all the time, you can believe in science.
Naturally it is now the cosmic joke that I find myself in the vicious clutches of GAD (Generalized Anxiety Disorder) and an increasing bout of diagnosed depression.
Normally I would cock my head and laugh from my gullet at those in similar circumstances, but I have felt it.
This isn’t any sort of bitching piece, merely a half-hearted attempt at an optimism speech. So I would say it is high-time I got to the point.
While this sort of thing can be stigmatized, for one reason or another, it is a disease. It has little or nothing to do with social status, culture, race or gender. A wealthy businessman without a worry in the world can find himself as depressed as a homeless man with nothing left to live for.
Too often in the clutches of depression or anxiety, I have been told one of the two; cheer up or calm down. If only things were so simple. They aren’t , not by a long shot. Your brain fast-tracks you there and you get stuck.
To all the nay-sayers who assume it is a matter of will power and nothing more, ask yourself this: would you want to be miserable or scared, day in day out, without motivation or ability to enjoy anything at all? My bet is you wouldn’t. The fact is, its beyond your control and as all the ads tell us, there is a difference between feeling blue and depression, or getting occasionally worried and an anxiety disorders.
Though, for myself, I have come to some sort of bitter conclusion. While my own brain dysfunction is upsetting, worse is the regimen of hopeless cures I attempt to throw on it. Sooner or later you realise you may be beyond help. You have to hope the mess will sop itself up, a very limp wristed approach, I know….but sometimes the fight is gone.
I liken the appropriate attitude in such circumstances to that of folks born with birth defects….they have little choice but to deal with what has fallen upon them, and they do so with upmost courage and style, so should we, the people, deal with our whacky brains.
There should be no stigma about it, though there is. It is the ultimate test of a friend, if they tell you to snap out of it (post diagnosis) tell them to go fuck themselves, but if they tell you they will be there for you, hang on and don’t let go.