:: a.whisper.in.water ::

:: Thursday, July 17, 2003 ::

Get Me Away From Here, I'm Dying...
Either Boston or California will do wondrously (and yeah, that one's taken en route to Los Angeles over winter break), though neither is, at present, accessible. One good thing about being off-colour: earlier bed times. Unfortunately, my first pre-3am bedtime in weeks won't be able to save me from my typecast night-owl lifestyle, as the chlorine from last night's physics department pool party has stained my eyes...with blood. So I still look as tired as I normally would, if not moreso. I actually feel relatively well-rested, but still snoozed for a good 45 minutes or so. Hey, some things never change.

It's hard to write about any one thing wrong with what I see/read/etc., because (and here I speak loosely) it's all part of this giant interconnected web of unhappy and stupid; why bother picking anything out when it is, on any large scale, so entrenched as to render my words largely useless? With that, I wearly take up the sword and mount my faithful steed Sarcasm against the evil that is modern music. Blender magazine makes baby Jesus cry. From their mindless drivel of a review section to their middle-school humor grade photocaptioning, they remain a disgusting reminder of how bought modern music has grown to be. Their uninspired review of Hail to the Thief claims that Radiohead's place atop the BritRock scene has been taken over by Coldplay. Sure, if you base your musical reviews on Windows Media Player statistics for "most popular played" in the fucking Media Guide window. Sorry kids, that's not how the game's played. Displaying nothing more than a daily commuter's knowledge of music, I firmly place deez nuts on Blender magazine's face.

As well, it served to highlight another troubling aspect of modern music: the total selloutery of one Jewel Kilcher, whose latest image revamp takes her far away from the quiet charm of a have-guitar-will-travel coffeeshop spook and towards the voracious black hole of hypersexuality that refuses to leave our poor belreauged 7th-grade music collection alone. I mean, sweet fucking Jesus it's not a penny more than pure putrid dance-pop. A descent reminiscent of Weezer, Blender magazine showcases the born-again-poledancing of Jewel, crudely trying to peek up her skirt all the while. At least Weezer had the decency to release a second self-titled album, letting everyone know, at least, that this was far from the same band as before.

In lighter news, I tried to shave the back of my head to compensate for the shortcomings of the most grave fading I received at the hands of the dark lord SuperCuts. It would have been bad enough had I just gone at the back of my head with clippers or something, but if there's a will, there's an Aziz way whose ultimate aim is the same as an ordinary way, but is wholly improvisational, ill-conceived, and a tenth as efficient as most any other way that anyone else would come up with on the spot.

Time to order a $600 oven half the size of a microwave. (Why doth the oven cost so much? Verily, it be an oven of science and learning.) Blarg.

Music: Spiritualized - Complete Works, Vol. 1, Disc 1.

:: Aziz 12:46 PM [+] ::
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