The 90's for the WWF were just outstanding with multi-layered story lines, and unexpected twists and turns that kept you watching from week to week. It may have been a mixture of being young and naive about the world of wrestling, or watching for years have made me jaded, longing for the days were I believed it was all real.
 

There was one superstar who remained my favorite for a decade The Undertaker. The Undertaker came into the federation of Ted DiBiase, and he was the first "unbeatable monster" gimmick I have even seen. Taker was almost 7 feet tall, and had the character of being an undead, supernatural, mystical, machine who was one of the first people to make Hogan look powerless. He was main event right off the bat, and the WWF made a pretty convincing case that no one was able to beat him, in fact it only took one year for him to take the title from Hogan (with the help of Ric Flair).

There was only one thing keeping him from me from the Undertaker from being my favorite, he was bad guy. You just didn't cheer for the bad guys, like you can now-a-days (old manism) I had to keep my love for The Undertaker a secret, and rooted for Hogan just like everyone else in school.

In 1991 the romance between "Macho Man" Randy Savage and Miss Elizabeth was the centerpiece of the world at the time. They invested alot of time, and effort into the production of this story. Do yourself a favor and watch the wedding reception between the two. I was only going to do a gif of what I needed, but the whole video is hilarious. Macho is incredible!



Now it happens all the time, but someone smacking on woman on TV back in the early 90's was a big deal. There was no two ways about it, Jake Roberts needed to pay for what he did.

Saturday Night's Main Event Roberts faced Savage for the last time. In a great clean match Macho finished off Jake with the Elbow drop. Macho wanted to punish Jake some more and wanted to exact more revenge by beating him down after the match with the ring bell. Roberts escaped to the back with his tail between his legs. The match was over, the good guys won, and everyone was going to move along. Jake had other plans. He waited behind the stage, with a chair looking to hit either Elizabeth or Savage, "whoever comes first". The tension was building, Jake Roberts was ready to take out anyone who came through that curtain, Savage and Elizabeth were trotting down the aisle unknowingly, high fiving and smiling. What was going to happen?!


What?! The Undertaker saved Elizabeth, and took out Roberts?! The Undertaker is a ... good guy?! He's a good guy now! I can like him?! Yes!

Now as we have seen Jake the Snake not take a defeat as a deterrent for his tenacity. He went on "The Funeral Parlour" with Paul Bearer to straighten things out. Jake was to the point and asked Mr. Bearer who side is the Undertaker on (wasn't it obvious?).

Here are some more movies that hold some bit of significance for me. These movies are some that really tugged on my heart strings, and burned a permanent place in my memory.


I remember watching Edward Scissorhands with my parents as one of the first Pay Per View things we ever bought. For some reason I recall me watching it with them as a teenager and being embarrassed with the salty scenes with the cougar wife mounting Edward after the haircut. I was captivated with the movie with it's unique premise, but what makes it special for me is the way the movie dug at my emotions. The scene below where Edward can't hold his love, was so touching to me I fought tears of in front of my parents.

In last week's post, I took a side-step into a pointed critique of what we call Post-Modernism.  Since it is such a large issue, one that riles me from my normally docile and tolerant self, and one that paradoxically stifles what we can accept as creativity.  This is the first in a formally proposed series of essays attempting to either define or dismantle the current view of our art world.  For the sake of this discussion, please consider all forms of creation under the umbrella term "Art." 

James Joyce did not finish off the novel.  Andy Warhol did not end painterly expression.  Eliot did not paralyze poetry, etc etc etc The hallmark, however, of Post-Modernism which I intend to use as a blanket academic term for all Post War art, including and especially contemporary art--at odds with those who may want to consider the current era separate, giving it the equally generic label of Contemporary--The hallmark, however, of Post-Modernism, is to insist that we live in an age where traditional forms of art are antiquated and by the very means of each respective medium, lack the ability to communicate any remotely profound insight.  From this springs forth the artificial question of how to be an artist in an age where all artforms are dead.  From this, we've seemingly explored every region--mixed media, psychological manipulation, primitivism--but never end up any further.  Authors are still writing and selling novels and asking the same questions as writers in the pre-novellic age (I want to take the time to ask why, as this concerns me somewhat personally, the novel, inarguably the youngest of the three major modes of artistic writing, was the first to be pronounced dead?) and painters still present annually at all the acclaimed halls and poets still obsess and pine.

What has occurred, though, is that in the wake of the casually nihilstic post-war/rocknroll age is that form has been abandoned.  We all know stream of consciousness and abstract action painting and automatic drawing and --ugh-- free verse.  It's clear that the need for human expression still exists.  But the use for formalism of any kind has vanished.  So how do we determine what's valid art, and what's opportunism, and what's simply a madman's scrawlings?  It can't be what communicates more directly and poignantly to a person's emotions than other work, becuase that old Post-Modern insistence on Subjectivism dictates that all art has an audience.  We are left to consider all submissions regardless of quality as viable forms of art.

What muddles this argument further is the musing that "art is everywhere" which is simply untrue.  If we step back for a moment and think of what we mean when we say art, it's a truncated form of artifice, creation, labor, not accident, not vulgar expose of the ugly parts of the world.  Art, by its very definition, demands strenuous exertion, intuitive knowledge bolstered by exploration of one's medium.  But the post-modern age insist on barraging its audience with the profundity of everyday life, which is really no different than quaint pastoral dramas of an era most artists of the Post-Modern age would desire to distance themselves from.

So what is the result?  Art lacking form but still accepted by a sponsor (be it a publication firm, an agency or a well-endowed individual) is defended on basis of veracity, whether through autobiography or deconstructionist intent--incidentally, a candidate the most misunderstood term of the postmodernage--if it lacks aesthetic appeal or an attempt at universality.  I agree that beauty is everywhere, but it doesn't automatically make arbitrarily selected subject matter beautiful, or a story more interesting because it happens to be true. 

Add to that the insistence that every story has been told or every song has been written, a falsehood of the most wicked design.  I have encountered this protestation countless times and bristle more broadly with each snotty remark.  It isn't that stories or melodies or aren't unlimited, it's that we have created such a finitie but broad classification system that we systematically take any unique idea and force it into a category.

More than anything, I believe it is all an excuse for laziness, due mostly to the majority of product I see offered in the postmodern/contemporary.  The only safe territory is current topical observation or the empty, irreverent dismantling of a long standing idol.  Our artists are all defult iconoclasts.  On the now presumed "fact" that all art forms are dead or dead ends, the postmodern age is a parade of vapid revisionist critique.  Artists now take aim even at themselves, wherein an entire work is one long setup for an ad hoc pratfall.  How many times can we veil bad art with the supposedly incisive purpose of questioning the nature of art?

If indeed, there is truth that music, writing, sculpture, dancing, painting, are dead then why not start back at the beginning?  Why is this the irreverible direction we must continue in, constantly breaking fourth walls and undermining our own assertions?  Why not start back with the classical forms again?  The Greeks didn't have laptops, so if we follow the path of previous (now deceased) artforms in our current political and technological atmosphere, the outcome could be radically different?  When someone attempts that, it's pocketed away as an abberration, an exercise in neoclassicism.  The easiest analogy is that parents can have multiple children and while one--the one that received all the attention--may turn out to be a drug-addled wreck, there are other children who may have vastly different lives.  We, as an artistic culture follow such a linear path, which is currently in a state of self-rejection.  And all this empty irreverence, what does it teach us?  What is replacing these old, outdated modes of expression?  They offer nothing, not even nothingness, but nothing. 

So one of my biggest issues with postmodern thought is its arrogance, is that it exists as the summation of all previous though, either through exclusion of disproven ideas or confirmation of yet-to-be-disproven ones.  Who are we to say that the world has led up to all that we do and create and produce now?  We are one possibility and we speak with such a limited vocabulary for appreciating the world, and we're so happy to consider ourselves, as I'm sure every phase of every culture does, the very apex of sophistication and enlightenment.  When encountering our artistic endeavors, I feel that nothing could be further from the truth, personally at least.  I conjecture that it's from fear of openness, that saying that formal art is dead is easier than accepting one's inability to express oneself as well in a formatted venue as an unformatted one.  That is half of art.  Not just expression.  But execution, creation. But if one ignores that part, then one can hide behind the total rejection of previous and current forms and scoff.  As I said last week, no one wants to be rejected, and that's at the core of this transpiration of our culture.  It's a way for no one to feel rejected, to say that all forms of all modes of all media are valid and it's simply luck, mysterious, effusive luck that dictates success or acknowledgement.

In the end, we are forced to ask what the criteria for art is, then?  If art can be found everywhere, in every medium and in everyday life, then what sets it aside from someone intentionally creating a replica of everyday life or implementing anti-academic lack of technique.  In short, most music writing painting fashion and cinema by way of example only serves to affirm the old and ignorant argument, "I could do that."  And if it's the philosophy behind the work that qualifies it, then what kind of philosophy that Art (as we know it) is Dead.  How does understanding, but not respecting and not working to elevate the act of creation differ from or illuminate the layman's stance?  Why are some elevated to the status of genius and others left to wallow in humiliating failure?  In short, if all forms of post-modern/contemporary art ask us what is art--as smoe abstract challenge--then we have the right to ask them the same question and expect a direct response.

This is another FREE compilation of the sickest dubstep I can find. I may have out done myself but you be the judge. Remember you can listen to any song via youtube, or download by clicking the links. No gimmicks, no viruses, nothing but hot beats from cXnX to your head vaginas.

You can also download, or listen to the 3 previous playlists by clicking on the links below.


Construx Playlist #1: Dub-Step: Sick Drops, and Harmful Bass

Construx Playlist #3: Dubstep Will Kill You

Construx Playlist #4: Dropping Sickness Down Your Pants

 

WARNING: These songs WILL ruin your speakers. Please play at high volume if you hate speakers.

 

1. Borgore - Guided Relaxation Dub

 

 2.Cubism - NASDA

 3. Apex - Nowhere to Run (Datsik Excision Mix)

4. Funcase -50 Caliber

5. Tim Berg - Seek Bromance (Cubism Remix)

6. Bar 9 - Kyza

7. Beat Grinder & Native Dubstep -Danegeresque

8. Boy Kid Cloud & Messinian - Contraband

9. Daladubz - Moshpit

10. Devnik - Slake

11. Downlink - Yeah

12. Excision & Datsik - Boom (Skism's Boomstick Mix)

13. Hulk - Party Kids

14. Tomba feat. Sticky Feet - No Rest For The Wicked

15. Skrillex - Kill Everybody (Bare Noize Mix)

16. Rob Roy - Rollercoaster (Muffler Remix)

17. Kaiser - Agent 2.5 (Tek-One Remix)

I've been in a huge movie kick as of late, and wanted to touch upon some of the most remarkable scenes from some of my favorite films. Most of these are easy to remember, but have a somewhat personal meaning to me.


1. Jersey Girl

Yeah, I know not Kevin Smith's most celebrated movies, but this scene cut really cuts me to the bone. I think as a young father we all doubt our abilities to raise a child, and doing it alone must be terrifying. I remember these private talks with my own babies at one point on a late night with sleep depravity.

In our virulent world of web-journals, web-diaries, webinars and the dreaded 'blog, it's not at all uncommon to see opinions contested.  This causes me to consider the true core of what Criticism proper is and what role in our "culture" it actually supplies, thinking that it might in some small way provide a conclusive and applicable determinant towards an objective system of qualification for those of us still gestating in the gestalt of the amorphous amateur world of logging our supposed insights; in short, who's hot and who's wrong.

So in my typical blackened-white view of the world, I will attempt to categorize all modes of criticism (focusing more on the published and professional forms as I find them more distressing) into two distinct and mutually exclusive categories.

The first and more digestible is popular, or qualitative, criticism.  It is the attempt of someone with an apparently educated opinion attempting to place a judgment on work offered to the public in a manner that the less educated, or initiated, can understand. I give those who work in this category the benefit of the doubt that they set out with the best intentions, to inform others of whether or not what is being advertised as good or the best truly is, to keep movie-goers from wasting money on a bad film or demanding more from an artist selling work for millions.

This is rarely the case, though.  We often find ourselves presented with no more than an individual's point-of-view that is granted authority by some vague qualification, such as a diploma. The views become inflated, self-laudatory and obscure, often based on some contemporarily conceived or historically posited criteria that isn't relevant to those that the judgment is originally supposed to be created for.  Then of course, these opinions are then called into question, often quite literally, in such forms as "Who are you to say that?" "Who asked you?"

Even if the genuine effort is put forth to offer a somewhat valid and fair judgment, a public service, the concept of the Opinion of course defeats and deflates it immediately, as someone's opinion is bound to differ.  We have no standards anymore (in both senses) to differentiate, much less qualify "good" and "bad", whether regarding contemporary work or revising stances on dated works.  Look how often the indicators "critically" and "commerically" are paired for juxtaposition.  If someone acheives both, then this is assumed to be universal acclaim, but we neglect the fact that Professional Critics (or now bloggers) hold some respected influence for their assumed heightened sense of appreciation, as well as the fact that both critics and a population of some 7 billion people never represent more than a minority percentage.  And of course, this doesn't account for my most loathed MOR stance, usually stated as, "I can appreciate what they're doing, but I don't really like it."

As is my usual aim, I want to complete an objective standard for qualitative criticism.  Normally, I would speak up in support of technical proficiency, but this is tenuous territory when talking about any type of work intended for a mass audience with widely varying tastes.  At some point, skill becomes a veil, merely decoration, a showy distraction intended to compensate for a lack of substance.  This applies really only to the world of the liberal arts though, for in some fields, such as athletics and culinary, skill is all but in rare flukes directly related to the quality of the product.  In all fields, though, the same notion applies that even the most technically accomplished chef may not create a dish of universal appeal, as some prefer more common recipes.  A classically trained musician may lack the emotion to truly connect with a listener, or may by the simple virtue of the demonstrative pomposity of one's skill, distance someone whose preference is for an earthy jugband.  For these two basic reasons, one cannot determine the quality of work based on its technical appeal (this itself being another academic artifice).

In its stead I want to offer the concept of sincerity, or as labeled above, "substance" or what is called in the fields of athletics, business and politics, "heart" as the only valid qualitative judgment.  I want to, but as we'll encounter shortly, there stand too many complexities to present it as a useful and measurable standard.  Even the proclivity for choosing the "inner beauty" of a presented work is a post-modern attitude, but that we will investigate later on.  Although I want to...

First, of course, we need to define what we mean by all these vague terms that we are blanketing under "sincerity."  I think, mathematically, were I more talented in that venue, I could create a direct equation, but verbally I can say that it is the amount of effort exerted into a particular piece of work proportionate to the individual's skill level toward the focused intention of the process and the product itself.  In other words, it's what someone is able to execute on the basis of ability given genuine intent on communicating through that work.  Again, the rejection of simply assessing someone on solely one's skill as opposed to their intent is is a post-modern attitude, (I'll take a moment to demystify "post-modern" which is a peculiar and useless term to me--In the modern age, everyone railed against what they saw as black-and-white objectivism that had lost its functionality due to an archaic method and academic set of standards that allowed for only certain styles of work to be publicly acknowledged; this applied to literature, painting and sculpture, music, fashion, cuisine, etc., so whenever Post-Modernism was invented at a debated date, the concept already had its foundation in this abandonment of standardization as plastic and rigid; but so far, nothing has been replaced that narrow albeit objective determination.)

The argument here is that what may take someone a matter of months to accomplish to an acceptable degree may take another merely a matter of days to complete to an aesthetically superior degree--acknowledging with our newly acquired post-modern sensibilities that even this assessment lacks any acceptable rubric--so we even see a natural gulf distancing degrees of ability in a given field, and on top of that, some may appreciate what appears as the result of meticulous and methoidcal training, whether the actual product of innate talent or acquired skill, and others feel more connected to the apparent result of unfettered and uncluttered purity of  raw expression.  So as for the relativity part of the equation, we lack an agreeable measurement on that point.  We have now concluded that it is impossible to determine quality based on the perceived effort exerted, and the proportional effort exerted and now we can focus on the core of "Sincerity"--the intention merely to communicate through the process of creation and the product created.

This is a muddle, I'll say from the outset, because we all know Sincerity, unlike technical ability, can easily be faked.  I feel there is no need to clutter this discussion with an exploration of that truism.  But additionally, sincerity can be confused with sentimentality, which can also be faked.  We deal with false sentiment on a daily level, in advertisements for consumables, in hypocritical gestures, and most certainly in pieces of work falsely presented as the work of inner struggle to connect oneself with the outside world, especially by someone perceptive and opportunistic who simply emulates a popular type of emotional depth or perceptual sensitivity.  It can only be said that the absence of aesthetic does not automatically mean the presence of genuine emotion, as well as that the skillful execution doesn't necessarily diminish or eliminate the heart, soul, or emotional import of a work [I will admit I have noted a more than circumstantial inverse correlation of that which I perceive as "Sincere" or "Substantial" to that which I feel to be technically proficient, often extending the possibility that an academic or educated approach to a field does somehow limit one's intuitive abilities in that same field.]

That is to say that we have no way of definitively determining, through all the mired presentiment and postulation, what is completed with genuine intent or because of a sincere question felt posed by the world as opposed to that which is completed with an ulterior motive such as financial gain.  So all one can confidently do is react and then, for the intellectuals, attempt to decipher why that reaction occurred.  How can we interact with the work offered by others for our consumption, then??

This brings us to the second--and less useful--type of criticism, artistic or speculative.  This applies to the set of (mostly) academics who offer opinions and interpretations on all various works offered for public consumption.  The idea of an objective evaluation "good" or "bad" is generally discarded at the outset as it is already regarded as irrelevant.  There stands in its place an understood evaluation by omission, that any work in the particular field not considered is not thought-provoking enough to warrant consideration.

This form of criticism allows us to fall into the circular and circuitous pattern of undercutting popular/qualitative criticism based on both technicality and sincerity, by offering so many theories on creation and subjectivity, and multiple perspectives that we can never come to a conclusive consensus.  It is more concerned with engaging in a closed and privileged dialogue with the source works and the creators.  Here, criticism and opining become an artform themselves, most often found in hard-bound published volumes, but occasionally in the more irritating amateur venues of conversation as well (like, well... hi how are ya!).
To me, this is isolated, insular and pretentious.  It does nothing to further the fields wherein one exists as some self-validated authority on the product of that field.  Rather, it is more akin to or more wrapped up in philosophical arguments based on what the work's creator intended, which my staunch argument against is that it is solely up to the artist to explain the work, although in our age even these explanations, when even given, are open to interpretation.  It is a way to establish one's own voice where it is not needed, the product of over-population, under-motivation and the reason for these thoughts to first occur to me.

I do believe we should question everything and demand the best from ourselves and others, but I also feel that both forms of criticism are simultaneously self-perpetuating and self-defeating to the point of absolutely unnecessity. I envision a world absent of criticism.  I smile at this, but then I wonder, as previously hinted, what would await us in this presumably much less pretentious world.  We already exist and labor in fields of ambiguity where all participants are hiding under the blanket of subjectivism.  Without critics, we would, one can conjecture, have absolutely no system of measurement and a complete lack of refinement in quality or understanding.  Everyone's art and food would be considered excellent since everyone's opinion would matter and then music and art would lose all meaning, since it's meaning is so highly subjective without regulation or accountability. 

The creator's job is not to cater to specific niches, nor to justify their own individualized existence, but rather to unify, to be the one profession that attempts to please everyone all the time. The artist should be the one person devoid of subjectivism, whose expression is not individual, but universal, not self-satisfying or cathartic, but relatable and altruistic.  The good artist's touch is invisible.  But this does not exist and thus spawned the supposed need for the critic.  Likewise, it is not the critic's job to speak for others, as that's impossible, or get into a position of defending one's own opinion.  Often we see vicious debates between these two glorified posts.  Artists say, "This is my art, and my vision, so if you like it then great, but if not then don't bother with it, take a hike," and critics say, "Hey, this is only my opinion, it doesn't necessarily reflect anyone else's, so if you don't like it then ignore it, take a hike." 

And we're no closer to understanding the reason that any of it exists.  The essential fact is that no one likes to be criticized, especially not by anyone with a title, because it is essentially rejection.  But some people are frauds on one level or another, even though other frauds appreciate the fraudulence, so we have no way of separating it all, at least not satisfactorily and universally.  So maybe this was a waste of time, but hey, if you don't like it ...

It was only 2 and a half short weeks before Ian and I were discussing "construx bizness" and we pinpointed the date of Aug. 4th as the day our site took it's first little baby steps into the internet. We bounced around all kinds of ideas, and shockingly we did most of what we planned to do.

We did "celebrate with cellophane", we did our In Memoriam video where I died, Ian did one of the most insane pieces of music I have ever heard, and a job analysis critiquing each others performance doing the site. The only thing we didn't get accomplished was the 10 second video of congratulations from someone we admire. We knew it was a long shot, that our stupid little slice of the web wouldn't command any attention from anyone we held in high esteem.

After some encouraging words, Ian took on the tedious task of compiling a list of people we admire and went on the impossible journey to find and contact all of them via email. Ian got very discouraged with the level of difficulty that came with contacting our favorite people in the world. To his credit he did the job really well, but was left unfulfilled and deflated.



Now without straying far from the point, we both wondered why such the disinterest in anyone doing a small video. Was it a matter of losing perspective? Were we asking too much? We also mistook alot of empty responses as arrogance, as our discouragement grew as the days went by. Deep down inside we knew it was improbable to get anyone to do anything for us, and we moved on.

So, this past Saturday, we effectively stomped a mudhole in the hipster idol that is James Murphy, who probably isn't all that nice of a person and who I wouldn't imagine has a great sense of humor about herself, although she's more than happy to take unwitting shots at her unsuspecting fanbase, as we'll be quickly presenting below.

I mentioned during our tightly coordinated attack on Haterdays that I had much more to say about the track "Losing My Edge" in specific that would have to wait until another day with more free space. I realized, though, after one listen through the song that I didn't have it in me to pick apart the ever so subtle and sly references liberally peppered throughout and mock this excuse for a lyricist. So below is what I came up with--

I will note one other fresh point: while fans of this song think that they are distancing themselves from some pretentious group of scenesters, they themselves are the butt of the joke. They are these people, and maybe Murphy probably while (whilst) writing it thought he himself is a removed Salinger-styled observer, but the pompous license with which he presents the following is merely self-deluded and self-righteous. I guess the point is to set himself and those who leech onto ("admire") him apart as true appreciators; the irony of course being that this is a classic hipster assertion--

I have not included an mp3 of this song this week, because I don't want you wasting that much of your time. If you want to be entertained by a(n actually good) song featuring a similar delivery, I direct you here. Now, our rageful and slightly-less-focused-than-usual feature presentation:

Yeah, yknow, I was going to offer a line by line deconstruction of this song and why exactly it bugs me so much, but it would get dam repetitive, like this song. So here’s how the entire thing goes:


“Look how many obscure (and not-obscure) bands I know! Except, I’m playing a character who takes this stuff seriously. Really, people shouldn’t hang their entire identity on how ahead of the curve they are and just enjoy music because it sounds good, but to really get why this is a very clever satire on people like that, you have to know the references and why they even matter, so if you aren’t one of these people to begin with, you won’t really understand the point I’m trying to make as someone who knows a lot of people like this and also is like this to know all these references. So people who get it can feel really smart and pat themselves on the back and quote lines as inside jokes.” And then to listen to the interminable rubbish bubbling underneath his ironic drone of verbal sewage only underscores the point of how insincere this is. I happen to have a pretty strong bond to the opening instrumentation being appropriated here, as it is the same sound produced by the only equipment available to me. I cannot cannot cannot! believe how often fans of his point out the “punk” aesthetic of what he’s doing and would scoff that I don’t know what “punk” is for even contesting that. There is nothing punk or even clever behind this.  It is literal name-dropping under the veil of satire alternating with snipey comments the hipster set likes to hypocritically bust out on each other that reveal nothing new about how scenesters invest their time.


So, no, I have no analysis, and only more aggression. Let the idiots devour each other. I was there, when James Murphy was beaten up and made to wear a diaper. I was there. I’m losing my hair, to kids who obsessively need to be told what’s new and quirky and don’t understand anything less subtle than a hammer through glass panes. This isn’t art. It isn’t even interesting. Watching me rant about it isn’t even worth your time. There's so much to be said, but it's all a vamp on the the same theme. So instead...
Great Pop Things
Ad Wizards
Funk
Entertainment
ANd Of Course....

One last point, a question--Even if this were passable satire, who the hell is James Murphy?? Who is he to makes these judgments? I know someone has to, but couldn't it be someone a little more initiated or original, someone witha little more passion, someone a little less lazy? I seen him out the other day, sleepin agains a post!

Yeah, I'm losing my edge. I'm losing my edge. The kids are coming up from behind. I'm losing my edge. I'm losing my edge to the kids from France and from London. But I was there. I was there in 1968. I was there at the first Can show in Cologne. I'm losing my edge. I'm losing my edge to the kids whose footsteps I hear when they get on the decks. I'm losing my edge to the Internet seekers who can tell me every member of every good group from 1962 to 1978. I'm losing my edge. To all the kids in Tokyo and Berlin. I'm losing my edge to the art-school Brooklynites in little jackets and borrowed nostalgia for the unremembered eighties. But I'm losing my edge. I'm losing my edge, but I was there. I was there. But I was there. I'm losing my edge. I'm losing my edge. I can hear the footsteps every night on the decks. But I was there. I was there in 1974 at the first Suicide practices in a loft in New York City. I was working on the organ sounds with much patience. I was there when Captain Beefheart started up his first band. I told him, "Don't do it that way. You'll never make a dime." I was there. I was the first guy playing Daft Punk to the rock kids. I played it at CBGB's. Everybody thought I was crazy. We all know. I was there. I was there. I've never been wrong. I used to work in the record store. I had everything before anyone. I was there in the Paradise Garage DJ booth with Larry Levan. I was there in Jamaica during the great sound clashes. I woke up naked on the beach in Ibiza in 1988. But I'm losing my edge to better-looking people with better ideas and more talent. And who're actually really, really nice. I'm losing my edge. I heard you have a compilation of every good song ever done by anybody. Every great song by the The Beach Boys. All the underground hits. All the Modern Lovers tracks. I heard you have a vinyl of every Niagra record on German import. I heard that you have a white label of every seminal Detroit techno hit - 1985, '86, '87. I heard that you have a CD compilation of every good '60s cut and another box set from the '70s. I hear you're buying a synthesizer and an arpeggiator and are throwing your computer out the window because you want to make something real. You want to make a Yaz record. I hear that you and your band have sold your guitars and bought turntables. I hear that you and your band have sold your turntables and bought guitars. I hear everybody that you know is more relevant than everybody that I know. But have you seen my records? This Heat, Pere Ubu, Outsiders, Nation of Ulysses, Mars, The Trojans, The Black Dice, Todd Terry, The Germs, Section 25, Althea and Donna, Sexual Harrassment, a-ha, Pere Ubu, Dorothy Ashby, PIL, the Fania All-Stars, the Bar-Kays, The Human League, the Normal, Lou Reed, Scott Walker, Monks, Niagra,Joy Division, Lower 48, The Association, Sun Ra,Scientists, Royal Trux, 10cc, Eric B. and Rakim, Index, Basic Channel, Soulsonic Force ("just hit me"!), Juan Atkins, David Axelrod, Electric Prunes, Gil! Scott! Heron!, the Slits, Faust, Mantronix, Pharaoh Sanders and the Fire Engines, the Swans, the Soft Cell, The Sonics, the Sonics, the Sonics, the Sonics. You don't know what you really want.

   
                      

I was originally going to do something totally different for my Tuesday post, but this captivated me this morning and I thought I would share it with you all. This story is about Anonymous.

Anonymous way under hat budget this quarter.

Possibly the man behind the "anonymous" joke.

December of 2010 brought national news again with the attention a sight called wikileaks 
came under intense pressure to shut down their site due to them publishing sensitive information from the US government. Anonymous publicly showed support for the site, and founder Julian Assange praising for the passing of information, that is everyone's right to have access to. When Julian was arrested in London on December 8th, Anonymous shut down Visa, Mastercard, Amazon, Paypal, and the Swiss Bank PostFinance. Doesn't get any bigger than that. Wikileaks stayed healthy, and vivarant.

Wiki-leaks censorship from Zimbabwe, Tunsia, were all dealt with attacks shutting down their websites for unnecessary censorship.

In February of 2010 a company called HBGary Federal claimed to have infiltrated the Anonymous group, and that instead of releasing details to the police, founder Aaron Barr said he will release his information in a conference taking place in San Francisco. That smug bitich! Anonymous was not pleased: