Demos: Painting By Numbers

This is a really early demo, the issues, I heard, was supposed to come out today but didn't because the editors wanted to have a week off when school started. Okay. So, here's something you'll see later on next week. The song is the first track off of Marathon's self-titled record. It would also, sadly, be their last. Listen to more Marathon here.


When ex-Governor Blagojevich was indicted, the response from my Illinois-native friends was swift, but this was telling: The one that seemed most prescient said "You know, I always thought the mayor would be indicted first." Knowledge is power, as we've learned in Saturday morning cartoons and any mafia movie ever, but that doesn't entirely describe Chicago. Yes, where's mine might be the mantra of City Hall, but the reason why the big politicians have stayed big in Chicago is not just because of the machine, but the most important detail is what they recuse themselves from.
It's incredibly bold for Burris to accept now-arrested governor's appointment, but to say that God spoke to the governor to appoint Burris goes beyond staggering self-importance and into messiah complex territory. Burris, as we all know, is a raging egomaniac, but he's also a pragmatic one, comparing Harry Reid and the Senate Democrats, whom he wishes to join, to famous Southern racists. Classy.
Not much remains to be said about the now-arrested governor (protesting too much, odd behavior patterns that make the viewer ask: cocaine?, bad haircut, etc), except that this, as everyone from Illinois knows, is the tip of the iceberg. A juicy little tidbit (I think I got this from the Daily Show) is that Representative Bobby Rush has backed Burris' appointment, saying that it was an imperative that a black man remain in the Senate. The statement was plenty distasteful and transparent, but made more so by the fact that Rush, when given the opportunity, backed the white incumbent that President-Elect Barack Obama unseated when he had the choice earlier this decade.
Speaking of which, the idea that Obama (or anyone from his campaign) is wrapped up with Blagojevich is laughable. Anyone politically cognizant in Illinois has known this guy was radioactive since 2006 and the idea that his phones were tapped should not surprise those same people.
The fact that he might actually be my state's next senator is concerning, but I have a lot of faith that the voters of Illinois, myself included, will kick his ass out the first chance we get. That is the genius and madness of the American political system. Problem is, Burris is more of the second and significantly less of the first.

WHOA WHOA WHOA HOLD UP

Gentle readers, observe as our corpse spasms grotesquely, another gurgling breath drawn into the wet and sinewy pile of smoking gristle that once served as our lungs. Be not aghast at our undead respiration, instead, we beg only that you watch onward with the clinical detachment of a Victorian corpse-thief, or perhaps some kind of modern insurance adjuster.

What a world! Gas is cheap, and there are some decent bands around now. Also, did we miss a chance to gush over Obama? We did! Hooray for Obama!

One cannot help but make lists (lists!) of the life-altering events that happen in one's life. First and foremost, the fall of Communism. Secondly, 9/11. Thirdly, Obama is elected. The common thread through these isn't hard to piece together - people coming together. The Berlin Wall brought a sense of completeness, of an end to the fractious and childish nature of the Cold war. September Eleventh brought people together in the most dire way possible, made us huddle together for warmth in the face of not just an uncaring universe, but one that is actually subtly menacing. And Obama is, in many ways, the coda to 9/11, the antidote to almost a decade of Bush-era big-brother tactics, a man promising to unite an entire country, instead of a neo-con babbler, taking perverse glee in alienating themselves further and further from anything resembling a conscientious citizen.

My great burden is that I am trained to see things in a literary sense - my eyes strain to trace the arc of rising action of the bildungsroman of Obama, of the tragic presidency of George W. Bush, the Prospero of our Tempest, begging us to free him from the island of history with our applause.

Whoa, how's that for a shitty metaphor?

Anyway. The difficulty with this biz-ness is that reality doesn't serve as a cohesive arc, or rather, that it's too cohesive. We are all the main characters of our own lives, so that makes it hard to achieve any kind of clinical separation needed in order to analyze a given work. Maybe if we could achieve it, we'd unlock our chakras and turn into buddhas - isn't that what enlightenment is, after all? Rising above the cycle of constant rebirth and involvement, and just sorta chillin' out?

This is all a silly and meandering thing. Suffice it to say, there will be more silly and meandering posts later. Hopefully, less self-indulgent. But probably not! Elevennames hooray!

The giant clown gloves on my hands are merely proof of my devotion.

Hello, gentle readers.

I realize that the staple rule of all internet interaction is not to feed the troll, but sometimes something so incalculably brilliant appears that you simply have to toss the slavering beast a few scraps. Behold Hitch Bitch. Perhaps the most erudite 15-year-old nihilist on the entire staff of Vanity Fair (take that, Kendrick Darkrayven) will even get his comeuppance. If reading the New Yorker has taught me anything, and it hasn't, it's that college professors often have nothing better to do other than think up zingers in response to the things that they read.

Because they are nerds, Lebowski.

Anyway, I apologize for my absence (I'm certain you were tres desolee) but I had stuff to do. Like go west of the Allegheny River, to Columbus, Oheeyo. It is a strange land, full of bars and sex shops and then more bars and then more sex shops and then! Aldi's! LET'S RENT SOME DAMN SHOPPING CARTS! The entire state seems to be riddled with Arby's and Cracker Barrels, too, so if you've got a hankering for biscuits or roast beef, allow me to merely point the way middle-west. Though if Ohio is the mid-west, does that make Pennsylvania the mid-east? Or are the mid-Atlantic states simply content to exist as they are (Mid-Atlanticism), proudly being neither southern nor western? Oh H E double hockeysticks, we already passed up that theme week, didn't we?

One of the greatest vices I indulge in is political bickering. For the record, I don't especially hate any candidate this year - I've spent the adultier-third of my lifespan in open protestation to our president and his baby-eating party, so you can understand if I am somewhat bewildered with McCain, and how I agree with some of his policies. We are presented with a candidate that is not a raging douchebag from the Republicans. Likewise, spend-o-crat side, we have Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton, who both deviate from the Old Evil White Male stereotype significantly. What is going on, America? Like season 4 of Project Runway, there is no clear-cut villain. Which is partially why things are interesting to me. Like, I am happy no matter what happens.

So I suppose I can only really support whichever candidate proposes catapult the aforementioned Christopher Hitchens into the sea, perhaps to be followed by Tom Delillo or the Bizarro version of Gabriel Garcia Marquez (who I imagine is actually George Bush Jr.). I mean, since Ron Paul basically slid away with his tail between his legs, and since Mike Fucking Gravel has evaporated like the ethereal being he ran as, we have very few (openly) madmen with which to entrust the title of Chief Executive. Logically, we must then make them mad.

Their public nature will be the first stepping stone. They want our vote? They must do little things at first - provide sound bites, pose with the elderly or the frowny or the ugly. Barack Obama must perform a handstand to prove his presidential character, and Hillary Clinton must eat ten banana pies. McCain must enter the Chute of Shoes, and find ten matching pairs within five minutes. Little fokesy things! To prove how connected they are with the people. Soon things are stepped up a notch. Perhaps someone boxes a kangaroo, or even wanders through a maze of mirrors with several body doubles and wax duplicates. Eventually, they will wear clothing made of grape jell-o and write backwards, or perhaps unicycle on elephants. Really, it could be anything, because what I'm proposing here is not just delightful whimsy. I will vote for any candidate who wants my vote so badly that they sacrifice their dignity and sanity.

Is it a lot to ask for? Certainly. But this is hedonism week (for like, negative two days now?) and I am feeling haughty. And I tire of candidates who are willing to talk and debate and blah blah blah. Give us a show. America is the next Roman Empire, so why bother pretending that it isn't? Our decadence could burn so bright that it casts a shadow for centuries to come, instead of just burning guiltily behind closed doors.

BONUS CONTENT:
You may have been aware of your own suffering enough last Friday to notice a lack of Krazy Kwotes. I have heard benediction, and relief comes swiftly.

Hola!

Hello, Cathleen Kennedy here, the newest contributor to this often humorous, frequently political (when James is writing), sometimes existential, and always serious forum we call elevennames.

When Thomas mentioned that he, Zach, and James had a blog, and that they were looking for other people to write every now and again my first thought was “well why not? Its not like I have lots to do this semester . . . . besides my senior project”. (which is sort of a big deal at our school) So now I am using this incredibly reputable blog as a tool for procrastination, by once a week subjecting you people out there in internet land to my opinions, ideas, and random digressions of thought.

What else is there to say? I like history, but nothing more recent than about 200 years ago. I often times work on plays both at school and in community theaters, usually in some kind of sewing or costuming capacity. I know three other languages besides English, and am in general very academically focused. And I enjoy nerdery of all varieties.

Oh, and I have no idea who I am voting for this coming election, because while I care about the future of our country, I know I will probably end up voting for the democratic candidate, no matter who they are. *sigh*

Now I am frantically casting around for a ghost story so I can be cool like the other kids and fit in for theme week . . . . I am actually incredibly interested in that sort of stuff, but am not sure if I should come up with some kind of vague, but real story like Zach, or just retell one of my favorites.

This is a semi true incident that combines something that actually happened with a ghost story I was told in Scotland and a conclusion that was provided by a friend to whom I was retelling the story:

In 1348 the Black Death or Bubonic Plague as it is called now, had reached Scotland. By this time the disease had been moving northward through Europe for a year and a half. In the capital, Edinburgh, people heard reports of the huge death toll in other cities. In Paris there were reports of over 400 people dying every day, not to mention the fact that it was said that entire villages could die over night. There seemed to be no way of stopping the horrible, painful death that came to everyone who caught this plague.

Then the disease somehow managed to breach the city’s walls. The first person infected was only a peasant, but the rest of the population, both rich and poor knew that with in days they too could be part of the epidemic that had swept across Europe. So the next night the city officials paid the brick layers to seal up the street on which the infected person lived. The inhabitance of the unlucky street woke up to find 12 foot tall brick walls had been erected at either end of their road shutting in both in the infected inhabitant and several families of healthy people.

Over the subsequent weeks the people in the surrounding area could hear the screams and the pleas of the people trapped with in the walls, as more and more of them became infected and others simply died of starvation. It is said that the residence of Edinburgh invented ear muffs, so they wouldn’t have to be consistently tortured by the horrible sound of their neighbors dying. Of course, there was no way of dealing with the stench. The bodies of the dead began to pile up because there was no way to dispose of them, and soon even those outside the walls could not ignore the horrible smell of rotting corpses that wafted from the walled up street.

Eventually the people inside the walls grew silent, and after about two months, the city officials decided that if everyone who lived there was dead (and they surely were by this time), then they could clean out the houses and resell them. There was only one man brave enough to enter the corpse infested street, a butcher. He brought his knives and a wheelbarrow and went systematically through the houses chopping the dead into manageable pieces and then disposing of the body parts. It took him three weeks of hard work, but in the end the houses were ready to be resold.

However, everyone who lived in one who has lived in those house between the 14th century and now has reported seeing dismembered body parts lying around their homes at some point or another accompanied by a horrible smell and sometimes ghostly screaming.

And now you know the horrible truth about earmuffs.

For another fun ghost story listen to this

ITT: POLITICS LOL

"I took a class on Internet and Identity and you know what the whole thesis of the class was that people's identities change when their real one is shielded by the computer" - Tionna Smalls

Remember how, not five minutes ago, I stated my general displeasure with presidential candidates? Well, I am fickle and addle-brained. Cast your third eye (that's the internet eye) upon this twilight monstrosity, which is basically Ron Paul doing what Ron Paul does best, which is to say, be a crazy, lovable bastard. Mike Gravel is similar. Okay, okay. I give. I admit it that, for once, I was... slightly hasty in my judgment. We are sons of Adam - we are fallible. Let us forget that it ever happened. I endorse any candidate, any candidate at all, who is willing to basically flip the bird to the mass of the gathered republican party, dismiss them for the wastrels that they are, screams "FOLLOW ME IF YOU WANT TO LIVE", and then leaps into the dinosaur-infested jungles, with a machete clutched between his teeth.

In short - hey, time travelers, if you're reading this, can you steal some kind of tangent universe Teddy Roosevelt to be our forever president? We'd totally owe you a solid.

Anyway, I bring this up not because I am suddenly ALL POLITICAL or whatevs, but because of YouTube. And to a lesser extent, Myspace. And to an even lesser extent, Fa-che-bewk. And their presence, and impact on modern culture, or whatever. You see, I was perusing this this unbelievably patronizing article about Kate Nash, a songstress of which I am fond, and the author brings up the good point that exposure is slowly becoming a substitute for quality, which, if you were able to decipher my terrible prose, is kinda what I've been saying all along. But it's cool. I mean, Sasha Frere-Jones, as an author, is at least marginally better than I am (remember when he said that indy music wasn't influenced by black culture? By citing the effing Arcade Fire? Yeah, man's not too hep, but it's not like the New Yorker is really with-it anyway) and hell, the dude can have his opinions or whatever. But on the point of exposure, he and I are of one mind. Which is partially what is so amusee about the current presidential race - that the standards to which we hold our pop star lady-types are actually quite a bit higher than the standards to which we hold the Executive Branch. In a way, the race to become president is less a matter of politics, and more a matter of simple celebrity. Whomsoever can make of themselves the most visible spectacle without being viewed as a dangerous madman (or at least a dangerous madman who won't let them queers get married) is going to be a winner. Which is perhaps why figures like Ron Paul and Mike Fucking Gravel (and, okay, I guess Obama is still kinda like this) favorites of the internet - they are identified as the underdogs. As surely as any real fan of music would spit contemptuously on a scion of Nickelback or Limp Bizkit (or Maroon Five or Daughtry or Li'l Wayne or Brittany Spears or...), so too does the discriminating voter wrathfully ponder who in their right mind would vote for Giuliani or Mitt Romney. There's just nothing there - an empty showcase of questionable achievements and corporate backing. In an age where exposure is increasingly becoming the the most important facet of any political movement (at least the non-Masonic ones), choosing the right candidate is not so much a matter of politics as it is one of good taste.

In that, the internet has created a sort of Blogger Brahmins, an elite caste of intelligent individuals, broadcasting the refined opinion, and formed loosely into tiny coalitions of like minded thinkers (except for us - we are far too hateful to ever have a links section). Our choice of presidential candidate, then, becomes part of our online cosmetics, our intellectual appearance. So too are we able to judge others based upon where their own proclivities lie. It becomes a matter of dangerously inbred little cliques who make choices not so much based on moral duty than controlling how they wish to be perceived. I am a freak in a schadenfreud complex with the republican party. Ron Paul all the way! I can see similar reasoning behind Zach's fondness for Mike Fucking Gravel and James's's Obama endorsement (of the three, which do you think stands the most chance of making it into the white house? HMMMM!).

I am glad that I vocally disagree with my comrades. I would not enjoy the thought that myself and all of my friends think the same way about any issue (and we are also able to almost always refrain from facestabbing each other with butter knives). There is enough groupthink and cronyism at large amidst what is arguably the largest audience ever devised - having massive appeal is no indicator of actual quality, as Sasha Frere-Jones states, and in the face of a future where everyone has their fifteen minutes of YouTube fame, we have to be aware of the debasements and personal sacrifices that come alongside the glories of wtf-ever kind of new metaverse is being shilled at us this week. Ha ha, run-on sentences. Okay. I am a grump and hate the future. THOMAS CARLYLE OUT~