no, i don't want to fall in love
no, i don't want to fall in love
with hoth
with hoth

what a wicked game you play
to make me feel this way
what a wicked thing to do
to let me dream of you
what a wicked thing to say
you never felt this way
what a wicked thing to do
to make me dream of you
and i don't wanna fall in love
and i don't wanna fall in love
with hoth

world was on fire
no one could save me but you
strange what desire will make foolish people do
i never dreamed that i'd love somebody like you
i never dreamed that i'd lose somebody like you

no i don't wanna fall in love
no i don't wanna fall in love
with hoth

nobody loves no one

far across the distance
and spaces between us
hoss has come to show hoss goes on

near, far, wherever hoss are
i believe that the heart does go on
once more hoss opens the door
and you're here in my heart
and my heart will go on and on

love can touch us one time
and last for a lifetime
and never go till we're gone

love was when i loved hoss
one true time i hold to
in my life we'll always go on

near, far, wherever hoss are
i believe that the heart does go on
once more hoss opens the door
and you're here in my heart
and my heart will go on and on

you're here, there's nothing i fear,
and i know that my heart will go on
we'll stay forever this way
hoss are safe in my heart
and my heart will go on and on

ahem.


she was more like a beauty queen from a movie scene
i said don't mind, but what do you mean i am the one
who will dance on the floor in the round
she said i am the one, who will dance on the floor in the round

she told me her name was hoss reinsteen, as she caused a scene
then every head turned with eyes that dreamed of being the one
who will dance on the floor in the round

people always told me be careful of what you do
and don't go around breaking young girls' hearts
and mother always told me be careful of who you love
and be careful of what you do 'cause the lie becomes the truth

hoss reinsteen is not my lover
she's just a girl who claims that i am the one
but the kid is not my son
she says i am the one, but the kid is not my son

for forty days and for forty nights
the law was on her side
but who can stand when she's in demand
her schemes and plans
'cause we danced on the floor in the round
so take my strong advice, just remember to always think twice

she told my baby we'd danced till three, then she looked at me
then showed a photo my baby cried his eyes were like mine
'cause we danced on the floor in the round, baby

people always told me be careful of what you do
and don't go around breaking young girls' hearts
she came and stood right by me
then the smell of sweet perfume
this happened much too soon
she called me to her room

(chorus)

to illustrate what i mean, take a piano. any piano. then pick a key on that piano and hit it with some amount of force, and hold the note for an arbitrary amount of time. there, you've composed a bit of music. a very simplistic bit of music, but it'll serve.

now repeat the experiment above, but this time adding another tone—either in parallel or in series—again arbitrarily. the complexity of our musical composition has increased by some factor due to the larger number of options (number of piano keys, plus the volume and duration of the incremental tone) we have added with the additional strike.

continue in this manner, evaluating with each additional strike of the keys whether the piece (a) continues to build toward, or (b) has achieved a "sufficiently artistic" (definition t.b.d.) end. if neither, alter something about what you've done or add a new note. if (a), repeat. if (b), halt. see? it's an algorithm (emphasis on the 'rithm' OMG LOL).

you must agree with me that there is some theoretical maximum human endurance for absorption—four hours? ish?—of a single musical work, no matter its beauty, and given the limits of the number of keys available on a standard piano (most have just the eighty-eight), of human fingers both in quantity (most have just the ten) and in key-striking speed measured in notes per second (fifty at a sprint? shot in the dark). also, we must assume that to human ears there is neither an uncountably infinite spectrum of volumes (you can't tell the difference between 76.393 dB and 76.394 dB no matter who you are, you pretentious audiophile) nor an uncountably infinite spectrum of tone durations (ibid., 38.08 ms and 38.09 ms).

if you grant me my assumptions, it follows that the theoretical number of works of music that can be composed is countable, which is to say, given a sufficiently long amount of time and a sufficiently large amount of humans willing to slog through them, we'll write them all. sooner or later, any interesting tune you can hum will have already been composed, and you'll be in violation of someone's copyright.

the empyrean, by john frusciante. if you can afford it, buy it; if not, beg/borrow/steal it.

this album is style with substance, effing sublime, and—as he claims—is best served loudly in a dark room.

i have this thing—this … this condition, if you will—one of the symptoms (though whether this is a symptom or the disease itself is possibly a matter of debate, but i'll leave that alone) of which is that i am not a big-picture person. i understand things by breaking them down into bits as small as possible, and comparing these smashed-up tiny bits against what i already know. it's quite an involved process and i'll spare you the details, mostly because i don't know them. save us both some time and just label me a deductive reasoner; it's a shortcut but it'll do for our purposes.

i'm getting to the point. the above-referenced album by my uncle roger is what they call a 'concept album,' and follows a meandering—and at times, apparently aimless—path, by assumption: it models the dreams of a married middle-aged man, in real time.

under this assumption, it's no surprise that the entire album is disjointed, incomprehensible, and apparently aimless. but only when you consider the parts, independently of the whole. seriously: read the lyrics for the entire album, and you'll see what i mean. but the whole! ah, the whole. as the last track clicked into place for the first time, i was actually close to crying. actually misty-eyed. for the first time, i saw the world as the other half saw it. and yes, i'm talking about you, you bizarre opaque inductive types.

i'm still getting to the point. as opposite as my brain and this album apparently are, i love it, and cannot get enough of it. everything i am, it is not, and vice versa. maybe this is a case of opposites attract? i can't figure it out.

the point is this: i have no bloody idea what the point is; i just want you to listen to the album, and maybe you'll understand me one quantum more.


p.s. the first ninety seconds of track two. i implore you, go forth, trusting me, into the musical bliss that awaits you.

this particular second monday started very early with a dream. in this particular dream i was a close personal friend of elliott smith.

elliott smith, it turns out, is a regular guy. i know this because i lived next door to him, and we were mates. he had legos on his bedroom floor, fantasy books on his shelves, an old home-built computer on the desk, a playstation under the television, outdated glasses. a card-carrying geek, if so unimaginative an epithet may be ascribed. he had a set of utterly loving parents and a cat who knew her name.

of course, elliott smith is no longer living in the strictest sense of the word, though this didn't keep him from speaking with me throughout the dream. and listen when i say that he's just like me. in fact, all throughout the dream, he didn't say a single thing that i myself wouldn't have said, were i in his position. the entire experience was eerily similar to talking to myself. i know what this is like because i do it most of the time.

i've long given up on the theory that dreams mean anything, but think about it this way: a good novel is one that lies to tell you the truth.

i'm trying to say something here, i just don't know what. it's been quite a long time since i wrote directly about a dream because it's a pretty cheap source of words, invariably flippant, ridiculous, meaningless, and meritless. it should, then, be regarded as a telling thing when it is about just such a dream that i now write, after such a long hiatus*. exactly why it is telling i leave as an exercise for the reader (hints are red herrings: there are multiple solutions).

*hiatus n. period of laziness. see also: respite, suspension, you have become a boring person

my plan is to find a suitable hypno-meditation track, slice it up into very small bits, then rearrange the bits into ridiculous hilarity laced with subliminal messages of blatant greed.


i've already downloaded a couple to get me started:

deepak chopra - stop procrastinating and start speed reading all of deepak chopra's books.mp3

reiki - sounds of nature - kittens falling on cedars.mp3

alan greenspan - the_resolution_of_our_current_account_deficit_and_household_debt_
burdens_does_not_strike_me_as_overly_worrisome_but_that_is_certainly_not_the_case_for_
our_fiscal_deficit_which_according_to_the_congressional_budget_office_will_rise_significantly_
as_the_baby_boomers_start_to_retire_in_2008_our_fiscal_prospects_are_in_my_judgment_a_
significant_obstacle_to_long_term_stability_because_the_budget_deficit_is_not_readily_subject_
to_correction_by_market_forces_that_stabilize_other_imbalances_(ADVANCE)_BY_M@ddog.mp3


the internet is our collective muse.

but, as they say, one doesn't need a million dollars to do that.

this little music fixation of mine is not wholly without benefit. i know more about my music than the average man knows about his very existence. for some ignorant reason you look at me as though that were a bad thing; look away immediately, but do listen:


nine inch nails - the hand that feeds, c. 2:07
trent got me to thinking about this topic. this moment is about pure buildup, then some more buildup, and finally a very satisfying delivery. like tasting the first bite of your favorite meal, the aromas of which have been wafting out of the kitchen for half an hour.

beck - ghettochip malfunction; c. 2:19
ibidem. we have a winner, and the winner is the speak-and-spell.

john frusciante - carvel; 0:00-1:56
ibidem. johnny! johnny, come back! don't fade out yet! oh thank you, thank you! you big tease, you are the buildup king.

bic runga - gravity; c. 0:28
delayed subtle bass intros are winning. regarding this song, my college newspaper music critic agreed with me, in very specific ways.

led zeppelin - stairway to heaven; 5:33-6:44
in a word, incendiary. i missed, and miss, the seventies.

björk - joga; 0:00-0:31, 1:11-1:18, and 1:59-2:31
count them: three. … though more correctly, i just can't decide which is best. so just consider the whole song to be a best very long moment.

fire set fire - the takeover; 0:00-0:18
i have a fever, and the only prescription is more loud dirty bass. fire set fire, you are the best medicine.

gorillaz - all alone; 1:57-2:56
this is a highly subjective moment, dripping with total emotional resonance. in this moment i am naked and manly in a national forest with you, and the monolith has touched our minds, and we throw bones into the air and they turn into spaceships two million years in the future. in seven seconds i am the star-child.

elliott smith - color bars; 1:25-1:49
another moment of total emotional resonance. in this moment i am in a 1978 chevrolet nova—purring the way a tiger purrs—with you, doing eighty, backs to everything, directly into the rising desert sun.

radiohead - like spinning plates; 3:22-fin
this song ends amazingly well which requires i turn the end way up, part i.

missy higgins - they weren't there; 3:43-fin
part ii.

meat loaf - objects in the rear view mirror; 9:39-fin
part iii.

elliott smith - can't make a sound; 2:20-fin
part iv. fade to bliss.

also. remember how i listen to carefully crafted vibrations in the air? it's a thing i was doing today. and by random, the song 'mai' by loudermilk came on. it mentions, specifically, the sixteenth day of may. tell me itunes is not sentient. tell me! tell me! you lie.

yeah. barbra effing streisand. thanks a lot, mom.