Or more accurately, a list of online identities to spitefully assign to your classmates as you magnanimously tolerate the text version of their vacuous mental excretion .
Identity #1: compulsive laugher.
These personalities swarm the internet, occasionally interrupting you even when your status is set to "busy" or "away". Watch out for their arsenal of lols, which they fire at you incessantly, in worst cases driving thee to thine grave. For this reason we assign them the code name of "The Grin".
Sample conversation:
The Grin: hi der
Magnanimously Tolerant Intellectual: I wasn't named after a pronoun
TG: lol
*pause*
TG: wots up?
MTI: According to earth's gravitational field, and relative to one's own position, the direction that the sky is in
TG: lol
- Please note that laughter so frequent is generally characteristic of severe dementia. Indeed, only the severely demented do not know of geographical directions so basic as "up".
TG: wot you doin rite now?
MTI: I am currently typing these words
TG: lol
MTI: stop laughing
TG: lol
MTI: no, really, it's annoying
TG: lol
TG: I'm crazy
TG: lol
MTI (experimentally): lol
TG: ROTFL
MTI: ROTFL
TG: hahaha, so u get it?
MTI: hahaha, no
TG: lol
And at this point the MTI resists a very powerful urge to call up bannarghatta zoo and tell it that a hyena has escaped.
Identity #2: The Bitch
Pure pedigrees, too. Read it and see for yourself.
TB: hiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!
MTI: hello
TB: omg, Insertname's such a bitch!
MTI: ah.
TB: like, yesterday, she cpied all mi aswrs in french clss, and all she sed ws like "thnx" n den she woked off!
MTI: maybe she had to use to loo.
TB: huh ya thats lik sooooo convenient!
MTI: yes, bathrooms are a beloved convenience of civilized society
TB: o btw cn u rite lik the english essay fr me? pleeeez!
MTI: no.
TB: o cmon pleeez! s mi frnd's bday tmrw n I hve to make a crd!
MTI: It's my grandaunt's death anniversary tomorrow and I have to stitch a dress.
TB: o cmon
MTI: no
TB: k I g2g n dont frget da essay k? thnx bi
Indentity #3: The Doofus
Caused either by excessive chatting or masculinity. Cannot comprehend subtlety, cannot comprehend references to previous lines. These entities are so common that software engineers are using them as models for AI software that will automatically handle unwanted instant messangers. Sample code looks somewhat like this:
DO CASE (chatstatement)
CASE chatstatement IS_EMOTIONAL
PRINT RESPONSE "I feel bad for u"
CASE chatstatement IS_A_QUESTION
PRINT RESPONSE "I dunno"
CASE chatstatement IS_ A_QUESTION_THAT_I_REALLY_DON'T_KNOW
PRINT RESPONSE "I guess"
CASE chatstatement CONTINUES_THE_LINE_JUST_ABOVE_IT
PRINT RESPONSE "wot r u toking about?"
CASE chatstatement IS_A_NORMAL_STATEMENT
PRINT RESPONSE "cool"
CASE chatstatement MAKES_NO_SENSE_WHATSOEVER
STORE chatstatement TO mustbeajoke; PRINT RESPONSE "hahaha"
CASE chatstatement IS_NONE_OF_THE_ABOVE
DO METHOD FIZZLE_BRAIN; PRINT RESPONSE "i g2g, mi mums rily mad | il ttyl, bi!"
ENDCASE
Needless to say, the doofus is notoriously difficult to make conversation with. Take the following sample:
MTI: I watched a movie today:
TD: cool
*pause*
MTI: It wasn't a very good movie
TD: I feel bad for u
MTI: You do?
TD: I dunno
MTI: No, seriously, do you actually feel bad that I watched a movie so terrible you haven't even mustered the courage to ask about its name?
TD: I guess
MTI: Oh, what's that which just whizzed past your head? Oh, I think it was The Point!
TD: hahaha
MTI: There it goes again!
TD: wot r u talking about?
MTI: The Point
TD: wot point?
MTI: never mind
TD: cool
MTI: What do you want to be when you graduate?
TD: dunno
MTI: come on, you must have some idea, right?
TD: I guess
MTI: You do? Then maybe you should become a fortune teller.
TD: wot r u toking about?
MTI: Oh no, not this again!
TD: wot r u talking about?
MTI: the imminence of the apocalypse
TD: hahaha
*pause*
MTI: You are something, you know?
TD: I dunno
MTI(experimentally): Linear B
TD: hahaha
*pause*
MTI: bob?
TD: cool
MTI: let's have you ask me a question
*crunchcrunchcrunch* *fizzle*
TD: k i g2g, mi mums rily mad
MTI: really? I hear it's hereditary.
TD: il ttyl, bi!
Identity #4: Mia
This identity is directly inspired by a friend of mine who is…excitable, shall we say? Little introduction is necessary, but visualization certainly makes the dialogue more interesting. Picture a bunny that is mostly normal, although a bit red-faced about the hypocrisy of Russia’s foreign policy, and that Fred Fox took its carrot.
MTI: Hi Mia
MIA: Hello
MTI: Doing anything productive?
MIA: I was hoping to practice a speech I wrote for Tuesday.
MTI: Oh, well, you know what they say: The drearier your speech, the harder the applause when you're done.
MIA: Who's they?
MTI: Um, the voices in my head, Mia.
MIA: You should tell someone.
MTI: What? Mia, I was joking! Quit analyzing!
MIA: I see. So they is just a pronoun inserted to make the sentence grammatically accurate.
MTI: um, I suppose so.
*pause*
MTI: So, what else are you doing online?
MIA: Joining a random online organization.
MTI: Good god, Mia, you should never go in for those! The next thing you know you'll be receiving random emails from your long-lost half-brother.
MIA: You know my long-lost half brother?
MTI: What? No! I meant the emails would claim to be from your long-lost half brother!
MIA: So I have a long-lost half brother out there and people write emails claiming to be him
MTI: No, I mean, people claim that you have a long-lost half brother and claim to be him.
MIA: Ah.
*pause*
MIA: Who are these people?
MTI (giving up): They live in Jamaica. Their names are bob.
MIA: YOU KNOW THEM?
MTI: Mia, I am one of them.
MIA: WHAT?!
MTI: I write to people claiming to be your half-brother. He does exist, actually.
MIA: HE DOES?!!!
MTI: We keep him tied up in the cellar and feed him chicken soup the whole day.
MIA: YOU CRUEL, CRUEL PERSON!!!
MTI: Mia, calm. I was joking.
MIA: WHAT?
MTI: joke(n.): A mischievous trick; a prank.
- I never find out how the conversation ends; Mia always blocks me around now.
-Avanti Shrikumar
e mërkurë, 20 qershor 2007
What's in a name? (the editorial of our first issue)
The White Crayon. There are too many predictable reactions to such a name that would be written all over countenances. There are the self-convinced intellectuals seeking a deeper meaning in life who would squint at the bold letters and blink too frequently, stroking their chins and conjuring up multiple ambiguous implicit meanings to what the object could personify. There are those who would raise an eyebrow and sneer at the sheer stupidity of it all, savouring one more attempt, like all the other newspapers that are starting to be a bore, to ridicule, along with the title. And there are those who might just simply shrug their shoulders and ignore the posters and sparse issues and go their own way, immersed in their own worlds, irrespective of how much of it is real and how much a creation of their minds (who wouldn't or shouldn't be reading this). Alright, your eyes could already be skimming my dismissed words because of the stereotypes I've decided to use and possibly sound convinced of, but it all elicits that the question in response to something like "The White Crayon" would be WHY?
What if the title of our venture into the literary realm was simply stated, without any explanation whatsoever? Stated, printed, brusque, with the convenient use of a period. It could be said that the title is The White Crayon and just is, the words emerging from someone's mouth impulsively. Can such an answer be accepted? Hardly. The spontaneity of everything has long been forgotten, invariably tainted by some sort of thought or deliberation. That cocoon of comfortable complacency is never allowed to exist anymore. It is constantly prodded and eventually wrenched open by some manifestation of criticism, forced to unravel its flaws, which is of course the delicious subject of those analysts. This leads to the timeless argument questioning whether ignorance is blissful or not, and reminds me of a line in one of Sir Oscar Wilde's plays: "Ignorance is like a delicate exotic fruit; touch it and the bloom is gone."
You could easily say that such a manner to choose the name "The White Crayon" exhibits the lack of thought or the ability to perceive, that such a name lacking effort simply foreshadows a journal with the same lack of erudition. I myself would probably do the same. It is rather disappointing though, that in our generation our minds are, by our own will and instigated by parents, teachers, and our wonderful environment, accelerated possibly overwhelmingly past the phase of innocence and the ability to simply accept without incessant criticism of everything. Thus, for the majority of us who are either not enlightened enough to simply accept The White Crayon without any doubt, or feel that we all have the right to question and criticize and should, here are a few possible interpretations that come to mind with regard to the title of our journal.
Simplistically, one can discern that out of all the colours in a box of crayons, white is the most unused one. It almost unarguably retains its pointiness compared to all the other crayons worn down by enthusiasm, and is hardly even acknowledged. So "The White Crayon" could be referring to invisibility, something we all experience, some enjoying it and some dreading it. Perhaps our journal encourages all of those who are perfectly alright in their unnoticed state, possibly like myself, to leave their safe, invisible zones where their work is only appreciated and criticized by their own minds, and try becoming a colour for once to the world. Which brings about another well-known debate- does someone's art, in any form, need to be exposed to everyone? Does it require praise and recognition, as well as analysis? Or can it be safely stored in the recess of your own mind? Our literary journal serves, in one light, as an experiment: to see if sharing all our gifts of art benefit any of us, to test whether any are deserving to see our talents whatsoever. At least it is a test for myself.
Is it a question of confidence? To this day, at sixteen, I can freely admit I still do not have some sort of established reassurance within myself that I am good enough. We all know there will always be those who excel beyond your reach, who can either motivate you to compete or simply reinforce your sense of resignation, shattering any definition of "good enough". But supposing there is a standard that you feel is satisfying enough, can or should we be reassured at all, if it is self-proclaimed? Or must it be confirmed by someone else?
Before it gets to be too much, I'll stop the Pandora's box of spilling questions. One can easily see that all of this does not simply deal with why the hell we named the paper "The White Crayon". It conveniently served as the first domino to knock over a series of hurried questions. Let's just see if The White Crayon provides some kind of answer.
-Amrita Mishra
What if the title of our venture into the literary realm was simply stated, without any explanation whatsoever? Stated, printed, brusque, with the convenient use of a period. It could be said that the title is The White Crayon and just is, the words emerging from someone's mouth impulsively. Can such an answer be accepted? Hardly. The spontaneity of everything has long been forgotten, invariably tainted by some sort of thought or deliberation. That cocoon of comfortable complacency is never allowed to exist anymore. It is constantly prodded and eventually wrenched open by some manifestation of criticism, forced to unravel its flaws, which is of course the delicious subject of those analysts. This leads to the timeless argument questioning whether ignorance is blissful or not, and reminds me of a line in one of Sir Oscar Wilde's plays: "Ignorance is like a delicate exotic fruit; touch it and the bloom is gone."
You could easily say that such a manner to choose the name "The White Crayon" exhibits the lack of thought or the ability to perceive, that such a name lacking effort simply foreshadows a journal with the same lack of erudition. I myself would probably do the same. It is rather disappointing though, that in our generation our minds are, by our own will and instigated by parents, teachers, and our wonderful environment, accelerated possibly overwhelmingly past the phase of innocence and the ability to simply accept without incessant criticism of everything. Thus, for the majority of us who are either not enlightened enough to simply accept The White Crayon without any doubt, or feel that we all have the right to question and criticize and should, here are a few possible interpretations that come to mind with regard to the title of our journal.
Simplistically, one can discern that out of all the colours in a box of crayons, white is the most unused one. It almost unarguably retains its pointiness compared to all the other crayons worn down by enthusiasm, and is hardly even acknowledged. So "The White Crayon" could be referring to invisibility, something we all experience, some enjoying it and some dreading it. Perhaps our journal encourages all of those who are perfectly alright in their unnoticed state, possibly like myself, to leave their safe, invisible zones where their work is only appreciated and criticized by their own minds, and try becoming a colour for once to the world. Which brings about another well-known debate- does someone's art, in any form, need to be exposed to everyone? Does it require praise and recognition, as well as analysis? Or can it be safely stored in the recess of your own mind? Our literary journal serves, in one light, as an experiment: to see if sharing all our gifts of art benefit any of us, to test whether any are deserving to see our talents whatsoever. At least it is a test for myself.
Is it a question of confidence? To this day, at sixteen, I can freely admit I still do not have some sort of established reassurance within myself that I am good enough. We all know there will always be those who excel beyond your reach, who can either motivate you to compete or simply reinforce your sense of resignation, shattering any definition of "good enough". But supposing there is a standard that you feel is satisfying enough, can or should we be reassured at all, if it is self-proclaimed? Or must it be confirmed by someone else?
Before it gets to be too much, I'll stop the Pandora's box of spilling questions. One can easily see that all of this does not simply deal with why the hell we named the paper "The White Crayon". It conveniently served as the first domino to knock over a series of hurried questions. Let's just see if The White Crayon provides some kind of answer.
-Amrita Mishra
Song for Scott Guber
Goodbye Scott, and I'm sorry they wiped you
I think I'm the only fan you ever had
Most people thought you were evil, or mad.
But all they did was misconstrue you;
You were far greater than your fat boss
You never sought glory for yourself,
You loved your lousy job, at your own loss
You let yourself be left upon the shelf
And instead you did all the nasty work
The unpopular decisions, everything
That Stevens always decided to shirk.
When late in your office you began to sing
I saw that you were not at all the prick
That the others made you out to be
You had class, and heart, and with every click
Of your fingers your beauty I could see
Music, of course, was the love of your life
But it showed me the power of your love
And through all your crusades, your painful strife
You never lost that hope or that love
And eventually, you let us all see it
But their hatred for you refuses to wear:
You're dead now, so they say I shouldn't care
But I swear one day I'll make them believe it.
-Keshava Guha
I think I'm the only fan you ever had
Most people thought you were evil, or mad.
But all they did was misconstrue you;
You were far greater than your fat boss
You never sought glory for yourself,
You loved your lousy job, at your own loss
You let yourself be left upon the shelf
And instead you did all the nasty work
The unpopular decisions, everything
That Stevens always decided to shirk.
When late in your office you began to sing
I saw that you were not at all the prick
That the others made you out to be
You had class, and heart, and with every click
Of your fingers your beauty I could see
Music, of course, was the love of your life
But it showed me the power of your love
And through all your crusades, your painful strife
You never lost that hope or that love
And eventually, you let us all see it
But their hatred for you refuses to wear:
You're dead now, so they say I shouldn't care
But I swear one day I'll make them believe it.
-Keshava Guha
If it's written in the stars, what happens when they die?
Things are funny sometimes. The world, I mean. "Things in the world" would be the best way to put it, I guess. Such as how everything we believe and perceive is actually made up, or invented, by another like us. Banging together two identical parts of your body (clapping your hands, as people like to call it), for example, is seen as a form of high praise, and not as an act that which doesn't only create an annoying noise, but can, with time, cause tremendous pain to your hands. All the complicated rules to life, the wrong turns, the "proper" way of doing things; all invented by some foolish being. Yes, humans are the smartest of all animals, for a certain gene that gave us "intelligence". Damn that gene!
But if you just think about things sometimes, you'd be surprised. Things not engineered by human action and thought. Things which happen, let's say, by chance. Fate, if you like, chance, if you don't. Let me quote something from somewhere as an example.
"You ever look at a picture of yourself and see a stranger in the background? It makes you wonder how many strangers have pictures of you. How many moments of people's lives have we been in? Were we part of someone's life when their dreams came true? Or were we there when their dreams died? Did we keep trying to get in as if we were somehow destined to be there? Or did the shot take us by surprise? Just think, you could be a big part of someone else's life, and not even know it."
(One Tree Hill, Season 4, Episode 3)
Strange if you actually think about it, right? Makes you want to rush out and grab that old, dusty photo album and sit for hours postulating just what that dumpy man in the red bathing suit was trying to achieve, standing on his head on the side of the pool, doesn't it? Did he reach enlightenment? Or just discover a new way to get rid of a hangover? You'll never know. But, for that instant in time, as you stood shivering in your tiny bathing suit, smiling awkwardly as someone took your photograph, you were part of his life. And you have that moment captured with him, forever. Chance? Or design.
I believe in fate. Well not fully, I believe we all have a choice in whatever we do. Every second of the day. Me typing this out right now is putting me on a different path which eventually (in the next nano-second or so) will lead to another crossroad. And finally the choices we make, will result in us following billions of winding roads passing trillions of signposts which finally lead to our final destination. The end. The golden light.
Now, someone I was discussing this with said that what I believe is completely contradictary. Because if there were so many million choices and so many billion permutations and combinations, how can one say that things are pre-ordained? But then there's another take on the matter. With all the infinite options and roads to go on, what makes us choose that one specific path? Divine intervention? Or just plain human asinine-ness? Hmm...We'll never know the answer to the universe. Well maybe we will. Maybe we'll come to a time when we can confidently state that the answer is 42 (or something to that likeness) but then, we would probably have forgotten the question.
But I digress. Or do I? Hard to say. Sometimes I believe that there are an infinite number of parallel universes, and in each we are making different choices. Ever experienced moments of sheer euphoria and you can't explain why? Or suddenly you're depressed, once again, completely unjustified? That's because for a zepto second you glimpse what a wonderful/terrible time you're having in the other universe. And you want to be there, or it just plain scares you. Maybe I'm just talking a bunch of nonsense. *sigh*
Well whatever it is, maybe out there someone is laughing sadistically (or affectionately) as he (She? It?) watches everything BE exactly the way it was supposed to. So everything happens for a reason. Everything has a purpose. Or maybe the big guy up there is shaking his head in amusement at the utter mess we're making of our lives (what with the global warming and all) and chuckling at the weak attempts we make to try and figure it all out when the answer is dancing right in front of us in an electric green tutu.
"We've rushed and rushed and rushed, and now, it feels like the world has just come to a standstill."
"Maybe the world is still rushing, but we've just come to a standstill; or maybe we've finally come to the right place and there isn't a need to rush anymore."
"Is this the right place?" "Is this where we're meant to be? Right now?"
"I don't really believe in fate, but this is better than where we were before. If we weren't here, where would we be right now?"
"It doesn't matter. We're here."
"Yes, we are."
(Lines from an online fiction called “Eclipse” written by Phoenix song available on www.schnoogle.com )
-Avantika Agarwal
But if you just think about things sometimes, you'd be surprised. Things not engineered by human action and thought. Things which happen, let's say, by chance. Fate, if you like, chance, if you don't. Let me quote something from somewhere as an example.
"You ever look at a picture of yourself and see a stranger in the background? It makes you wonder how many strangers have pictures of you. How many moments of people's lives have we been in? Were we part of someone's life when their dreams came true? Or were we there when their dreams died? Did we keep trying to get in as if we were somehow destined to be there? Or did the shot take us by surprise? Just think, you could be a big part of someone else's life, and not even know it."
(One Tree Hill, Season 4, Episode 3)
Strange if you actually think about it, right? Makes you want to rush out and grab that old, dusty photo album and sit for hours postulating just what that dumpy man in the red bathing suit was trying to achieve, standing on his head on the side of the pool, doesn't it? Did he reach enlightenment? Or just discover a new way to get rid of a hangover? You'll never know. But, for that instant in time, as you stood shivering in your tiny bathing suit, smiling awkwardly as someone took your photograph, you were part of his life. And you have that moment captured with him, forever. Chance? Or design.
I believe in fate. Well not fully, I believe we all have a choice in whatever we do. Every second of the day. Me typing this out right now is putting me on a different path which eventually (in the next nano-second or so) will lead to another crossroad. And finally the choices we make, will result in us following billions of winding roads passing trillions of signposts which finally lead to our final destination. The end. The golden light.
Now, someone I was discussing this with said that what I believe is completely contradictary. Because if there were so many million choices and so many billion permutations and combinations, how can one say that things are pre-ordained? But then there's another take on the matter. With all the infinite options and roads to go on, what makes us choose that one specific path? Divine intervention? Or just plain human asinine-ness? Hmm...We'll never know the answer to the universe. Well maybe we will. Maybe we'll come to a time when we can confidently state that the answer is 42 (or something to that likeness) but then, we would probably have forgotten the question.
But I digress. Or do I? Hard to say. Sometimes I believe that there are an infinite number of parallel universes, and in each we are making different choices. Ever experienced moments of sheer euphoria and you can't explain why? Or suddenly you're depressed, once again, completely unjustified? That's because for a zepto second you glimpse what a wonderful/terrible time you're having in the other universe. And you want to be there, or it just plain scares you. Maybe I'm just talking a bunch of nonsense. *sigh*
Well whatever it is, maybe out there someone is laughing sadistically (or affectionately) as he (She? It?) watches everything BE exactly the way it was supposed to. So everything happens for a reason. Everything has a purpose. Or maybe the big guy up there is shaking his head in amusement at the utter mess we're making of our lives (what with the global warming and all) and chuckling at the weak attempts we make to try and figure it all out when the answer is dancing right in front of us in an electric green tutu.
"We've rushed and rushed and rushed, and now, it feels like the world has just come to a standstill."
"Maybe the world is still rushing, but we've just come to a standstill; or maybe we've finally come to the right place and there isn't a need to rush anymore."
"Is this the right place?" "Is this where we're meant to be? Right now?"
"I don't really believe in fate, but this is better than where we were before. If we weren't here, where would we be right now?"
"It doesn't matter. We're here."
"Yes, we are."
(Lines from an online fiction called “Eclipse” written by Phoenix song available on www.schnoogle.com )
-Avantika Agarwal
A Poet's Hypocritical Truth
Too well you know you’re seen but not seen through,
Lying languid there in the easy dark,
Hiding in or from a hiatus?
Curled toes slopping, smoothening cement,
Wording ringlets of soundless satisfyingly senseless smoke so savoured
To fog up the empty cool air of the minds of those fools
Lying there in the mothed dark, waiting.
Now as these words appear I hear you laughing
Metal-lipped, stealing my smug snug warmth,
As I slip on my unhardened cement
Falling into blinking daylight.
-Amrita Mishra
Lying languid there in the easy dark,
Hiding in or from a hiatus?
Curled toes slopping, smoothening cement,
Wording ringlets of soundless satisfyingly senseless smoke so savoured
To fog up the empty cool air of the minds of those fools
Lying there in the mothed dark, waiting.
Now as these words appear I hear you laughing
Metal-lipped, stealing my smug snug warmth,
As I slip on my unhardened cement
Falling into blinking daylight.
-Amrita Mishra
e premte, 15 qershor 2007
It's better to burn out than it is to rust
PEARL JAM
Pearl Jam
J Records, 2006
Pearl Jam (The band)- Well what can I say? They are a bloody brilliant band (quite aptly put don’t you think?). Their mixture of grunge sound, classic rock roots, heartfelt lyrics and deep vocals all come together to form a concoction of pure musical excellence. They exploded onto the scene in 1991 with, in my opinion, the best album to be released in decades, the epic “Ten”. But fifteen years later it can be seen that with age, Pearl Jam, the band, are rusting. They are still an amazing band, better than most, but their latest album has confirmed the fears of the entire music listening world by making it certain that the heights of “Ten” will never again be reached by them.
Pearl Jam (The self titled album released in 2006)- To be fair, in isolation, this is quite a good album. I mean if Good Charlotte, Simple Plan or some such band were to release an album like this, I would count it as being an outstanding album. For Pearl Jam, however, it’s a whole different story. (My apologies to all Good Charlotte and Simple Plan fans, but it’s just that their music tastes like a Popsicle forcibly being shoved up someone’s ass.) Anyway, with our expectations of this great band, after listening to this album the words disappointing, overestimation and disenchantment come to mind. Through the years Pearl Jam’s sound has evolved from being very hard rock like, to something more sober. In this album they tried to recreate their hard rock sound and, unsurprisingly they weren’t able too. Why they tried to revisit those hard rock roots is beyond me. As a huge Pearl Jam fan, their new “sober” sound has grown on me and I was even looking forward to an evolved sober Pearl Jam record, instead what I got was a valiant but unsuccessful attempt by a great band to try and be something they were fifteen years ago.
We as Pearl Jam fans have become accustomed to every album of theirs having inventive and original guitar riffs. It pains me to say that their inspirational guitarist (Mike McReady) has dropped the ball on this one. The guitar riffs are ok but not nearly up to Pearl Jam quality, where songs like Comatose and Life Wasted in particular have quite basic guitar bridges.
It is also apparent that Pearl Jam are more of a personal band. By this I mean that their songs that deal with personal issues of the band members tend to be great, as the band can truly engage with the song. You can see this in their older songs such as Black, Yellow Ledbetter, Betterman, Indifference and so on. In this album Pearl Jam deal with political issues and as a result, the quality of those songs are insufficient as the band are clearly not engaging themselves with this political message as opposed to how they did when their songs were about personal issues. A testament to this belief is the fact that the most endearing and musically captivating song in this album is perhaps the only personal song- Comeback.
This album does have its bright spots; songs such as Comeback, Gone and Army Reserve are pretty good songs, Comeback being the pick of the lot. Another positive that Pearl Jam can take away from this album are its lyrics. Pearl Jam have always had good lyrics and this album is no different. Its nice to see that at least in song writing Pearl Jam are meeting the high standards set by themselves.
As pointed out by a fellow Pearl Jam fan I seem to have quite unjustly dealt with this album, therefore in conclusion I’d just like to repeat that Pearl Jam (the album) is only a disappointment and a failure when compared to other Pearl Jam records, and if you view it in comparison with the kind of records being released today it is far more superior. Lastly I’d just like to say that Pearl Jam are and always will be a great band not to mention one of my personal favorites.
-Tarun Singh
Pearl Jam
J Records, 2006
Pearl Jam (The band)- Well what can I say? They are a bloody brilliant band (quite aptly put don’t you think?). Their mixture of grunge sound, classic rock roots, heartfelt lyrics and deep vocals all come together to form a concoction of pure musical excellence. They exploded onto the scene in 1991 with, in my opinion, the best album to be released in decades, the epic “Ten”. But fifteen years later it can be seen that with age, Pearl Jam, the band, are rusting. They are still an amazing band, better than most, but their latest album has confirmed the fears of the entire music listening world by making it certain that the heights of “Ten” will never again be reached by them.
Pearl Jam (The self titled album released in 2006)- To be fair, in isolation, this is quite a good album. I mean if Good Charlotte, Simple Plan or some such band were to release an album like this, I would count it as being an outstanding album. For Pearl Jam, however, it’s a whole different story. (My apologies to all Good Charlotte and Simple Plan fans, but it’s just that their music tastes like a Popsicle forcibly being shoved up someone’s ass.) Anyway, with our expectations of this great band, after listening to this album the words disappointing, overestimation and disenchantment come to mind. Through the years Pearl Jam’s sound has evolved from being very hard rock like, to something more sober. In this album they tried to recreate their hard rock sound and, unsurprisingly they weren’t able too. Why they tried to revisit those hard rock roots is beyond me. As a huge Pearl Jam fan, their new “sober” sound has grown on me and I was even looking forward to an evolved sober Pearl Jam record, instead what I got was a valiant but unsuccessful attempt by a great band to try and be something they were fifteen years ago.
We as Pearl Jam fans have become accustomed to every album of theirs having inventive and original guitar riffs. It pains me to say that their inspirational guitarist (Mike McReady) has dropped the ball on this one. The guitar riffs are ok but not nearly up to Pearl Jam quality, where songs like Comatose and Life Wasted in particular have quite basic guitar bridges.
It is also apparent that Pearl Jam are more of a personal band. By this I mean that their songs that deal with personal issues of the band members tend to be great, as the band can truly engage with the song. You can see this in their older songs such as Black, Yellow Ledbetter, Betterman, Indifference and so on. In this album Pearl Jam deal with political issues and as a result, the quality of those songs are insufficient as the band are clearly not engaging themselves with this political message as opposed to how they did when their songs were about personal issues. A testament to this belief is the fact that the most endearing and musically captivating song in this album is perhaps the only personal song- Comeback.
This album does have its bright spots; songs such as Comeback, Gone and Army Reserve are pretty good songs, Comeback being the pick of the lot. Another positive that Pearl Jam can take away from this album are its lyrics. Pearl Jam have always had good lyrics and this album is no different. Its nice to see that at least in song writing Pearl Jam are meeting the high standards set by themselves.
As pointed out by a fellow Pearl Jam fan I seem to have quite unjustly dealt with this album, therefore in conclusion I’d just like to repeat that Pearl Jam (the album) is only a disappointment and a failure when compared to other Pearl Jam records, and if you view it in comparison with the kind of records being released today it is far more superior. Lastly I’d just like to say that Pearl Jam are and always will be a great band not to mention one of my personal favorites.
-Tarun Singh
Which Way to Happy?
One of the more recent additions to the more-or-less universally accepted indicators of standard of living is the happiness index. It’s a weird term, considering how adamant we 21st century people are that happiness, like love can’t be measured and should, under no circumstances have ANYTHING to do with economics. Introduced by the King of Bhutan in 1972, it tries to make up for the failings of GNP and per capita income, but falls short already in definition: there isn’t a site on the net, nor a passage in the “new and improved” economics textbooks that flood our school that can tell me in even half-exact terms, what the happiness index really is.
But maybe it’s because “happiness” is in itself such a tricky concept. Word-wise, Mr. Webster could only say that happiness ( Hap´pi`ness, n. ) is good luck; good fortune; prosperity, Microsoft Office Word 2003, more prolific than its predecessor, produces “contentment”, “pleasure”, “cheerfulness”. Freud, perhaps less interested in its pronunciation and linguistic associations, simply believed that it was what every human strived after. And me? I’m not so sure. It’s a big word, and a cool idea. When I think happiness, I’m thinking about the time I jumped into a fountain in Paris with my oldest, closest friend, and came out with soaking red hair and a handful of worthless copper coins. I’m thinking of Sunday breakfasts and the Eels, and the scene in Withnail & I, where Withnail solemnly concludes that he and Marwood are “on holiday by mistake”. You need factors to calculate something, and these are *my* factors. So how on earth does one add my memories, my brilliant days, my “peaceful, easy feelings” to those of a million others? And is the sum of all of that even going to be in numbers?
The happiness index baffles me. More than that, it puts that famous cynical look on my face, the one where my mouth scrunches up and my forehead gets all wrinkled, and makes me wonder who King Jigme Singye Wangchuck’s financial advisor was. I’ll accept that it’s a noble experiment (just like Prohibition in America ) with a reasonable amount of logic behind it, in that it equates a good standard of living with high consumption levels and a sense of fulfillment instead of unevenly-distributed income and dubious literacy levels. But when you deal with happiness, you’re dealing with the emotions of a myriad different people, their personal histories, their personal quirks and achievements, and also with a whole lot of psychobabble about well-being and inner-peace. To attempt to capture this in door-to-door national surveys or annual spending patterns is like delving into a hornet’s nest. But I guess the government of India, for one, feels more warmly towards it- India (corruption, potholes, slums and all) I’ve heard, fares very well on the happiness index…
-Mallika Leuzinger
But maybe it’s because “happiness” is in itself such a tricky concept. Word-wise, Mr. Webster could only say that happiness ( Hap´pi`ness, n. ) is good luck; good fortune; prosperity, Microsoft Office Word 2003, more prolific than its predecessor, produces “contentment”, “pleasure”, “cheerfulness”. Freud, perhaps less interested in its pronunciation and linguistic associations, simply believed that it was what every human strived after. And me? I’m not so sure. It’s a big word, and a cool idea. When I think happiness, I’m thinking about the time I jumped into a fountain in Paris with my oldest, closest friend, and came out with soaking red hair and a handful of worthless copper coins. I’m thinking of Sunday breakfasts and the Eels, and the scene in Withnail & I, where Withnail solemnly concludes that he and Marwood are “on holiday by mistake”. You need factors to calculate something, and these are *my* factors. So how on earth does one add my memories, my brilliant days, my “peaceful, easy feelings” to those of a million others? And is the sum of all of that even going to be in numbers?
The happiness index baffles me. More than that, it puts that famous cynical look on my face, the one where my mouth scrunches up and my forehead gets all wrinkled, and makes me wonder who King Jigme Singye Wangchuck’s financial advisor was. I’ll accept that it’s a noble experiment (just like Prohibition in America ) with a reasonable amount of logic behind it, in that it equates a good standard of living with high consumption levels and a sense of fulfillment instead of unevenly-distributed income and dubious literacy levels. But when you deal with happiness, you’re dealing with the emotions of a myriad different people, their personal histories, their personal quirks and achievements, and also with a whole lot of psychobabble about well-being and inner-peace. To attempt to capture this in door-to-door national surveys or annual spending patterns is like delving into a hornet’s nest. But I guess the government of India, for one, feels more warmly towards it- India (corruption, potholes, slums and all) I’ve heard, fares very well on the happiness index…
-Mallika Leuzinger
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