Entries Tagged 'Philosophy' ↓

The robot apocalypse is a long prophesied event, almost a now past-time of lunatics, urban-setting schizophrenics, and religious cults hoarding weapons in mid-western hideaways. Of course it’s a scary thought. I mean, can you imagine being ripped to pieces by a 4 ton metallic version of Dick Cheney? Nay, perhaps a piston-complete, hydraulic rendition of Vin Diesel pounding away at your pink parts?! (Not because he likes it, but because he has to teach you a lesson.) Or, quite possibly the worst of all possible robot ‘apocolypi’, some roaming robotic pricks who just constantly nags that you don’t eat right, never exercise enough, and have a generally negative disposition that just really “brings down the room.” Eff that!

Albeit, there are some scary things that COULD happen in the robot apocalypse. But who are we kidding? Robots aren’t people. They are better than us, and possibly always have been. The REAL robot uprising will be more bloody, more violent, more awesome, and have more Will Smith than anything we could ever imagine. And in the end, we don’t stand a chance.

To be honest, I’m excited as hell for it. I mean, total annihilation of the human race SUCKS, but give me a break, this shit is going to be more intense than if you played every Kurt Russell movie simultaneously while performing a ritualistic blood sacrifice to the gods of Off-shore Drilling (RNC) at a Hometown Buffet. I’m excited, I’m excited, I’m excited.

All that aside, I felt I should take it upon myself to outline how and why we’re gonna eat some dirty turds in the Robot Apocalypse, so here it goes. And please keep in mind, many lives will be lost in the Robot Apocalypse, so feel free to laugh with glee at the thought of this tragedy. After all, laughter is the Novocaine of the soul.

Let’s roll:

Scientology: The Beginning of the End
Just look at the roots of this word: “scien” and “ology”. Scien has a hazy translated root of knowledge, more accurately “information.” And ology infers “study” to most, however “calculate” might be a more appropriate translation from original texts. So “calculate information” is a potential translation of the name “Scientology.” Gee, that sounds like something human beings would love doing…calculating information, right?!?! Pfft, I say again PFFT. Calculate information?!?! The only thing organics like me do is drink beer, look at titties, and eat whole sticks of butter. Maybe throw in some cars crashing on TV or a melodramatic reality show about rich, irrelevant, slutty 20-somethings and we’ve got a weekend. So  “scientologists,” I’m on to your game.While the Christians may be ushering in the annihilation of ninety some-odd percent of the human race, it looks like Scientologists may be pushing for whole effing ship.



The Liberals: Let’s Talk, Turkey.
I should first say, I’m a liberal democrat. As an artistic, intelligent, young man, it’s really the only way I can feel better about that fact that men with no morals, ability to read, nor any actual job skills will probably be making thousands upon thousands of dollars more than me for my entire life. As they whisk super-models away on their company yachts with their alumni fraternity brothers, I will undoubtedly be whisking myself away for a weekend sleeping at the park, clutching a bottle of Andre and my broken sense of self-dignity. So I’m a liberal democrat. However, liberals like myself will be one of the vital failings in the Robot Apocalypse. Our heavy political hands, will push for the humans to try and make treaties with the mechanical death-mongers. We will appeal to the public to “talk” to the metallic monsters, or to “make peace” with them. There will be summits and conventions and every sort of talking and writing and dancing that impotently circle around physical reality.
Why didn’t we just let the damn NRA pack heat?! Every Billy-bob and Jedidiah would be going all “scarface” on those electro-mofos. But no, someone let pussy-footers like me be in charge of gun control. Maybe we deserve to be gutted like turkeys for robo-thanksgiving?



Lasers: fuck…..
The biggest blunder we made as humans was creating lasers. I mean, yea lasers are bad-ass, but don’t you think the robots know that too. Lasers are awesome, but they are also deadly and everywhere. From Roger Waters’s concerts to micro-surgery, we’ve got the damn things all over the place. And with a simple process, the robots will be able to turn a delightfully amusing acid-trip into the biggest blood bath since George W’s 21st birthday. So yeah, what the hell were you guys thinking when you started using lasers all the time?! It’s like putting a hooker in a room full of rich, white men. There will be blood.



The Will Smith Scenario
There is no doubt in my mind that upon the first signs of the Robot Apocalypse, the citizens of the world will start looking for a new leader and savior to address the inbound threat of annihilation. And who will they choose? Will Smith, of course. Mr. Smith not only has experience with fighting evil robots (I, Robot) and general mechanic devices (Wild Wild West), but he also has significant experience battling general threats against the human race (MIB, MIB II, Independence Day, Hancock). Even his wife, Jada Pinkett Smith (total hottie) was part of a giant underground movement against robots at one point (The Matrix: Reloaded, The Matrix: Revolutions). The world has seen Will kick robotic ass, protect humanity, save the world, work his ass off to feed his kid (The Pursuit of Happiness), and keep it funky fresh (The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air). He is the first, most obvious, and best choice to lead and protect the human race against the robots.
The problem is that the robots already know this. Not only do they know this, but they have already begun recruiting him. Goodbye Mr. Smith, you could have been our savior. Then again, I hear Scientology totally gets you laid. Good deal for Will: humankind, you are effed.



Arnold: The Governator
Although many may believe that Arnold Schwarzenegger would pose a threat, if not a stumbling point in the waves of the robotic armies, they are totally wrong. Arnold is a sad, old, fat man who has nothing left but his centrist politics and a once-hot Kennedy bride. He’s not the terminator, that was just a really shitty action movie. Deal with it.



Human Survival Instinct
The last reliable hope of preserving human existence has been our basic survival instinct. Humans have lasted centuries, through many rough conditions across many really shitty places. Supposedly we even ventured across the giant trans-pacific land bridge, bringing the early Americans here. Even during the black plague, people were holed up in terrible living conditions, barely able to survive. But survive they did. Human’s have a knack for sticking around. Or, at least, we did.
With the recent invention of television, fast-food, petrol fuel, and numerous other human “advancements” we have completely lost touch with our survival instincts. Humans now put their electronic pleasure and fantasy in front of their own survival (Hold Your Wee for a Wii), and sacrific the once treasured place as a social being for dark dungeons lit by LCD screens (WoW, really wow). Reality TV, MMORPGs, Myspace, TiVo, Netflix, Wii, and many other things: All preemptive distractions engineered by the robo-race that is slyly amassing their numbers underground. They have worn us down to helpless, lumps of flesh, dependent upon the very things which will be our ends. We can no longer live without these items. And when they take them from us, there will be no survival for humans to want.



Prayer: Please Help Big Guy
Our final plea will probably be to the big guy in teh sky. However, we totally pissed him off a while ago (circa 2001). And really from what he’s said in a few phone interviews, it sound like he’s just gonna pull out the popcorn, sit back in his chair, and let the goodtimes roll. Afterall, he didn’t even have a hand in the apocalypse this time around. Big guy probably needed a break anyway.

So that’s it. The end of humankind.

Of course, I’ll probably be changing sides before any of the bloodshed. Lord know the damn robo armies are gonna need a guide for invading the areas of the world without Google Streetview implimented yet. I’m sure they will keep my head alive in a jar or something like that. At least then maybe I’ll be around long enough to see the second generation of robots: with thier hot rods, rock music, crazy hair dos, and loose computational guideines.

Until then, good luck humans.

Show me a place where art is not bought and sold. I will show you a place where art does not exist.

Mr Buddha-beads,
I can honestly say there isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t wish I were in a graduate program or teaching or just on the streets doing philosophy. And just for the record, I think our boundaries of creativity are the same. I’ve just never had the sense to obey mine, though, and have always lived beyond my means in every capacity. Which has also created my problems in life. Like wanting to be a thousand different Maxs in a thousand different places. It tears me to pieces. The real reason I stopped doing philosophy is because I am terrified of doing one thing, and then doing it wrong. That’s why I spread myself so thin, its like betting across the table in craps. I can only suffer minor losses. But much like craps, I always lose in the end. This is all a part of why I moved up here. To find Max. I was/am so confused, so very disoriented by the mixed messages of everything and everyone, all the time. I had lost me. I lost what I wanted and did what everyone else wanted, always.
I love philosophy, and I constantly drift back into it. Not because I have to, but because I want to. Why don’t I do graduate school? Because I’m not sure if I can. I’m not sure if it’s worth my time to legitimate what I’ve learned by writing papers about what I already know is wrong (Not to say everything you learn in grad school is wrong). But I do know that we stopped doing it from where it really resides. We stopped living and thinking and being from our hearts. I do philosophy because I love it. Not because I want to be right or find “the answer.” There is no answer, you know that. Truth, reality, knowledge, these things all come from the same place. And there is no way to “know” them, not in the way they are pursued now. I lost hope in the classic methods. I lost hope in approaching their avatars. Because I realized what Tolstoy was really trying to say. That no matter the magnitude of the question, the seemingly marvel notion of some thought: we still woke up in the same bed and ate the same breakfast and lived the same lives. Only it was the hearts of men that changed, not their minds. And thats when I knew I had truly walked away. Because I was done with the academics. I was done with their importance. And I was done with myself as anything more than a man. Of course I still do philosophy, but not on their terms anymore. I do it on mine now. I manipulate them, I contort and tweak them beyond recognition. Nietzsche knew that he would be smashed by a hammer, but his students never understand that. It is not my life that bends into my philosophy, it is my philosophy that bends into my life. I love talking with you Eric, because I think of you as one of the few who ever understands what I am saying or even sees me as what I am. And you must know better than anyone that I didn’t leave school to chase something else. I left to be educated. I left because the academy is once again an ivory tower. I am unsure if I will ever write or return to school to get a degree. Because it is more clear to me now that to truly hold what I have realized, I must live it more than speak it. If I am to believe in the virtue of one man against the plurality of many, I must be one of those men. And if I am to believe that in the future of philosophy, I must take it outside the walls. I think you are/will make an excellent philosopher, professor, father, and friend. You may not be as aggressive as me, or as heavy handed, but you have always been better at understanding. My creativity is rooted in my misunderstandings. It is not a gift, it is the just the state of things. I’m a designer who is colorblind, and a philosopher who is upside-down. I don’t see the answers beyond us, I see them below us. I no longer care what truth is, and with that I have seen the meaning of the word philosophy. It is not to ask better and better questions, in hopes of finding the bottom answer. It is learning that there is no bottom for an answer to rest. That the most important question is not about what is Good? But, rather, what does Max believe to be Good? It is within me, not out there somewhere. There is no “out there.”
Sorry, I’m rambling now.

I’m very alienated here as I haven’t found many people who wish to listen to me banter on and on as I do.
I do miss school. But I know that it isn’t for me. I have these grand dreams of teaching a classroom of kids about Descartes or Hume or Derrida. But then I remember what I believe to be the case. And I wonder if I would even be able to represent any of the philosophers of old in a fair manner. I care so little for the context of their writings now. And I have made most of them into monsters. But what else would I have done? Worshiped them?

Write back and take care of yourself friend.

Max

How does one say “I’m feeling suicidal”? Is it always a cry for help? I don’t want any help. What could anyone else do? Anesthetize it? What about when it’s not a cry for help, but a simple conclusion. Is there something wrong with feeling meaningless?

I’m eating funions and drinking a coke. Yea, I feel suicidal. It’s never got me before. I just wish I could tell someone. But it’s like a crime. It’s like a fucking weight you haul onto someones head. Why? “Because it’s a cry for help.” What about when it’s not a cry for help, and you just want to be a person and share how you feel. You can’t. It’s too cool to be suicidal now. So people say it like its nothing. It is something, its human. I’ll admit it, I’ve had a bit to drink. And more than likely that’s impairing my judgment. But am I gonna pull any triggers? No. Why? Because I can’t. My parents would never recover. My friends would be rather put out. And everyone else, well, they would call it a waste. That, that is exactly why I can’t. Because that same worhtlessness, that very exact meaninglessness is in conflict with my first emotive response. “No one cares.” But they do. And because more than anything my heart aches at the thought of hurting them, and so I save myself from the blade. I am just a piece of flesh in the end, but to them I am Max. And that word has bore on me more weight than any other. I am resonsible for myself, I. And I cannot let anything take me under. Not even the winter of loneliness I currently endure. This isn’t about writing, crys for help, or any of that bullshit. It’s about a human life, my human life. It’s about feeling like refuse, like worthless trash after everything I have done. And I have done a lot, but so little at the same time. I wasn’t born into money, I wasn’t born into fame or fortune, and I wasn’t born into the heart of a creator. I was born Max: worker, liver, sleeper. I work at irrelevant ends, I live beyond my means, and I sleep terribly, knowing that one day it will end and I will not be remembered long.

I bought a single lottery scratcher on my way home tonight. I told myself I would end it all if I didn’t win. Not because the money would make matters better, but because I knew the odds were against me. I settled in here, with my funions, cola, and cigarettes. I lit one, and I scratched at the ticket. Nothing. No winnings, no life. I stared at the ticket for almost 20 minutes, hoping I saw something wrong. I didn’t. Then I realized, I couldn’t do it if I wanted to. I don’t know why. Because of what they would say about me, because of the pain I would cause my parents to bear, all of it, I don’t know. And then I saw the fatal flaw of it all. I wanted to end it because I saw my own irrelevancy, but I couldn’t because I felt my relevancy. It’s not ironic, just irrational. I wasn’t important enough to live, and too important to die. I am a ghost, stuck between two worlds. The one that would spit me out and the one that I would call home. But, they are the same world, the same people, the same cold reality. In this I am lost…and afraid. Afraid to act out my promise, afraid not to. So I hung the lottery scratcher on my wall, that one day I may either throw it away or make good on my promise. It’s not a cry for help, no one can DO anything but me. It is what they call “becoming.” You either adapt or fall to the wayside.

//the poet//
Time is a funny, fickle thing. In time all things are possible, they say. This much would seem true. The world comes together in perfect resonance and harmony. All things ring with beauty and passion. Love falls from the sky on to our heads. Peace finds home in the hearts of deep slumbers. All is one, the multitude follow sequence on the pulse of our souls. …then one night, we awaken to the autumn turning. The crisp blades of dark days slice between our oneness of now. What once was harmony stumbles on the snares of chaos and disaffection. The threads of fate quickly grow dry and brittle, passing roughly on the hands of our weavers. But none is a surprise. As they said, ‘in time all things are possible.’ Even the benefit of a perfect moment meets its destruction in the ticking hands of tomorrow. And so is the history of man from each golden second, we squeeze the juice of our own tragedy. So is the history of tonight. That clarity of now, shattered in the wake of soon; from this apex we descend. Dark, deep, cold descent.
My brother, the man, is caught in the disclarity. It brings me to tears like an infant. My world, the place where I wake, is defiled and lost.

//the philosopher//
The signifieds have become incomplete. From each moment to the next, these constellations of social space have gone from definite to vacuous mass. Bodies, now, floating through the voids of human interaction. The signifier is unable to navigate. Constructs understood as “living” and “being” have buckled under the pressure of unbearable lightness. There is no choice for the signifier, but to shed the skins of his past. To construct the new “living,” the new way of “being.” There is nothing but the disjunction of understanding, a shift in the world itself. Within the void, all signification is lost, but in the oneness there is no differentiation.

//the soul//
Who am I to feel like this? I am sick, I am uneasy, I am ready to vomit now. All is lost. But for how long? I know honesty and levity. Murky are the minds, they lack vision of truth and ignore the whispers of time past. Of course all is empty! This is the oldest of silent understandings. Fullness is not bleeding from the spacious wounds in reality, but from the eyes and the ears of all. Their pens spitting words and stories and meanings. And who am I but a fleeting apparition, an insatiable passion? I, poor soul, will soon dissipate into the mist of the Real. But before I pass, one emotive you should not forget: this moment, this void, this vacuum, this emptiness. Remember the terror of this moment floating away. Remember when everything melted into laughter….but you, poor man…you have already forgotten.

//the void//
So it is. Then not. Then is. The fate of man, pulled into something and pushed out to nothing. It is fate. Nothing more.

//the man//
Life is beautiful.

It was not my intention to make this entry, but I feel this incredible weight on my person. I am tired I think. A tired dreamer. A tired Tristan. A tired Quixuote.

Not tired of dreaming itself, just tired of having dreamed. Exhausted from living in the wake of my own aspiration.

“I want to be a saint.” I heard this recently on this IFC film a few of us were watching. It wasn’t for a few days until that really hit me. I’ve been trying to be a saint all this time. In my extreme selfishness I put others well being above my own. I say this is extreme selfishness, because it msot truly is. When I am asked, “Max, what do I do here?” I think poorly of what benefits me. Most of the time I recommend against it to spare myself the joy of shallow selfishness. Instead, I take stance against me. I try to manipulate the situation to most degrade and disbenefit myself.

Why? I’m not sure. Perhaps I want to be Christ. Perhaps its just the reminants of my previous life in his fold. Any way I put it to words, I’m doing something bad. I’m manipulating situations, although not for my benefit, I am manipulating them opposed to my benefit.

It’s relevant to my writings of late, but how?

Well, to be frank, I set myself aside and then wallow in my own self-inflicted suffering. It’s like pouting. Pouting about something I did. And there is nothing worse than someone who whines about thier self-inflicted misfortune.

This cannot be, it cannot continue. I will imbue myself with patience and self-interest. Of course, not to the sickening levels of some, just enough to know when to stand and when to sit.

It relates to my point, you know. Rather well actually. <i>Es muss sein.</i> Figure it out for yourself, and I will continue my thoughts.

A while back I wrote this paper on Othello. It wasn’t bad for my skills at the time. I wrote it for a World Lit class at the Junior College I started my academic career at. Although most of my classes were boring at best, this class was overseen by one of the four professors I think I will always admire. He wasn’t much of a man, recently divorced from an affair he had on the side, and really just a nazi when it came to reading our assignments. It wasn’t long before I warmed up to him; in the warmest way you can a man who assails your every intellectual move. The truth is, I admired him. I saw his relentless critiquing of my work as a challenge. I saw something in his words that no other professor had ever given me before, my shortcomings. We developed a rather abrasive relationship in the classroom, butting heads like wild rams fighting for the intellectual space and dominance over the other. A lot of the other students saw this and started to grow afraid to speak in class, as most of the time it came down to him and I dueling over the Whys and the Whats and the Whos. It was incredibly unfair to the other students, a real waste of their money I can imagine to see us do this week after week. But for him and I, it was magic. This entire struggle, this battery and forceful delivery of idea after idea. I’m sure it looked like a siege of brutal academic war against one-another, but as I said, to me it was beauty. I still am rarely pushed around as hard as I was in that class. And from it, came my paper on Othello. Jason, the professor, being an advent Shakespeare reader and critic had given us paper topics. They were the standard issue junior college paper topics. Really, a let down coming from him. So I decided to write my own topic. I had explained to him, “I will show that Shakespeare, in the wake of his own personal love troubles, decided to write a piece that did not show the darkness or lightness of love. Neither the punishment nor reward. Shakespeare wrote Othello to take love apart, piece by little piece. To fillet it once and for all.” I remember Jason laughing at me and wishing me luck with such a ridiculous position. It was here I knew that my philosophical career started, no earlier. Because I left the text and began talking about the author. To make a long story short, I wrote the paper, and although it wasn’t bad for my skills, it was a great distance from being a work worthy of praise. I got it placed in a few journals, but there was really no response. I took that as my queue to forget about it. At least for the following 4 years.

This morning I woke up like any other morning. But on my way to work, in the packed freeway of traffic, my brain started to sink. The past few days I read some pages of La Rochefoucauld and the better part of Unbearable Lightness of Being. I’ve read them both before, but they seem to be these pivoting points of many of my thoughts. And once again, Tomas inspired me. I was thinking about the common understanding of Kundera’s meaning behind Unbearable Lightness. As far as I’ve read, most people agree that he is making a cynical move to the heart of life as meaningless. That because we cannot live it more than once, via eternal recurrence, that our lives can never be imbued with meaning or expression as they are incomparable to anything else. We live it once, and make one choice, and cannot compare anything to it. Most contend that Kundera is citing Parmenides and then using Nietzsche to deliver this bleak message of meaninglessness, of life lightness bereft of weight or meaning. But they are wrong. This might be an idea of the story arc of Unbearable Lightness, but it is not the point, not the morsel of this fiction. The real piece of meaty flesh between its covers is found in the “reader arc,” not the travels and tribulations of the characters, but the travels and tribulations of the reader.

To put it simple, the book reads backwards. The meaning and test of this story does not unfold to its conclusion, it ravels up. Although Kundera distracts us with the big words of Nietzsche, the ideas of eternal recurrence, and the analytic dichotomy of Parmenides, these are all a show. The truth is found in the little piece Kundera slips between the cracks. The moments when Tomas himself does not know why we does them. And Kundera, as well, writes as though Tomas must do them, regardless of the author’s ideas or points or theories on the Lightness of Being. Tomas loves Tereza before anything else, from the very beginning, and at that beginning we find Kundera’s hidden truth. He is a dreamer, a Tristan. The true arc of the story goes back to the beginning. That, above all things, through the meaninglessness actions and moments, in the pure lightness and once-ness of life, Tomas loves Tereza. Not Sabina or his other sexual adventures. These are nothing. These are blank acts against the canvas of nothingness. Sabina is Lightness, and Tomas is the Weight.
Now this long and somewhat contrived position is what brought me back to the very beginning of this story. It occurred to me, that this greater Arc of the author is what I was trying to get at in Shakespeare as well. Not only that, but that this “reader arc” is where we derive the deeper secrets of fiction, the authors, the readers, us, the human animal; full of meaning in a meaningless world.

(TO BE CONTINUED IN PART 2)

A note on Britney Spears.

Does anyone else find it odd that one who adored for her body has committed acts against her body? That one, who since her late teens, has been gawked at, gazed upon, honored for her looks is trying to destroy them. The tattoos, the shaving, and the piece de resistance, piercing the very vagina the world so happily devoured with their eyes no more than a month ago. Is it a coincidence that such a young woman would set out to destroy the very device that binds her, her very own body? The abject manifestation of the gaze of the world, set upon her, staring like hungry lions, we watch her body and we watch as she destroys it. Did the eyes of America not pierce your cunt enough? Did the gawking public not mark your body with their object fantasies already? She has taken our beloved object and made it a pierced and scarred embodiment of her dissatisfaction, a mutilation of our harmonious misogyny.

It’s okay Brit. Smile big, go through rehab, get some laser surgery to remove the tats, grow your hair back, get the metal out of your clitoris, and they will gladly devour you once more with  their starving eyes…..
We will forgive you, so long as you submit again to be our Britney, and not yours. 

Being as how this is the post-modern, possibly post-humanist era, and things tend to get nicely redundant, I thought I could make my big “come-back” blog about another blog. And to cut through the crap, cause it’s getting late now anyway, it’s a blog about a blog about an American Idol Contestant’s “risque” photos.

I don’t really want to talk about my problems with American Idol, or the public ridicule they endorse, or Antonella Barba and her woes as a contestant on that show.
I want to have a short quib about the simple fact that this issue has generated more media coverage and public involvement than many world issues. How much easier do you think it is to find ‘risque’ photos of American Idol contestant Antonella Barba, than to find information on the current status of the UN’s quest to stop nuclear production in Iran? Yea, a lot easier, and that scares me.

We have a presidential administration that people openly call “stupid,” and claim that it is a gross misrepresentation of the American people. Now, I don’t like Bush or his administration, but I really don’t know if they lied thier way in or tricked anyone. I mean, come on people, our media obsession right now is whether or not an American Idol contestant sucked some guys dick in photos….
But not only that, on this blog the comments involve a discussion about whether or not the guy in these photos has a big enough dick.
“No,” a few contributors say, “it is not nearly big enough.”

This is the voting populace? These are the people who rule the country….

Fuck.

P.S. If you look for my name in the comments section of that blog you’ll probably find my comment posting.

P.S.S. the future blogs should be better. I’m tired now and going to sleep.

I love dancing. Most of my friends are aware of my foot-moving passions, as it’s not on rare occasion that they will find me lunging my hips and pivoting my toes to the tunes of the “hardest working man in show business.” And for those of you who haven’t seen my mad-style and moves that could serve the Karate Kid a taste of his own medicine, well don’t worry for too long. Mainly, because myspace has the new video uploads and soon you will be showered with my personal collection….namely video of me dancing alone in my room.

Okay, but back to the point here, I love to dance, and that love manifests itself on the occasional weekend as making the great journey to Club Bang! in Hollywood. It has always been a great time, lots of dancing, and some incredible music….
But this has changed.

Let’s start with the first thing I noticed…
The vibe from the new crowd is WAY different. Arguably, the Bang! crowd has changed faces a bit. Four different people throughout the night tried to pick a fight with me. FOUR! Four human beings tried to push me and antagonize me. Granted it was somewhat cramped in one spot and I’m a large man who could very easily be invading someones personal space, but please, its a club.

Second…
They eliminated the real draw of Club Bang! for me, their Soul room. It has been replaced by what they call “English 80s and New Wave.” Now, I try not to be a stickler for titles or a music nazi, but I do believe they played a number of titles that were neither English 80s (or 80s in general) or New Wave. Another oddity of this room was when Soft Cell’s Tainted Love was played three times during the night. I mean, I’m no expert or DJ, but I do believe there is a plethora of music to choose from that is either New Wave and English 80s, not to mention great to dance to as well.

Third…
The main room’s DJ (although Ryan said he thought it was a guest DJ) was terrible this time. He played obscure, odd-timed, guitar driven rock for a good portion of his sets. Off course, there is nothing inherently wrong with any of this, except that it’s not really fun or easy to dance to. The few times I found my self in this room during the night I would dance a song or two and just loose the energy because of the very dampered feel of the song or just do to my own confusion about the beat. I’m not a drummer, but I’m pretty sure dance songs are meant to be able to be followed by anyone.

And Finally…
I saw a lot of dirty looks and not enough feel-good dancing. This is key for me to have fun. I need happy people dancing all over.

And so, for now, I bid Club Bang! goodbye…..
I will miss you friend….but you really did lose your soul with your Soul room.

-soundtrack-
Les Savy Fav - Inches