My top 5 list of great derivative bands:
1. Placebo
One part Pixies, a dash of Nirvana (also a Pixies derivative)*, 1/8 part The Cure, 1/8 part The Smashing Pumpkins, 1/4 part watered down Nine Inch Nails.
2. Muse
1 part Pixies, 1/2 part Queen, 1/8 part Radiohead, 1/8 part Placebo, 1/8 part Kyuss/Queens of the Stone Age
3. Colder
Equal parts Joy Division, Bauhaus, 1/4 part Sisters of Mercy
4. The Faint
Homogeneous mixture of 80's synth pop and 70's punk.
5. Fischerspooner
1 part Franky Goes to Hollywood, 1/2 part The Cure, 1/4 part New Order
*Early Placebo should be mixed using 1/2 part Nirvana.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Monday, March 24, 2008
Smells like America
At 5:40 yesterday I arrived in Houston, TX after an 11-hour flight from Amsterdam. I slept for the first 7 hours, which made for a more a tolerable flight. I can't imaging sitting awake in one of those 1st class seats for 11 hours +1 hour on the ground as the plane was de-iced, drinking champagne and nibbling on garlic toasts with escargot. Even further out of the realm of my limited imagination is spending that time cramped in an economy seat, which is where I was located. But neverthless I passed most of the flight in comfortable sleep.
When I awoke, pleasantly surprised at how long I had been asleep, I watched an awful movie called "August Rush." Being an obsessed Keri Russell (of Felicity fame) fan, I was very excited to see this featured among the in-flight entertainment. Keri starred as professional cellist who quit making music after being told that she lost her unborn child when she was struck by a car. There was also an inane romance story in there somewhere too. The child was raised in an orphanage (custody having been handed over to the state by her oppressive father who thought that a child would hamper her career as a concert cellist). At age 11 he realizes his gift for music when he runs away to New York and lives with homeless musician-kids and Robin Williams ("the Wizard") in a condemned theater. Robin sees the boy messing around with a guitar one morning in the theater and pimps him out as a street musican in Lincoln (?) Square. The boy thinks that by creating music is he calling to his long lost parents to find him. One day the boy sneaks into a church, beckoned by the voices of the choir. The vagrant boy one day messes around on the church organ, composes (on paper) a piece of the organ after a 6 year old girl in the choir gives him a 5 minute explanation of where notes fit on a staff. He is spotted by a minster who gets him into Julliard where he composes a lame piece that is featured on the same program where his mother (Keri) is performing as a soloist (her first performance in 11 years). Leaving aside particular qualms about the choreography of Keri's cello playing (her vibrato is wide and uneven enough to make an audience of sailors seasick), I found this movie to be an exercise in cinematic idiocy and fodder for the public's romantic and uninformed conception of prodigiousness. For example, no child, no matter how talented, becomes a guitar/organ virtuouso in less than a week. This is made even more absurd by the fact that in his 11 years and 5 months in an orphanage he never once touched an instrument. This fact nothwithstanding, he manages to learn how to conduct a full symphony orchestra, after a week of music theory classes at Julliard and no, as far as what was depicted in the movie, courses in conducting (as if a week of conducting lessons would teach him what he needed to know to direct an orchestra). And where was child services this whole time? One man from child services (the child's only true friend from the orphanage) was searching the city of new york asking people individually if they had seen the child. I guess the people at Julliard were too overwhelmed by the boy's talent to give thought to the legal ramifications of not turning the boy over to social services. But in the end, the boy's music did bring him together with his parents. The boy's father (also an ex-musician who spent the last 11+ years in mourning after losing touch with Keri when her father forbade her from contacting him after their one night of love) happened to be driving by the park where both Keri and the boy were performing, and saw a banner advertising her performance and got out of the car and to the concert just in time to see the finale, the boy's composition. Remarkably, the boy recognized his parents, who somehow found each other in the crowd, from the stage as he stood there receiving applause. Oh, I failed to mention, that it was Robin's late-night harmonica playing that had originally brought Keri and the father together for their one-night stand.
Thesis statement: Barf.
Those who might feel the urge to watch this movie would do better to watch Amadeus and Oliver Twist simultaneously. If you really have an itch for Robin Williams, may be get out the laptop and put Mrs. Doubtfire on as well.
America smells different than Holland.
When I awoke, pleasantly surprised at how long I had been asleep, I watched an awful movie called "August Rush." Being an obsessed Keri Russell (of Felicity fame) fan, I was very excited to see this featured among the in-flight entertainment. Keri starred as professional cellist who quit making music after being told that she lost her unborn child when she was struck by a car. There was also an inane romance story in there somewhere too. The child was raised in an orphanage (custody having been handed over to the state by her oppressive father who thought that a child would hamper her career as a concert cellist). At age 11 he realizes his gift for music when he runs away to New York and lives with homeless musician-kids and Robin Williams ("the Wizard") in a condemned theater. Robin sees the boy messing around with a guitar one morning in the theater and pimps him out as a street musican in Lincoln (?) Square. The boy thinks that by creating music is he calling to his long lost parents to find him. One day the boy sneaks into a church, beckoned by the voices of the choir. The vagrant boy one day messes around on the church organ, composes (on paper) a piece of the organ after a 6 year old girl in the choir gives him a 5 minute explanation of where notes fit on a staff. He is spotted by a minster who gets him into Julliard where he composes a lame piece that is featured on the same program where his mother (Keri) is performing as a soloist (her first performance in 11 years). Leaving aside particular qualms about the choreography of Keri's cello playing (her vibrato is wide and uneven enough to make an audience of sailors seasick), I found this movie to be an exercise in cinematic idiocy and fodder for the public's romantic and uninformed conception of prodigiousness. For example, no child, no matter how talented, becomes a guitar/organ virtuouso in less than a week. This is made even more absurd by the fact that in his 11 years and 5 months in an orphanage he never once touched an instrument. This fact nothwithstanding, he manages to learn how to conduct a full symphony orchestra, after a week of music theory classes at Julliard and no, as far as what was depicted in the movie, courses in conducting (as if a week of conducting lessons would teach him what he needed to know to direct an orchestra). And where was child services this whole time? One man from child services (the child's only true friend from the orphanage) was searching the city of new york asking people individually if they had seen the child. I guess the people at Julliard were too overwhelmed by the boy's talent to give thought to the legal ramifications of not turning the boy over to social services. But in the end, the boy's music did bring him together with his parents. The boy's father (also an ex-musician who spent the last 11+ years in mourning after losing touch with Keri when her father forbade her from contacting him after their one night of love) happened to be driving by the park where both Keri and the boy were performing, and saw a banner advertising her performance and got out of the car and to the concert just in time to see the finale, the boy's composition. Remarkably, the boy recognized his parents, who somehow found each other in the crowd, from the stage as he stood there receiving applause. Oh, I failed to mention, that it was Robin's late-night harmonica playing that had originally brought Keri and the father together for their one-night stand.
Thesis statement: Barf.
Those who might feel the urge to watch this movie would do better to watch Amadeus and Oliver Twist simultaneously. If you really have an itch for Robin Williams, may be get out the laptop and put Mrs. Doubtfire on as well.
America smells different than Holland.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Mickey, hold a place for me!
We all know that the most magical place in the world is Georgia, a nice little country about the size of South Carolina between Russia, Turkey, and Armenia. But did you know the second most magical place in the world is Disney World? I didn't think you did. Right now summer plans include a trip to Georgia with my good friend Tyson "six-shooter" Sadleir. However, recent events might have led us to change our plans. Ne'er ones to sacrifice the magic, secondary plans include a trip to Disney World. I'm sure I will barf all over Tyson's shoes on Space Mountain, but that's part of the magic. Now don't get me wrong, I really do want to go to Georgia, but it seems I've recently become a marked man there. How seriously to take this, I don't know. But who am I to go somewhere where I'm not wanted? But Mickey always has a place for me. I think in Epcot where that walk-o-countries is, there is a little Georgia. I'm not sure, but I heard it is located somewhere behind Little Russia. I'll have to check this out. When you think about the magic to money ratio, there might actually be a better value in Disney. I mean, I can drive there from my mother's place in Florida and possibly stay with friends in the area. I had sushi for the first time when I was staying in Kissimmee the last time I went to Disney. Wow was that magical, even if I didn't get to go to Medieval Times. So, Mickey, get ready. I'm stocking up on cheese and rat poison, just in case we don't go to Georgia.
Pallid
Today I noticed that I'm looking especially pasty. I think it is a good look for me. I'm not sure of the cause. Perhaps it is hamburger deficiency (because of the cost, I consume very little meat here). May be it is the verbal threats I got over email and mobile text messages from a Georgian man I've never met. It could also be the soul-sucking experience that is speaking with the acerbic receptionist/witch at the housing office.
I put the finishing touches on Ch. 5 and formatted Ch. 4. Dissertation clocks in at 173 pages not including 14 pages of references. I never want to write one of these things again.
I put the finishing touches on Ch. 5 and formatted Ch. 4. Dissertation clocks in at 173 pages not including 14 pages of references. I never want to write one of these things again.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Chatty Kathy
Today I gave a well-received talk in the Department of Methodology and Statistics here at Tilburg University. The talk concerned whether psychometrics is a pathological science. I argued that it is not, despite the claims of Joel Michell. Nevertheless, Michell's critique is important and even if I do not agree with the letter of his criticism, I agree with the spirit. It is important work that should be read by those interested in psychological measurement.
The Q&A session was great. People got very excited (and by 'excited' I mean visibly unnerved) by what I had to say. At least they were interested. Most of the criticisms from the audience were not directed at me, but at the critique I was challenging. If I did a good job, then at least one of them will take a look at Michell's articles.
I'm up to my neck in grant proposals, job applications, and chapter 5 of the dissertation. I'm not sleeping much these days which has afforded me plenty of time to do mindless activities such as format the dissertation, write the acknowledgements, and figure out what, exactly, I have to do in order to graduate in May.
Another pic from the past: The face of psychological measurement
The Q&A session was great. People got very excited (and by 'excited' I mean visibly unnerved) by what I had to say. At least they were interested. Most of the criticisms from the audience were not directed at me, but at the critique I was challenging. If I did a good job, then at least one of them will take a look at Michell's articles.
I'm up to my neck in grant proposals, job applications, and chapter 5 of the dissertation. I'm not sleeping much these days which has afforded me plenty of time to do mindless activities such as format the dissertation, write the acknowledgements, and figure out what, exactly, I have to do in order to graduate in May.
Another pic from the past: The face of psychological measurement
Tuesday, March 04, 2008
Holland: where with the change you find in your couch, you could feed an American family
I had a recent call to post more often. I know I've been a bit lax in that regard recently. There's a reason for this: nothing happens here. I think that the exchange rate for Tilburger seconds is analogous (and converse) to the current USD-Euro exchange rate. One second anywhere else is equal to 1.519 phenomenological seconds in Tilburg. This makes for long days. Only here do I dread the weekends, for I know that I'll do nothing but sit around my apartment watching Dutch television and compulsively refreshing facebook. I love Sunday nights because it means that the weekend is nearly over. Weeknights are boring too, but they usually follow productive days, which makes for less boredom and self-loathing.
Yesterday I went to Amsterdam to work. It was productive. I sent a paper off to be considered for publication and tinkered with the dissertation. Working is much more pleasant there, as I've probably remarked in previous posts. There was a plan to go out and then stay the night there, but the plan fell through. Nevertheless, it was a good day. I've decided that I'm going to go up to Amsterdam more often to work (perhaps twice a week).
Today I finished a proposal for a postdoc here (to start Sept. 1) and I preordered the new Murder by Death CD. On the productivity scale (0-10, with 10 being most productive), I'd give it a 5. I'd rate the typical day in Amsterdam an 8 (on average, with a large SD).
All words and no pic make Reader a dull boy. So here, circa late 1998, in my college-friend Audra's dorm room, am I. Yes, my ears used to be pierced in a strange way. This was because my father told me that if I ever got my ears pierced and potential employers saw the scars on my earlobes, they'd never hire me. My solution: get the piercing where no readily visible scar would be left.
Yesterday I went to Amsterdam to work. It was productive. I sent a paper off to be considered for publication and tinkered with the dissertation. Working is much more pleasant there, as I've probably remarked in previous posts. There was a plan to go out and then stay the night there, but the plan fell through. Nevertheless, it was a good day. I've decided that I'm going to go up to Amsterdam more often to work (perhaps twice a week).
Today I finished a proposal for a postdoc here (to start Sept. 1) and I preordered the new Murder by Death CD. On the productivity scale (0-10, with 10 being most productive), I'd give it a 5. I'd rate the typical day in Amsterdam an 8 (on average, with a large SD).
All words and no pic make Reader a dull boy. So here, circa late 1998, in my college-friend Audra's dorm room, am I. Yes, my ears used to be pierced in a strange way. This was because my father told me that if I ever got my ears pierced and potential employers saw the scars on my earlobes, they'd never hire me. My solution: get the piercing where no readily visible scar would be left.
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