Cibo Matto and Virgin Mega Whore are two great bands. Cibo Matto is all about the beat and the grooving sounds of the singer's beautiful voice. "I Know My Chicken" was the catchiest song of the record, so much so that the names of the much higher quality singles are eclipsed from my memory at the moment. The album is an experience in itself. It's very easy to slip it on and let your mind float while working or sifting through difficult times.
The sampling from VMW makes their self titled album more complete, but it's the tongue in cheek use of four track sounds that brings the enjoyment home. "All Lubed Up and No Place to Go" propels the sound into the pop arena even as the attitude of the musicians makes it impossible for them to be successful there. "Stomach Full of Glass" was also very soothing, if one enjoys the skate scene sound.
HP Debuts webOS Model
The world of assembly hacking finally gets some new material to play with. At long last there will be vast new lines of normal equipment that can be converted to uses not intended and removed of limitations that should not exist. All hail big business! Job security for programmers and technorati! Microsoft will get a new competitor, and Dell, which has already allowed Linux into their web book market, may expand into the smaller portable devices (but that's only speculation).
Thoughts
Gold Medal Museum Curators: Roger Neich, Mick Pendergrast, and Dorota Starzecka for their work on presenting Maori culture independent of political influence. The first two spent decades working at the Auckland War Memorial Museum and Starzecka is a former curator of the Oceanic collections at the British Museum. Some of the finer surviving carbon pieces are Maori fabrics. The definitive Maori weapon has been minimized in the collection, as the tribes used the war club in defense of their homelands.
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Hindu culture can never be envisioned in one place and one time, and the realization of the religious experience takes more than just language to explain. Some of the holiest and most profane sights and sounds converge in the awareness of those who take a pilgrimage through the utmost practice of multilingual awareness. Amritsar and Haridwar always exist in the same world, yet understanding the Hindu lifestyle culminates in those things continually being absolutely unneccessary for the devotee. This post may not be clear to those who have not studied enlightened Asian cultures, but Krishnamurti had nothing to do with murder, everything to do with sexuality and a great deal to do with bloodless combat. Descending from the stability and awareness of a Buddhist monk can be frightening, but ultimately the truly global God will not allow hideous things to befall one of splendorous peace and generosity.
{Batik of three trees with fruit on one}
- once again, your author remains, as before, as always.
*
Hindu culture can never be envisioned in one place and one time, and the realization of the religious experience takes more than just language to explain. Some of the holiest and most profane sights and sounds converge in the awareness of those who take a pilgrimage through the utmost practice of multilingual awareness. Amritsar and Haridwar always exist in the same world, yet understanding the Hindu lifestyle culminates in those things continually being absolutely unneccessary for the devotee. This post may not be clear to those who have not studied enlightened Asian cultures, but Krishnamurti had nothing to do with murder, everything to do with sexuality and a great deal to do with bloodless combat. Descending from the stability and awareness of a Buddhist monk can be frightening, but ultimately the truly global God will not allow hideous things to befall one of splendorous peace and generosity.
{Batik of three trees with fruit on one}
- once again, your author remains, as before, as always.
Atlantis Review
Mozart (Deadmau5) -- PiRSquared
Deadmau5 composed a classical transition from instrumental violin and harpsichord and later engineered one of the world's great dub-step albums. Song One, entitled "Some Chords," brought sneezes to the nose, however, and was blunted by the lack of comfort available to the ears. Song Two, "Sofi Needs a Ladder," dedicated to St. Sophia, brought in a much higher energy level with pure hypnotic vocals and mind piercing accuracy. Song Three, "A City in Florida," was too terrible to listen to, even for a veteran of the Moldavian chronicles. Song Four, "Bad Select," conjured the best of a live performance DJ show without any of the fuss of having to listen to the entire thing, which is what DJ's are best at. The black vocalist was uncredited, however, and that is simply inexcusable. Song Five, "Animal Rights," featured Wolfgang the Gardener. It was a yawn. I give this album 1 yellowish-brown star, even with the technical music mastery involved. I'm no Sally-ear-ay, but the vinyl sucked.
Deadmau5 composed a classical transition from instrumental violin and harpsichord and later engineered one of the world's great dub-step albums. Song One, entitled "Some Chords," brought sneezes to the nose, however, and was blunted by the lack of comfort available to the ears. Song Two, "Sofi Needs a Ladder," dedicated to St. Sophia, brought in a much higher energy level with pure hypnotic vocals and mind piercing accuracy. Song Three, "A City in Florida," was too terrible to listen to, even for a veteran of the Moldavian chronicles. Song Four, "Bad Select," conjured the best of a live performance DJ show without any of the fuss of having to listen to the entire thing, which is what DJ's are best at. The black vocalist was uncredited, however, and that is simply inexcusable. Song Five, "Animal Rights," featured Wolfgang the Gardener. It was a yawn. I give this album 1 yellowish-brown star, even with the technical music mastery involved. I'm no Sally-ear-ay, but the vinyl sucked.
Shaw Exhibit
The art show at the M Exhibit in the Shaw Building art gallery in downtown Baton Rouge currently houses the area's most acclaimed art and private artifacts, even if ownership can not be attributed. Also currently exhibited are nationally famous sculptures (some painted steel, some presumably jadite [authenticity unverified from my perspective] and one extremely fine wooden telescope), a grievously beautiful pistol, a very small ceremonial sword from Japan, and one of the nicest looking cabinets I've ever seen. The ornate pottery and sculpture displayed at the museum also humbles the simple observer. This post will never be updated with the names of the artists, as my breath was taken away when I neared the information desk to ask for a writing utensil (and I forgot to go back). The names of the artists involved with the more historical pieces were never available, however.
The Clime
Led to believe were they. Some were led to believe that Lie was owed. Sewed with misinformation, those inned against zen listness. Four skulls on the far reaches of the crossed beams faced the inquest, and fourteen, turned in to the four inner corners, conversed, the dead between the dead. Inadequate and shaken, the sure showed the damage dealt the undeserved: A narrow series of cubes and rectangles, screen grated, turned back and forth at right angles in the length of a horizontal climb; all to break bone and grind nerves. Eighteen of the best thought to free a suicidal's victim, yin lured into a steal trap, only to shove unwarranted pain onto the champion of the unvictimized, one who would save another Ophelia. Explanations fell from lips through the air to clang on the floor. In a cold concrete room a prone marble statue still welcomed curses and little dances, quickly delineating and listing every ill will for every vice, in series, to push through into the beyond and sever the effigial prisoner from all hope and means of social, even physical, survival. One teardrop could pull down strings, and then waves of sadness, but not this time. The catbird recompensees, so believed, snatched and plucked hard earned fruits of labor from around the accused, careful to describe the act as liberation of ill gotten gains. All this, the untaintable covenant in practice, shamed by a 22 year running deceit, a 16 year fatality wrought by it, and good people nicked by the brazenness of scum gaming the hints, a warrior fears it not. True, noble, innocent, no matter how once mistaken or mislabeled, those adamant qualities do not tarnish once polished and honed. The light of that spirit burns into those dark corners of silence where latchers on practiced nasty gibbering from envy, and for oozing, bubbling joy. Balanced on the two hanging plates of a scale set atop a centered podium, pastillas for humanitarian need. On the one side malcontents in big finance leveraged the administration process to torment the man, a perceived threat, and the gift of pain relief became a snake oil, chirping enders of silence once fulcromed, magnifiers of internal contemplations and doubts, while in opposition the benign effects of common pseudo-endorphins expanded into yawning gulfs of ulceritic churning that swallowed all serenity, and even strong artistic thoughts, willed into existence with care only to vanish without the slightest cosmic ripple. The entwined serpents witness no broken vows, yet the treachery slithers, taken hold amid simple misconceptions and thriving on the viscosity of social tendencies, remained in motion. The hierarchy of the truly pristine witnessed and could only tut-tut, for the grand of burden find humor in the weightlessness, and those weighed to have carried no share point to what thought a mountain and triumph in the efforts they stacked in that place.
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