This mux's for you

http://duder.muxtape.com

That's me. These are all film score tracks except for Marry Me Moses and Chet Atkins.

I was thinking about posting this, and, though I ultimately decided to do so, I had misgivings about the long-term usefulness of its description since the tracks in the mix will someday change. Just like most of what is on the Internet, the first part of this post will be irrelevant soon. When I change the music selections, the description above will remain a simple curiosity until Google decides to kill all of their hosted blogs.

I wonder what the future will have in store for all of our Internet creations? This is not a minor problem for librarians right now, and the idea of it is giving some people premature ulcers. I'm sure the next generation of historian won't have any problem finding lots of material to sift through, but I wonder if they will be bothered by the fact that so much of our ideas caught in digital form will have been casually or carelessly erased. Most people just don't write emails or publish blog posts or create web pages with the mindset that it will someday be a valuable piece of the puzzle to our time. Nor should they, really.

Archivists are taught to know what to keep and what to jettison. They know that their resources aren't enough to capture everything, and that their value is to preserve only the important and useful bits for people who want to discover and understand the history of mankind's efforts in time. I think this task is much easier when the material is scarce. That we have so much is what makes preservation so difficult. No one can be the custodian of all its enormity. No one could get through it all with an intelligent understanding of the completeness. It would take degrees of lifetimes. So until our quantum computing can analyze our semantics and linguistics as well as a developed human brain, I guess I'll just have to know that my writings here are destined for consumption and nothing more. That's all I could hope for, anyway.

Bobo

Last weekend I went for a walk in Comfort, TX, and I found this ------->

It was the head of someone's poor teddy bear, left all alone on a badly paved road, carried there by running waters after a rain.

The bear's ears were red on the inside and it was missing an eye. Oh, and it looked like I might catch the bird flu if I got near it. This picture is at 10x zoom.

But was this someone's trash, callously tossed aside and left like so much litter? Or did a child wear it out while playing with it endlessly until the head was all that was left, and then it fell out of a bag on the way to grandma's house? To be sure, I'll never know, because it was a bad side of town and I wasn't going to knock on any doors and ask.

I didn't have a teddy bear when I was a kid (or if I did, then I repressed it), so I didn't fade back into some fond Kaneian realization of my lost childhood. However, I was reminded of a certain part of town where I grew up. West-side, where I never lived. It was dangerouse. It was on the dustier side of the tracks, the one with all of the industrial parks and the water treatment plant. Sure, that bear's head could have lain anywhere, but I'd like to imagine it was out there, where the dogs bark extra mean and fences are a little more sagging.

I'm being unfair, because that is the side of town I liked to run in the most. It had a lack of cars and real traffic. Also the river was on that side of town, which meant there was an abandoned train trussel to be played upon. Since I wasn't real familiar with it aside from afternoon runs, it felt like an adventure to glide through streets where people were a little more furtive and silent, where lawns lacked leaves in the fall and where street signs were more ventilated. You can tell I grew up in a small town, because I'm describing one small part of town that was in no real, meaningful way different from the other as if I were Richard Burton on an expedition.

My prejudice stems from the fact that my elementary school, one of two, was on the other side of town. We had a rhyming taunt that labeled us as the best and them as the pest. Even as children, we could appreciate that the names were easily reversed. But it was different enough. My sister attended there before I matriculated into kindergarten at my alma mater, Abilene Elementary, whence she joined me. I retain a vague memory of going to fun night at West Elementary during my sister's tenure. It was not good. I'm probably mixing it up with Halloween, but I don't really care. So, in retrospect, that school was the worst!

Eventually we all got over it in the sixth grade, and our prejudices focused on social groups rather than geography. Thank goodness for Junior High, right? And eventually I took up running to while away my youth. Which took me to the misunderstood west side of town, and that brings me full circle to Bobo's poor head. If I found it back home, this is where I would fully expect it to be. Right next to the railroad ties, some plastic bags caught in a bush, an empty Mountain Dew bottle, and a human femur.

Dust in the Wind

Last night, large amounts of dirty rain pummeled the automobiles of my fair town. When I went to start my car this morning, it looked as though someone sprayed mud all over it. I thought I was the victim of vandalism, but a cursory look around the parking lot revealed that everyone else was, too. I've never heard of this before in my life. Apparently, the car wash union in town did the correct rain dance for muddy waters.

When I went to wash my car after work, the lines were incredibly long, and the wash bays weren't designed for such lengthy queues. I sat there for what must have felt like three hours. It was probably only twenty minutes. One thing I noticed was that everyone was really giving their autos a thorough cleaning, as if they had just ferried it back from a long night in Amsterdam with no inhibitions. The rough, tattooed dudes in front of me with a giant truck containing a motorcycle in the bed were treating their manly vehicle like it was a freshman girl's pink VW Bug. They inserted quarter after quarter in the machine like the US dollar was going out of style. They were nice enough to let me absorb seven minutes of prime wash time which they overspent.

Back where I'm from, people don't spend twenty bucks on car washes. We wet it down, soap it up, then rinse it off. Seems pretty simple. That's what I did tonight. It looked mighty fine when I split from the "? Y Not ?" (the actual name of the place). But when I got home, the windows and body had a thin layer of brown dust on them. What? What is in this horrible Texas air that it remains sooty? Good thing I didn't go running outside today. Well, I've learned my lesson: never wash my car. If I must do it, then I should chamois it off before I screech down the road. Who knew car maintenance could be so difficult? I wish Steve from Performance Tire and Wheel could tell me everything is going to be alright. He'll know what's up and say that this reign of dirty air will be brief and non-recurring. It was caused by the ghosts of the dust bowl who are upset because of our cavalier use of air conditioning.

Has anyone ever heard of muddy rain? None of the weather people down here are explaining it, they're just reporting that it happened. Yeah, I could tell on my own, douche bags.

UPDATE: I finally read the entirety of the above linked article, which blamed the rain on a dust storm from NM. Fine, I guess. But those weather people can still kiss my ass for allowing this to happen.

Supes

I am a hopeless film-score-o-phile. It would be nice to consider my obsession with books or movies as more dangerously addictive, but that would be a lie. Nothing can tempt me to wrest legal tender from my wallet like a fixed medium film score recording.

For anyone who doesn't know exactly what these are, here's a simple definition: it is music composed for a film. The word score comes from the name of instructions for the musical direction, also known as sheet music. However, the wording is tricky. They are often called "original motion picture soundtracks," "original scores," "soundtracks," "film music," "music from the film," etc. This confuses a lot of people, because many times a soundtrack is sold referring to the collection of licensed songs (often pop songs) that accompany a movie. In that case, the score comes out months later, if at all. Most of the populace who buy movie-related CDs buy the collection soundtracks. These are the types of music they are used to and like a lot. These buyers sometimes attach a deeper meaning to them in relation to the movie, or they aren't available anywhere else (like the Chili Peppers' cover of Love Rollercoaster in Beavis and Butthead Do America*). It irks film score fans to the nth degree when we read a review on Amazon.com for a score album in which the reviewer bashes it for being just the boring orchestra when what they really wanted was the bitchin' new Shins song. They are different things, my sad friend.

I agree that most people don't and shouldn't share my kind of sick obsession for this kind of music. However, despite the lack of massive awareness and understanding, much rich and varied pleasure can be had from listening to and reading about film scores. I don't recommend it, though, because it is an expensive proposition.

Case in point, I repeatedly go through periods in my life when cash flow is trickling to a drip and I must control my spending habits. This usually leads me to cut off film scores completely. New ones are $15, used ones are $8, and limited editions of old ones are $20. On average, I probably obtain 4 per month. However, this isn't a good mean, because I go on benders like an alcoholic. 10 used CDs from Amazon is a restraint, not a splurge. And the limited editions are limited, so I really have to resist the temptation, because I know that they might not last. Usually the editions run in pressings of 3,000, and most times there aren't enough film score fans to buy them, but sometimes I'm surprised. George Fenton's score to 84 Charing Cross Road, a delightful film, sold out in less that a week, before it even was available for shipping. What? But great scores like Elmer Bernstein's rejected score for Saturn III are still available. Unbelievable!

So it was, when 2008 began as an exercise in self-discipline. I was trying to hold out, planning only those selections which would be sure things. [Most of the time you can hear samples of the music online, but you really never know what the album will sound like until you see the movie or hear the disc. Sometimes it varies a lot from movie to disc, like James Horner's The New World. Sometimes you don't really want to watch a terrible film to hear a good score, like EB's non-score for Saturn III.] Well, until last week, I was strolling along rather proud of myself having been successfully abstinent thus far. It was then that I noticed the announcement for a certifiable event: the man of steel in a big blue box. Normal CDs come and go, they are cheap enough to get on impulse and not feel too bad about it. Boxed sets are different, because they cost between $50 and $200. I had been waiting to save up for the final LOTR: ROTK complete set and/or Autumn Thunder: 10 discs of NFL Films music, which is hard because so many new and old scores keep surfacing. What do these publishers think I'm made of, pure Colombian cocaine? Well, this news was different, and it got me out of my self-imposed purchasing exile.

It was Superman, a score that I already own twice over (one a re-recording and another the most recent restoration in 2000). So, why on earth would I pay an inordinate amount of money for another one? Because the audio is better than the others. Because it's more complete. Because it comes in a boxed set with the previously unreleased scores for 2, 3, IV, the '88 animated series and the most comprehensive set of liner notes (160 pages) for a film score release! Also, it's limited to 3,000 copies. That was the deciding factor. I couldn't miss out on that stuff. It would be like collecting 60s British rock and roll records and not having any Beatles. So I placed my order and it came in today. Right now I'm listening to all the glorious variations of trumpeted fanfare that only Johnny T. can provide. For those who doubt the thematic richness of the Superman films' music, it is at least as good as Star Wars. I'm not just saying that, either. The fact that Giorgio Moroder's score for Midnight Express beat JW for the Oscar in 1978 is another example of how the Academy Awards can't be always be trusted.

So, now that I'm back off the wagon, I feel like a lecherous drunk who will buy some Night Train from a troll under the bridge if he'll take a broken Casio watch as payment. It is in these perilous times that I might get the score to Invasion U.S.A. in the mail just because it has a picture of Chuck Norris firing two uzis on the front cover when I should really be getting the new score to Rambo by Brian Tyler. However, since I'm writing this, I realize that I will need to go back to my meetings and stop the madness. Hi, my name is Bravo de la Tromeo, and I'm an...

If you have made it this far, dear reader, you have some great stamina. I do want to mention a few remaining things. Film scores are one of the most diverse and exciting forms of music being made today. Like any other kind of music, the quality and output vary by composer and musician. Film scores don't have to be a symphonic delight, nor do they have to be boring underscore that exists just for tone. They can be played by a rock band, done entirely by one instrument, be entirely vocalized, be performed on tin cans and cacti, or utilize sound effects like jaguars roaring. Sometimes they will surprise you and delight you. They certainly have their place and time. You don't want to listen to them at a party. And it takes a special kind of person to play Star Wars' "Throne Room [End Titles]" at their wedding. But the next time you watch a movie that you are familiar with, see if you notice anything about the music and if it does anything for you. Most of the time people are not supposed to notice because they are too wrapped up in the storytelling, which is the mark of a good composer. However, if you do notice it, what do you think?

I'm usually thinking, I can probably skip this one again, Christophe Beck.

*It was also available as a single, which few people buy anymore on CDs.

I'll do it a little later...

Is it procrastinating on writing a new post by writing a new post on procrastination? Well, if anything, that's a hard sentence to read, so I guess I did something.

Most motivational books written with advice or tips on accomplishing what you want in life advocate these actions: deciding on your goals, writing them down, discover and write down the steps to succeed for each goal, then do the steps, one by one. That's an admirable lesson, waiting, ever so patiently, to be learned by me. If I had done this, then I would probably already have had my name on a movie poster somewhere, crashed an expensive foreign car into a the back of another expensive foreign car that I smashed into a tree earlier, become an explosives expert, and written the great American novel that moves readers to tears while also being nothing but a taut, action-thriller involving a nuclear meltdown, a circus strongman, a feisty news anchorwoman, and a cigarette truck. Alas, this remains to be done because I haven't made those dang lists. That's the only reason!

Well, maybe not. Those things have a lot to do with talent, luck and a lack of brains. I won't disclose which is associated with which. But procrastination, I would like to wager, is also a big part of it. What happens when you want to do something, but it kinda seems like it's going to take a long time? If you're me, then you want to prep first, not by getting out pen and paper while meditating on some serious thinking, but rather by warming up the old noggin by watching an episode or two of my favorite TV show(s). My brain usually thinks this is the best way to start out because it's preferable not to strain yourself at the get go and prematurely bonk out. That's the key to running a long race, anyway. For serious.

So, after a hearty dose of TV, rather than being invigorated, I'm usually kinda tired and lethargic. I know, maybe some food will help. Hmmm, let's see...something that's easy to make and even easier to eat. Hopefully, it's something that's already made. Oatmeal cream pies it is! After a few of those (I don't want to go overboard), I'll go back to the couch and ruminate on my current situation. But now I'm already a little confused. What was it that I wanted to do in the first place? Oh yeah, start on that movie career. Ugh, that sounds like a BIG project. Maybe I should do some research by watching a movie. Or two.

Four to six hours later, it's getting pretty late. I'm told that responsible people go to bed by midnight, but since it's only two o'clock ante meridiem, I haven't shot too far past that, and therefore I don't feel so bad. However, I do have to work tomorrow, so I should probably start to think about going to bed; I am kinda tired. Okay, so I didn't get started on the movie career tonight, but I'll get to it tomorrow. In the meantime, I'll keep a pad of notes next to my bed just in case I wake up in a fit of inspiration. Laying down to sleep, I think about the novel that wins me accolades for inspiring a new generation of firefighters and ethical news persons. And then I think about explosions. After drifting off into a deep REM sleep, I wake up suddenly, due to an extreme case of genius. The solution to all of my plot problems, and Hollywood social issues, is sitting at the front of my brain, raising its glorious hand just waiting to be called upon. Wait, though, because I'm getting drowsy rather quickly. I fumble around for my notes, but then I realize my pen is in the other room. Oh well, I'll probably remember it in the morning. I mean, it's really good.

The morning comes and I'm running late for work, mostly because I'm tired from the night before. I make it on time, because that's how I roll, but I feel like I'm strung out and other people make that observation, too. I sit at my desk, thinking about all that work I need to do, but before I get into all of those lists and tasks, I'm desperately trying to resurrect that genius thought that will someday give reason to create an entry in the Dictionary of National Biography under the heading: Bravo de la Tromeo -- Writer -- Raconteur -- Explosives Expert -- All-around Good Guy.

Vanishing Point

Some days I think that I have the best job in the world. Yesterday was one of those days.

An old man called into the reference desk with a rambling story in which a question was buried somewhere. Most people might have stopped him at some point, said that we couldn't help him directly, and then offer to save him time and refer elsewhere. This tactic is probably the most appropriate for our resources and his. However, I chose to listen to him and prod him with the occasional request for clarification or play him for a tune that he didn't know was in front of him. That's a good reference interview. But after an hour I couldn't get anything out of him. He is old and had trouble seeing the forest for the trees; everything was a detail that meant a roadblock to the overall picture for me. He was working it backwards, going from the inside out, instead of starting with a broad, general overview of the entire problem and working our way in, like I'm used to doing. What made me stay on the line, though, was his story.

For the sake of privacy and ethics, I can't relate it here. I know that's a tease and a half, so I'm sorry. Yet, it involved some high-ranking antics from a war that involved most of the world a long time ago (hint-hint). The interesting part was that the things he was saying were pretty far-fetched. He sounded genuine and he didn't seem senile, so I wanted to believe his unbelievable tale. He actually came and visited the library later that evening when I wasn't there. I spoke to my boss who handled him and we discussed the merits of his plight. She said that he had a really tight case with his version and produced a lot of credible and genuine documents. We're talking signed by dudes who were appointed by the president. It's hard not to believe him. But still...

The argument boils down to a conspiracy, which are always fun to play out, but almost always fall into much ado about nothing. Evidence is conveniently never found, and victims are described as morally or ethically suspect or just plain stupid. This guy doesn't seem to be any of these. When we extrapolate his situation, it requires us to guess about motives and events that may or may not have happened. It would require a lot of further research, which is maddening, because we don't have the time or resources to devote to this and neither does he. Every time more information is needed, ten questions pop up that necessitate investigation. Each one of those poses the same risk.

On top of his story, there lies a threat. Information is a dangerous product. He claims to have obtained classified information that resulted in a congressional aide being fired. He also claims to have had files from his house stolen (not the important stuff) and an arson attempt on his property. He swears that people are surveilling him from his street. If true, this makes a person think twice about getting in too deep with him. He's probably just paranoid, but the logical leaps a person must take with his story say otherwise; this is the kind of thing that people could try to keep quiet.

But why? If it happened so long ago, why not give an honest assessment and admit wrongs, forgive and move on? What would someone today have to profit from suppressing the truth of some despicable action over sixty years ago? These all make the intrigue much greater.

I know that this is all frustrating and not much fun to read since you don't have any details. So I guess I'll just make up something along the same lines.

During World War II, secret operations needed to remain secret. However, oversight was necessary by congress to make sure that money isn't being wasted or stolen. But what if it was? What if you wanted to use it for your own purposes? How much could someone cover up? Enough to make a company profitable? Enough to make retirement accounts for all involved? It's like stolen loot. But what if the loss of it resulted in honorable people losing their lives? How do you explain that? How many people can keep a secret? What if the score was too big to hide? How is this done? Well, if you had connections here, there and everywhere, you could take it away from another department of the government, declare their records as classified for national security reasons until some far off date in the future, and when the truth comes out you'll be dead after hopefully living a long, happy, and guiltless life. Well, it's 2008 and things are being declassified left and right. And some people are still alive who continue to give a damn.

Well, now come on! That sounds ridiculous. So many people would have to be culpable, and what would their reward be? Even now? But that's what we're left with. These things don't point to errors or massive incompetence, which would be unbelievable, too. No, this requires purposeful human deception. This is how mysteries are made. Mysteries that will never be solved. The bureaucracy is too big, the affected too small. People like this old man, who is looking for justice based on principle, are really looking for an explanation at which we can only guess. It makes me a little sad to think that almost everyone doesn't believe him, and that he has such an uphill battle to climb in the waning years of his life. But it is his quest and I'm glad to have heard about it and maybe be a rung of help along the way. I would love to participate in uncovering a bizarre truth or righting a long-running wrong. I just don't think it's going to happen here, unless some hero historian is willing to step up and field this one.

These conspiracies are so attractive, because they lead the imagination in wild directions. These have unexplained facts and documents that shouldn't normally be in existence. So why are they? Well, follow them down the rabbit hole and you'll eventually chase it down a hallway that ends with doors and windows that are bricked up. Someone had to do it. That's the intriguing part.

Dreamland

Could there be a more frightening place? Well, if you're me, probably not.

Let's move to a better topic - Naps. I just awoke from a temporary slumber on my long leather couch. Like the Pearson couches (but not as nice), it is a trap. If you sit on it for more than thirty minutes, then seventy-five percent of the time you will move into a lower position, that of horizontal, in an effort to gain in comfort. This is the trap. Because it's already comfortable enough. There's no need to lie down. Yet, one does anyway. The rest is inevitable. You WILL fall asleep; it's only a matter of time. How long can a person hold out? No one is strong enough.

Some people feel bad and learn their lesson. They didn't mean to take a nap - it just happened. They are sorry because of all the other things they had to do didn't get done and their only excuse is a nap, which doesn't sound like the evil trap that it is to other people. They just think that you are lazy. But what about those people who don't learn their lesson? They just keep going back to the couch, knowing full well what's going to happen. Their papers are in order on the coffee table, a little timer has been set, and they sit down with care. Lying back and stretching out, they close their eyes in grateful relief. Then someone else walks callously into the room, causing all kinds of commotion. They look on your lifeless body for a fraction of a second before you are awake, eyes wide open, breathing a little heavily. You stammer out, "It's not what it looks like!" But they just hang their head, shaking it from side to side.

Most of my naps come with weird dreams. It seems that if you are already awake and then go back to sleep, then you are guaranteed to have messed up dreams. Someone's probably done a lot of research on the subject, but I'm a little dehydrated right now and lack the energy or desire to look that up. However, today I noticed a repeating pattern to my nap-induced dreams. They follow this question: What if Quantum Leap was just a dream? I apologize to major fans of that show if it really was a dream; I lost track of it in the later seasons and didn't see the finale.

What happens is usually my dream self is either doing something normal in the present or past and finds a deliberate clue that indicates he is not in his natural time and belong in the past or present, respectively. [This is similar to the plot of Somewhere in Time, which I think is the most romantic movie ever, and it stars Superman and Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman to boot!] After my dream self encounters this revelation, my actual self wakes with a start. I come to my senses and realize, Phew, it was just a dream!

I wish I could entreat you to a great story of such a dream, but today, after I woke up thinking this would make a good post, I went to write down the specifics of the dream and by the time pencil hit paper, it was gone. There's just a small window when the dream-that-seemed-so-real lingers in your conscious mind and you can't wait to tell someone how amazing or prophetic or colorful it was. But by the time you write it down or find some poor soul to regale it with, it has morphed into an incomprehensible mess that doesn't make sense and leaves you seeming like a crazed lunatic. Maybe you are crazy and that's the truth, and the Sandman is an evil genius who laces you with a drug as you exit his surreal world which makes you believe your crazy dreams. The trouble, for him, is that the effects wear off quickly. Lucky for us.

Can you think of any other movies or stories that involve a premise where it was all a dream? I can only think of one, but I won't tell and spoil it for someone else. I'm sure there are a few more.

Now, as I finish typing, will I realize this post was all a dream? Ahhhhh!

P.S. If you are looking for a horror movie about dreams that is actually scary, check out Dreamscape with Dennis Quaid. It is very, very....strange.