Southern Baptists Spamming Google: A Search Query WTF
While not especially shocking nor deliberately weird, this is perhaps the most perplexing thing I have ever discovered through a search query. For novel research I googled “asthma drugs coma.” I at first thought the page I clicked on was for one of those stupid spam search pages that exist to put ads in your face because it was just a long list of search queries for abortificants. Even a list of fetus flushers is weird, but that’s only the beginning. There were no ads, and the queries weren’t hyperlinks, just ceaseless words in a list. Gems like:
- medications to help induce miscarriage
- powerpoint presentation of acute cholelithisis operation induced acute renal failure and ards
- french bulldog induce vomiting
- can salt baths induce my period
- creatine induced cholestitis
- anxiety induced asthma
- wake induced lucid dream tips
- libs laser induced breakdown spectroscopy fundamentals application ppt
- particle induced x ray emmision system fendi ppt
But that’s not the weird part. The weird part is that the website is run by “Waco Baptist Church.”
Yes, you read that right.
About halfway down this very long list, is a different font that says:
Welcome to the Waco Baptist Church web page. We hope that you find something here that blesses you today.
My best guess is that they are using their site exactly as the search spammers do, as a lure. But instead of flashing ads in your face they are hoping to snag wayward women in order to save their souls, or burn them as witches. This theory is supported in that, sandwiched between “how to self induce a miscarriage using medicine at home” and “alchohol induced dimentia anger” it offers their email address and:
We want this web site to serve the needs of those viewing it. In order to better do that we need to hear from you. Thanks.
Can you just imagine a bunch of Southern Baptist church ladies sitting around in their fancy hats, practical heels and serious faces, brainstorming this list of search queries that potential baby-stranglers would search for? Or more likely it’s some graying pastor with a determined face, running his own google searches into the wee hours of the morning, learning about the ways of wicked women who have induced miscarraige using the dangerously effective abortificant, acupuncture. You know, for research.
But even if the list sought to induce gals who’ve induced miscarraige into the church, who the fuck would find such a list useful? They’re not even hyperlinks! If anyone can shed some light on this weirdness, I’d appreciate it.
Last night on Fourth Street.
A Wordle of the Poetry I Wrote in College
I'm not a valley girl, just a girl who likes similies.
Damnit, there's that word again.
The State of Things
1. Yesterday at the BART station I overheard a guy say he was sacked. There were 2500 people in his department and they got rid of 2000 of them.
2. In the last week I have seen two people in my neighborhood sleeping in their cars
3. My sweetie works in a school. I taught him to play a game that only requires a wall clock but none of the rooms where he works has working clocks
4. My sweetie teaches the kids computer lab. He had a kid recently seriously ask him how to get to "the game that makes a blank screen you can write with." He had another child who did not know what the space bar was for.
The budget cuts continue.
Why did I title the Crystal Castles review “A Pixie in A Blender”?
Imagine the delicate pattern of her wings fluttering frantically. Imagine her screams for help distorted by the glass. Imagine the occasional throb of her tiny fists on the glass. Imagine the vicious never-ending whir of the blades. It goes on and on and yet you know the music of it will change in moments when the pixie runs out of tricks and breath. Now hear the interruption of those blades, the gutteral whipping and whirring, as she uses whatever magic her wand can muster. Imagine the dreadful glittery blood, her tiny bones shaking against the glass. This is what Crystal Castles sounds like.
The Drop
In learning to DJ I have gained an even greater respect for the art of the drop. In mixing it’s the easiest thing to lift the pace of the music slightly up and up throughout the night. The energy in the room goes up and the asses shake it just a wee bit harder.
To do the opposite is far more difficult. We’ve all been on a dancefloor when a careless DJ tosses a slow groove on after a stomper and the crowd disperses. You know this is a real fail when the slow jam is actually a mighty sexy, danceable song, but it’s location after the fast bass makes is seem like the kind of tune that would make you want to change the station. But if you can pull off one of those drops you have a much more dynamic, interesting set than if all the songs volley around the same beats per minute range.
If you want an exemplary DJ in this respect, go see Diplo. As much as I love The Twelves and Miami Horror, Diplo will remain a favorite because he is so good at tempo drops. Befitting his name, you never know when Diplo is going to switch it up and drop a low sexy beat that makes the jumpers switch to vertical humpage (time to dip looooooooow). He dares to play slow lusty numbers after bangers and pulls it off every time.
I have this idea of the well-excuted drop on my mind because there is a beautiful drop Loo & Placido mashup Californication [2Pac feat. Roger Troutman vs. Plump DJ’s vs. Zero Cash] that has me keeping the song on repeat. DJs talk about teasers, grabbing a snippet of the forthcoming song to get the crowd excited about what’s coming up. There’s barely any 2 Pac at the front end of this song. When the teaser comes in at around the two minute mark, “In the city…” it doesn’t sound like it is going to lead you into the familiar 2 Pac tune. There’s exactly thirty seconds of echoing build up followed by the most glorious drop I’ve heard in a long time.
Hip-hop is usually much slower than dance music, surprising to some, even slower than rock and roll. So when that voice sings “California loooooove” the whole room slows down. What slays me about this mashup is, at this point, the song isn’t even mashed; it starts right where it should if you bought it on the juke box. Loo & Placido are essentially having a cigarette break, just throwing that 2 Pac down into the middle of the song, naked as the day it was born, without all the fancy trimmings a DJ provides. They are saying with the wave of a hand, “this shit is so good we are going to serve it to you straight, no chaser. AND YOU ARE GOING TO LOVE IT. AND YOU ARE GOING TO DANCE.”
And it works. There is a gorgeous ecstasy in leaving that steady electro beat for the opening bars of “California Love” that will make you wonder if you have ever heard 2 Pac before, if you were every really listening. It will make you start to wonder what magical powers these two French men harbor in the simple act of selecting and combining songs. They will make you think perhaps every song is going to sound better when delivered by Loo & Placido. That’s one hell of a drop.
Download now or listen on posterous
Loo_&_Placido_–_Californication_(Tupac_vs._Roger_Troutman_vs._Plump_DJs_vs._Zero_Cash).mp3 (10763 KB)
Neologisms
As part of the ongoing crusade to remove trite words from my speech, lately I've taken to using the word "puppycock." This is not to be confused with poppycock. Or rather, it is too be confused so that I may delight in making the correction. I use this word in situations of surprising dismay, such as stubbing my toe or discovering a parking ticket. "Puppycock" is a perfect curse word. It captures something real that civilized people would rather not think about in the space of nine letters. It conveys a clear image of this thing. It is disturbing enough to furrow the brows of my fellow citizens, so that they may join for a moment in my unhappiness. But it is not so disturbing that polite ladies will not sit next to me in the dining hall.
Christopher is a dog lover (considering the context of the curse, I beg you not to read into that) and he does not approve of my use of the word "puppycock." In retaliation, he has taken to using the word "kitty poon." Alas, his blade has reached a tender spot as my psyche wishes I had never heard him utter that terrible phrase. I am not even convinced the phrase existed before he coined it. I suggested he google it to be sure, he declined—a first for the man who, at the whim of an offhand query, spent an hour on Wikipedia last night learning about the Statue of Liberty. I believe he has outdone me. Because no one wants to think about the vag on a kitten. He pointed out that a cat in heat is all too happy to spread the notion but I responded that kittens do not go into heat—only fully mature, womanly cats. Serendipitously we made the discovery that just as "puppycock" sounds like the word "poppycock" "kitty poon" has the benefit of being easily mistaken for "kiddie porn." We look forward to having a conversation that goes something like this:
Christopher: No, no, of course not! What kind of gentleman do you take me for! I would not utter such blasphemy as a simple declaration of displeasure!
Civilized Fellow: Thank goodness! There are women and children present! What did you say then?"
Christopher: I said "kitty poon." KIT-TEE POOHN.
Civilized Fellow: [blank stare]
Christopher: You know! as in the immature snatch of a wee baby kitten!
Civilized Fellow: Come along Margaret. We're going back to the first train car with no air conditioning and the writhing hobo.
The 800 Bus
The 800 is my favorite bus in the Bay Area. This is the bus that goes back and forth from Downtown San Francisco to Berkeley and Oakland in the wee hours of the morning. You have your bar staff getting off work, one-night stands, forlorn lovers and, mostly, working-class partiers. This is the bus that runs only during the hours it is too late to catch the train. The evening is over and there are a lot of stories in those faces.
Most of the time I ride public transit I wrap myself in a book. But on the 800 I’m usually with a friend, and either too pooped or too pumped to read. Instead I find my plots in the desperation of the singles and the eavesdropped sarcasms of couples. I find my character in the swagger and slick coifs of the lovers and the heavy-lids of the night shift workers.
The first time I caught the 800 I sat behind the tall hair of a drag queen. The second time I sat surrounded by a tourist group from Eastern Europe. The whole ride home they sang Communist Party songs while a drunk hobo ingratiated himself into their clan. The most recent time I caught it was the worst. I caught it after a run-in with some bitches itching for a fight at the Denny’s, post-party (Twelves at the Mezz), post-breakfast, indeed so late it was almost early. It seemed at that hour things were a little less festive, a lot more tired and wolrd-weary. But the stories were still there.
Crystal Castles II: A Pixie in a Blender
Crystal Castles reminds me of that episode of Night Court where the judge falls for an art scene punk rocker. The punchline at the end is when he finally hears her album. If I recollect, the nostalgic moment is destroyed by the fact that her music consists solely of a woman screaming by the railroad tracks. Of course Crystal Castles doesn’t sound like a woman screaming by the railroad tracks unless you were to put a a robot symphony in front of her. I draw the connection to the sit-com artist because our hero Harry’s pretentious lover might have screamed a plot point or something to guide the listener, beyond raw shouting. In the same way, despite a great deal of emotional intensity to the music, there is a barrier between Crystal Castles and their audience. On their album II, it’s never explicit what the songs are about, even with helpful titles like “Pap Smear” and “Doe Deer.” Where Alice Glass‘s vocals are actually words they are inscrutably distorted with effects. One gets the impression it is deliberate. Their album art is vague and their website has no bio. Even in concert, Alice explodes, tossing her screaming body across the stage, but almost entirely obscured by smoke. Crystal Castles is a band that’s determined to remain abstract.
The last track, “I Am Made of Chalk” is a fine example. It sounds like a cat being violently transformed into a manatee before dissolving into a puddle of cat-manatee. The catmatee is a thankful accent to the beautiful synth behind that. Otherwise it would be too damn pretty. The balance is perfect, but what it is beyond the soundtrack to a nightmare, I have no idea.
But despite my distrust of any attempts they have to be obtuse, I can’t compare it to the geometric compositions that give our halls of modern art a bad name. No, because unlike a pile of circles and boxes, Crystal Castles is damn effective. Those glitches and loops and shouts stir my blood. Music is the most primal of the arts and their self-titled II succeeds like the sound a of a riot two blocks over. It’s all questions and no answers. They make me gasp, my heart beats faster, like running toward an explosion at a clown convention: bold and bright and bloody and fearful and ugly, with torn rubbery masks and tufts of cotton and feather floating.
Yet, II is so skillfully constructed it strikes the intellect. Their crescendos are perfectly measured. Much is going on in any one song, various sound effects layered in delightfully frightful ways. If you’re the type who’s been trained to think of electronic music as repetitive and unchanging, Crystal Castles will grab you by the eggs—as soon as the keyboard has you convinced there is some kind of pattern, there is something akin to an explosion, usually accompanied by Alice’s voice. On “Doe Deer” it sounds like she is calling to you from Tron, a pixelated cry to save her from the terrible fate of those trapped in video games. It’s music that stirs the imagination. Its alternation of pattern and complexity will entertain the Sudoko-solving side of your brain.
So they are primal while also thoroughly, clinically intellectual. Well Crystal Castles is full of contradictions. They sound masculine and feminine. They have the angry urgency of punk and the cold bass of the dance club. You could call them industrial, but there are too many pretty moments for such a dirty moniker. They whip the chipper sounds of nostalgic video games into a magical brew darker than Rasputina.
The album opens with an interesting enough intro that could be confused with your standard EDM fair. But then it hits you with a wall of beats and bells bliss. It’s like the explosion of a glitter bomb.Therein lies the flux, the back and forth between pattern and chaos.
Take “Intimate.” The song combines a relentless fast keyboard melody with a series of crescendos that give the sensation the song is rising up and up until it hits a static. Which turns into a wash and then there’s that melody again… well I don’t want to give any spoilers, suffice to say the song has more drama than a sci-fi marathon. And did I mention that I have no idea what they’re singing about?
I am tempted to use the word 8-bit. That’s how I came to Crystal Castles, in search of bands that sample the video games of my childhood. But to call Crystal Castles 8-bit is like calling Dickens a soap opera. Most of the 8-bit out there is simplistic and gimmicky at best. If Ethan Kath is building instruments out of Game Boys than that’s all well and good but the music holds its own outside of originality of medium. Any snatches of Mario and Link will be obliterated into abstraction, just like everything else. You are left with something intriguing that refuses to be pinned down by anything that came before it. This is the promise of electronic music: We won’t need instruments because all recorded sounds will be their instruments. The collage possibilities will be infinite. Crystal Castles may be the first band to really deliver on that promise.