Ten Thousand Songs in My Lap

Lately, I’ve been going through my iTunes library, cleaning up files and adding artwork and adjusting settings and labels and things like that. I’ve got all sorts of stuff on there — books and poetry and sound effects and television shows and even whole movies. Also, there’s quite a lot of music. All in all, there’s over ten thousand individual tracks on my laptop and my iPod.

The shortest is just a second or so, long enough for Eric Cartman to say “Democrats piss me off.”

The longest track is the first section of Neil Gaiman’s American Gods. It’s over seven hours long.

Guiltiest Pleasure: Britney Spears’ (I Got That) Boom Boom.

Oddest Track: I’ve got a recording of William S. Burroughs chanting his way through REM’s “Star Me Kitten” — which is certainly odd, deeply disturbing, and remarkably still available if you’re interested in that sort of thing.

Most Mysterious: I have no idea where or how I got “Face Down” by something called Katie Todd Band, causing me to wonder if it’s possible that iTunes is somehow spamming me with unsolicited downloads on the off chance that I might like something enough to buy the album? (Sorry Katie, not this time.)

Favorite Track(s): “Walker” Soundtrack by Joe Strummer. I bought the cassette of this back in high school and listened to it so much that it finally broke. I repaired it with scotch tape and it was a sad day when the tape player in my car ate it once and for all. It went out of print fairly quickly (apparently there isn’t much demand for mariachi music soundtracks composed by former punk legends for unsuccessful independent movies about obscure points in Mexican history directed by lunatics). From time to time, I’d check eBay where CD’s were going for ninety bucks or more. I once debated buying an LP version for forty but decided against it, much to my regret. Once in a while, I’d find the odd track through Limewire — someone who had ripped the LP into MP3, so you could hear the hiss and pop of the turntable and feel like you were really there. A few months ago it suddenly appeared on the iTunes Music Store and there was much rejoicing and clicking of the impulse-buy-gotta-have-it-now-dammit mouse button. And now I’m playing the hell out of it. Just like when I was young.

Although . . . according to the little iTunes playcount thingy, the track I listen to the most is “Comptine D’un Autre Été: L’après Midi” from Yann Tiersen’s soundtrack for Le Fabuleux Destin d’Amélie Poulain — probably because it’s one of the first tracks on a soundtrack I created for the novel I’m writing. I usually end up listening to it at least once a day.

On the soundtrack, it’s called “Family Portrait / Driving to School” and it’s perfect for cold winter mornings, which are finally here.

typogenerator

Something that looks (and works) this simple probably isn’t simple at all.

Here’s how it works: …the user types some text; typoGenerator searches images.google for the text and creates a background from the found images, using randomly chosen effects. then it places the text, using random effects too.

Yeah. I bet it’s not simple at all. Either way, I had to force myself to stop playing with it.

(Link scavenged from CBO, aka gonzo blogger Rageboy, aka the coauthor of Cluetrain Manifesto, Chris Locke.)

And then he guessed my weight…

Sitting in an early morning meeting this morning with five salespeople I’ve never met before in my life, I mentioned being from out of state and someone asked where I was from.

Before I could answer, one of the other guys at the table said “You’re from Virginia.”

Which is, of course, entirely true — I was born in Virginia but moved out of state when I was three or four years old.

Strange thing is, this guy caught that in my voice. There’s some thirty-plus year olf remnant of a southern accent lurking in there somewhere.

I was impressed and told him so. Then someone else at the table chimed in: “Yeah, but don’t be too impressed. His track record isn’t perfect.”

Seems that the last time the guy pulled his carnival act, he detected a faint drawl in a prospective customer’s voice and asked her where she was from. She told him that she was from Michigan, born and bred. But he wouldn’t let it go, commenting throughout the meeting on her southern accent.

Later, he found out that she had a stroke two or three years before that left her with permanent damage to her speech centers. I didn’t ask if he got her business.

At the end of my meeting this morning, the Dutch Kreskin asked me what T.M. stood for.

I told him to take a wild guess.