Don’t get me wrong, I love Tumblr. But whenever I post something that is dubious, such as having a song with the title “Peasant in the Big Sh!tty,” it will not upload, or if it is a video, it gets ornery. It has lost many a post for me in the past. I don’t let it get me down. Minus the sound file, here is the post that Tumblr is failing at right now:
[The soundfile can be played directly from http://anonymous-infinity.com/temp-music/medleymuddle.mp3.]
© 1977 The Stranglers, © 2006 Belle & Sebastian. This is just totally ridiculous, but I can occasionally hear my name in songs. Statistically that is normal of course, not meaning I’m some kind of statistic, but the way consonants form, and formant frequencies for vowels are everywhere—an orchestra of 100 detuned (retuned) electric guitars can produce in their wash of tight harmonics, too tight perhaps, accidental formants of any vowel of any voice or of any instrument. I have written about this on my http://anonymous-infinity.com website, but the link has been intentionally broken by me until I bring some ideas up-to-date.
The first example is Belle & Sebastian, “The Blues are Still Blue” (The Life Pursuit). I hear my last name (“Whincop”) sung in the main vocals, then by the backing vocals. Totally stupid of me.
The second example is twofold: the first is the live version of The Stranglers’ “Peasant in the Big Sh!tty” (Rattus Norvegicus, CD version only; it wasn’t on the original 1977 LP, and I do not know when the live recording was made), where I can very clearly hear my name, almost overdubbed, to be honest, listen, it is very odd; followed by the No More Heroes studio version, also 1977, in which my name hasn’t been “overdubbed”! Yes, silly.
But I have my ears open in a world of misplaced phonemes as my nose seemed to be in a world of overly-placed pheromones. I will try to find my soundfiles of various machines and various clanking things, which just for a few months made my name. Why not? Well, I’m always in the same place. They tried to deliver me backwards, and then they treated me as the most [regular expressions back reference] person I know. More of that paranoid malady kicking me there and here and back again, more of that psychotic backlash, I think. I’ll sign the I-94 next time and skip my green card: within a three-month waiver, goodbye to my real woe for good. Yesterday here, and a future gone today.
Oh, here’s a thought, what really does “Make my day” mean, and why? And, as they say, don’t wait for it, because it is already here. It is T. Time. Make my day, court some pride, dip in your right toe as hokey as it is, “but”s are not there to be “if”fed, a Time as good as any will be 3/14/2011 at the Enormous Room. Think about the name of that place. And why the elephant. Was B a weight off my chest in his grayness as a special chest T the color of an E? Fur shure. Just like the masters of microphony. Just like Für Elise, by Ludwig van. For release, for real ease. I am dulled; I am only part sui generis. But I only partly coincide with anyone else, ipso facto.
It’s a pity Beat Research Experimental Party Music* won’t be on the Tuesday of that week. But the difference there is one of frequency. Here is the blurb. Apparently I will be there doing something with Prof. Stefan Helmreich from MIT’s Anthropology Department, who is somehow connected to Negativland Research Label, and I have discovered that I am a “deconvolution expert” though that is fairly crap as I preach the unlikeness of deconvolution to my classes every semester and only recently on a film that Verena Paravel made, a Skype of her interviewing both Stefan and me, I explain that very fact. It may have been circumcised, as two hours of footage became 20 mins, and somehow it has become Stefan interviewing me in a film by Verena, ostensibly on “What Separates Us.” I am confused.
Well. I’d like to get my lingualobia around that title, and olfactolobia around the change of roles, which, as with rolls of films, will probably just be editing blah (I think Stefan and Verena are doing it, I wish the lusion had been an inkling and not an eyeballing or merely a clue. I wonder what the lingualobia interpretation of “deconvolution expert” (from Harvard and MIT, apparently!) is. If Beat Research had not existed longer than the last few years, I would say that...
... it is better said elsewhere, lest I court bad feelings from my friend and occasional collaborator, sgh2, as I call him. I am lucky, but not by being lucky.
I can’t stand it that my internet port monitor shows oh so very surprisingly regular attacks/seeks/even connections on my laptop, how it has no functioning airport card but still transmits, according to the monitor application—i.e., I am avoiding inventing things when saying things like this since they can be misconstrued as overly paranoid, but with log files, that is safe. Like when I was mugged, I lost my disks, all of them, a Drobo system. I lost my laptop, all my IDs including NZ passport and US green card. My SIM card for my iPhone (but not my iPhone; it was an odd thing that night that I very distinctly separated out the two). I lost a lot.
Three days later, the front panel of my Drobo appeared in my office (which has very limited access, although RFID readers can be fooled; I didn’t lose my MIT ID or my real school ID). Magic. Wow. But no Drobo itself. No disks. Just a scrap of paper indicating—which I stupidly discarded in anger—that someone has been “stealing my music”! Hence my obsession earlier in the blog. Know I know how metonymic that theft was (and it was real, losers all of them, using a file extraction technique known in forensics as disk siphoning or sucking, also thermal coupling, and in tension-bluffing some magnetic field of disk thing, attraction/repulsion, where the “pro-magnet” lies beside the passive device, well, the lying is relative to the angle of the passive device, and the activest one, not the passivest one, draws on the others (I don’t know even the basics, it can be done without me noticing, as it was over, god, I don’t know, I composed so much, the over-bit seek would have needed, including remixing data chunks, I dunno. In any case, I imagine, facing this head on, even using a two-faced twin seek-head and many write-heads, this still would have taken time, so as to identify what would be taken, or inserted, yes, inserted. I thought it was a frat prank, and if that is even remotely suggested in earlier posts, I retract those suggestions, the older frat idea is long on its way to the giant refuse tip in the sea or sky of suspicion. Apparently, just once, I might have been confident enough to assert such things, but, whatever, yeah, another whatev. Meh.
My poor iPhone, it would say, “no SIM card installed!” I could do some things in a wireless network, and write notes, etc. Then I answered a call from NZ, and we usually chat for 30 minutes or so. I hung up. Holy SIMulated exclamation, Batman! Not only had my SIM card been returned, but it had been put back in the iPhone that I had (over the week following the mugging) lost, only for a couple of hours at a time, three times—returned to my classroom each time! I was lucky.
I have only lost my iPhone one other time, $600 permanently, and I unfortunately worked out who it was months after a close friend and I lost touch, so couldn’t ask her help in the matter. Yet another phone (or telephone?) goes nowhere; I only get enraged, really angry... ugh. Over you. Every aspect resonates so awfully with this incident.
Really and truly. The Material Dialectic (Marxist term) has its way.
So my SIM card reappearing was pretty much a relief. My backpack wasn’t returned but my laptop was! (Of course the disks are history.) Someone apparently found the backpack and laptop soon after the mugging, like well under an hour, surveillance video shows. I asked for this not to be followed up on, though I did need a police report for insurance reasons. Due to the way the night unfolded, I made sure I was walking in a commercial area at 3–6a that July night in Allston (but why was I there at all? Wait for the 2hr film, which I swear I will make one day, over my dead body only will that not happen).
Banks, trucking yards, etc. (Good for the film.) But as pursued as I was, I didn’t want to pursue things except on my own. The laptop was brought to the local precinct around three hours after it was found; the backpack—bright creamsicle orange—was hung on a fence. That was somewhat a relief. Interestingly, I know that that three hour window exists. How? I checked the /var/log, and all the other logs, including those of browser caches last-access timestamps. The computer had been turned on, logged into successfully the first time (and it was off at the time, plus it is never in a state of not being password locked, e.g., by the screensaver), and absolutely rifled through, and basically copied, and many files swapped, though with unaltered timestamps. That requires some Unix know-how. But not enough not to cover tracks. Or... on purpose? Or... not the cunning control-center squad, just the hit-and-run with a little assault-and-battery squad. Battery, cell phone, get it, get it? I real funny.
So when I see connections that I have deemed somewhat safe—I have a decent firewall as well as a port/socket monitor and I never use wireless (hard to do with a broken airport card, broken only after I took it in to be fixed at a “genius bar”)—come knocking my laptop’s door. Some from within the LAN I suppose, not that I have enabled that kind of searching or permission—one can be picky on a Mac, and I was. Naturally I do not need to be worried about the Music Department’s computers actually connecting with mine, I am not sure how, but they do somehow. I am in a music department classroom. D’uh. And the liquid battery computers, and a/vcomputers, which are in the same sub-infinite corridor as me, naturally stray. Who knows where mine shows up.
I hope nowhere since under “Sharing” in my System Preferences I have nothing checked. I am unsure why, in the connections that can be made, something from Comcast in New Jersey (or nj.comcast.net) can appear.
I have run out of steam. I had so many photos to put up, and my new piano piece is begging to be written and to be distributed freely—I find it quite beautiful (can I say that?), a little disturbing, but calming; it breathes slowly and slightly. I always think I will stop this wretched blog and just post the addresses to a very odd place, let’s say Facebook and a million book and CD reviews I will spam! Get real, that’s not style. Not mine, anyway. These are linked to from my web pages—two portals I suppose aside from Tumblr and Blogspot—and actually from BeBo, and Scribd, and the rest. But I will retire soon as there are more important things to do.
I had something to say about the rebuilding of ChCh in NZ—at least the article seemed to be about that. Apparently New Zealand is, across the world, the most heavily insured nation. Insurance is not only fiscal and property. It is a very very complicated thing, and that is why actuaries spend years training after getting their very difficult math degrees. Nothing should be taken for granted; there are so many exigencies, so many possibilities. Not all bases can be covered, but it is a game theory, a game of theory. It is patience, it is time, it is past failure, it is probably future failure; it is not winning or losing; it is safeguarding exactly that which you think MUST be safeguarded, even if the flames and the thieves know the vulnerabilities. It is about others, and looking after them. It is taking care of things, it is a lifetime of good habits and planning (with glitches, yeah, they happen, hence the predicament, exploited by those very far from me. Or, actually, such people don’t know me). There are one or two extremely good policies to take out (in addition to an ongoing not-overdone “bubble”).
Not so secret, fairly mind-numbingly boring (such is insurance and my previous paragraphs), yes, ...
Someone made a mistake! Oops!—I’m saying that on their behalf. Big boo-boo. You needed to light a candle the old fashioned way, as a beacon of some kind of hope, I imagine. You couldn’t find your arsenal of things to strike. Your clip. Your magazine. Your, I forget the word for getting the kettle boiling in England, tinder? But the candle started burning (and is flickering). You met your match. Groan. Game (theory), set (theory), and
*Oh, the full Beat Research blurb:–
[The soundfile can be played directly from http://anonymous-infinity.com/temp-music/medleymuddle.mp3.]
© 1977 The Stranglers, © 2006 Belle & Sebastian. This is just totally ridiculous, but I can occasionally hear my name in songs. Statistically that is normal of course, not meaning I’m some kind of statistic, but the way consonants form, and formant frequencies for vowels are everywhere—an orchestra of 100 detuned (retuned) electric guitars can produce in their wash of tight harmonics, too tight perhaps, accidental formants of any vowel of any voice or of any instrument. I have written about this on my http://anonymous-infinity.com website, but the link has been intentionally broken by me until I bring some ideas up-to-date.
The first example is Belle & Sebastian, “The Blues are Still Blue” (The Life Pursuit). I hear my last name (“Whincop”) sung in the main vocals, then by the backing vocals. Totally stupid of me.
The second example is twofold: the first is the live version of The Stranglers’ “Peasant in the Big Sh!tty” (Rattus Norvegicus, CD version only; it wasn’t on the original 1977 LP, and I do not know when the live recording was made), where I can very clearly hear my name, almost overdubbed, to be honest, listen, it is very odd; followed by the No More Heroes studio version, also 1977, in which my name hasn’t been “overdubbed”! Yes, silly.
But I have my ears open in a world of misplaced phonemes as my nose seemed to be in a world of overly-placed pheromones. I will try to find my soundfiles of various machines and various clanking things, which just for a few months made my name. Why not? Well, I’m always in the same place. They tried to deliver me backwards, and then they treated me as the most [regular expressions back reference] person I know. More of that paranoid malady kicking me there and here and back again, more of that psychotic backlash, I think. I’ll sign the I-94 next time and skip my green card: within a three-month waiver, goodbye to my real woe for good. Yesterday here, and a future gone today.
Oh, here’s a thought, what really does “Make my day” mean, and why? And, as they say, don’t wait for it, because it is already here. It is T. Time. Make my day, court some pride, dip in your right toe as hokey as it is, “but”s are not there to be “if”fed, a Time as good as any will be 3/14/2011 at the Enormous Room. Think about the name of that place. And why the elephant. Was B a weight off my chest in his grayness as a special chest T the color of an E? Fur shure. Just like the masters of microphony. Just like Für Elise, by Ludwig van. For release, for real ease. I am dulled; I am only part sui generis. But I only partly coincide with anyone else, ipso facto.
It’s a pity Beat Research Experimental Party Music* won’t be on the Tuesday of that week. But the difference there is one of frequency. Here is the blurb. Apparently I will be there doing something with Prof. Stefan Helmreich from MIT’s Anthropology Department, who is somehow connected to Negativland Research Label, and I have discovered that I am a “deconvolution expert” though that is fairly crap as I preach the unlikeness of deconvolution to my classes every semester and only recently on a film that Verena Paravel made, a Skype of her interviewing both Stefan and me, I explain that very fact. It may have been circumcised, as two hours of footage became 20 mins, and somehow it has become Stefan interviewing me in a film by Verena, ostensibly on “What Separates Us.” I am confused.
Well. I’d like to get my lingualobia around that title, and olfactolobia around the change of roles, which, as with rolls of films, will probably just be editing blah (I think Stefan and Verena are doing it, I wish the lusion had been an inkling and not an eyeballing or merely a clue. I wonder what the lingualobia interpretation of “deconvolution expert” (from Harvard and MIT, apparently!) is. If Beat Research had not existed longer than the last few years, I would say that...
... it is better said elsewhere, lest I court bad feelings from my friend and occasional collaborator, sgh2, as I call him. I am lucky, but not by being lucky.
I can’t stand it that my internet port monitor shows oh so very surprisingly regular attacks/seeks/even connections on my laptop, how it has no functioning airport card but still transmits, according to the monitor application—i.e., I am avoiding inventing things when saying things like this since they can be misconstrued as overly paranoid, but with log files, that is safe. Like when I was mugged, I lost my disks, all of them, a Drobo system. I lost my laptop, all my IDs including NZ passport and US green card. My SIM card for my iPhone (but not my iPhone; it was an odd thing that night that I very distinctly separated out the two). I lost a lot.
Three days later, the front panel of my Drobo appeared in my office (which has very limited access, although RFID readers can be fooled; I didn’t lose my MIT ID or my real school ID). Magic. Wow. But no Drobo itself. No disks. Just a scrap of paper indicating—which I stupidly discarded in anger—that someone has been “stealing my music”! Hence my obsession earlier in the blog. Know I know how metonymic that theft was (and it was real, losers all of them, using a file extraction technique known in forensics as disk siphoning or sucking, also thermal coupling, and in tension-bluffing some magnetic field of disk thing, attraction/repulsion, where the “pro-magnet” lies beside the passive device, well, the lying is relative to the angle of the passive device, and the activest one, not the passivest one, draws on the others (I don’t know even the basics, it can be done without me noticing, as it was over, god, I don’t know, I composed so much, the over-bit seek would have needed, including remixing data chunks, I dunno. In any case, I imagine, facing this head on, even using a two-faced twin seek-head and many write-heads, this still would have taken time, so as to identify what would be taken, or inserted, yes, inserted. I thought it was a frat prank, and if that is even remotely suggested in earlier posts, I retract those suggestions, the older frat idea is long on its way to the giant refuse tip in the sea or sky of suspicion. Apparently, just once, I might have been confident enough to assert such things, but, whatever, yeah, another whatev. Meh.
My poor iPhone, it would say, “no SIM card installed!” I could do some things in a wireless network, and write notes, etc. Then I answered a call from NZ, and we usually chat for 30 minutes or so. I hung up. Holy SIMulated exclamation, Batman! Not only had my SIM card been returned, but it had been put back in the iPhone that I had (over the week following the mugging) lost, only for a couple of hours at a time, three times—returned to my classroom each time! I was lucky.
I have only lost my iPhone one other time, $600 permanently, and I unfortunately worked out who it was months after a close friend and I lost touch, so couldn’t ask her help in the matter. Yet another phone (or telephone?) goes nowhere; I only get enraged, really angry... ugh. Over you. Every aspect resonates so awfully with this incident.
Really and truly. The Material Dialectic (Marxist term) has its way.
So my SIM card reappearing was pretty much a relief. My backpack wasn’t returned but my laptop was! (Of course the disks are history.) Someone apparently found the backpack and laptop soon after the mugging, like well under an hour, surveillance video shows. I asked for this not to be followed up on, though I did need a police report for insurance reasons. Due to the way the night unfolded, I made sure I was walking in a commercial area at 3–6a that July night in Allston (but why was I there at all? Wait for the 2hr film, which I swear I will make one day, over my dead body only will that not happen).
Banks, trucking yards, etc. (Good for the film.) But as pursued as I was, I didn’t want to pursue things except on my own. The laptop was brought to the local precinct around three hours after it was found; the backpack—bright creamsicle orange—was hung on a fence. That was somewhat a relief. Interestingly, I know that that three hour window exists. How? I checked the /var/log, and all the other logs, including those of browser caches last-access timestamps. The computer had been turned on, logged into successfully the first time (and it was off at the time, plus it is never in a state of not being password locked, e.g., by the screensaver), and absolutely rifled through, and basically copied, and many files swapped, though with unaltered timestamps. That requires some Unix know-how. But not enough not to cover tracks. Or... on purpose? Or... not the cunning control-center squad, just the hit-and-run with a little assault-and-battery squad. Battery, cell phone, get it, get it? I real funny.
So when I see connections that I have deemed somewhat safe—I have a decent firewall as well as a port/socket monitor and I never use wireless (hard to do with a broken airport card, broken only after I took it in to be fixed at a “genius bar”)—come knocking my laptop’s door. Some from within the LAN I suppose, not that I have enabled that kind of searching or permission—one can be picky on a Mac, and I was. Naturally I do not need to be worried about the Music Department’s computers actually connecting with mine, I am not sure how, but they do somehow. I am in a music department classroom. D’uh. And the liquid battery computers, and a/vcomputers, which are in the same sub-infinite corridor as me, naturally stray. Who knows where mine shows up.
I hope nowhere since under “Sharing” in my System Preferences I have nothing checked. I am unsure why, in the connections that can be made, something from Comcast in New Jersey (or nj.comcast.net) can appear.
I have run out of steam. I had so many photos to put up, and my new piano piece is begging to be written and to be distributed freely—I find it quite beautiful (can I say that?), a little disturbing, but calming; it breathes slowly and slightly. I always think I will stop this wretched blog and just post the addresses to a very odd place, let’s say Facebook and a million book and CD reviews I will spam! Get real, that’s not style. Not mine, anyway. These are linked to from my web pages—two portals I suppose aside from Tumblr and Blogspot—and actually from BeBo, and Scribd, and the rest. But I will retire soon as there are more important things to do.
I had something to say about the rebuilding of ChCh in NZ—at least the article seemed to be about that. Apparently New Zealand is, across the world, the most heavily insured nation. Insurance is not only fiscal and property. It is a very very complicated thing, and that is why actuaries spend years training after getting their very difficult math degrees. Nothing should be taken for granted; there are so many exigencies, so many possibilities. Not all bases can be covered, but it is a game theory, a game of theory. It is patience, it is time, it is past failure, it is probably future failure; it is not winning or losing; it is safeguarding exactly that which you think MUST be safeguarded, even if the flames and the thieves know the vulnerabilities. It is about others, and looking after them. It is taking care of things, it is a lifetime of good habits and planning (with glitches, yeah, they happen, hence the predicament, exploited by those very far from me. Or, actually, such people don’t know me). There are one or two extremely good policies to take out (in addition to an ongoing not-overdone “bubble”).
Not so secret, fairly mind-numbingly boring (such is insurance and my previous paragraphs), yes, ...
Someone made a mistake! Oops!—I’m saying that on their behalf. Big boo-boo. You needed to light a candle the old fashioned way, as a beacon of some kind of hope, I imagine. You couldn’t find your arsenal of things to strike. Your clip. Your magazine. Your, I forget the word for getting the kettle boiling in England, tinder? But the candle started burning (and is flickering). You met your match. Groan. Game (theory), set (theory), and
*Oh, the full Beat Research blurb:–
March 14th
SETI-X and
A Stack of Dusty Records
w/ visuals by
VJ Dziga and TDOGG
A special Beat Research session devoted to cosmic sounds, this week brings representatives of SETI-X, an exiled offshoot of the Search for Extraterrestrial Life, to present their stunning discovery: Scrambles of Earth: The Voyager Interstellar Record, as remixed by extraterrestrials. Audio and video de/convolutions of the Voyager Golden Record, launched into space in 1977.
To round things out, Tim, aka A Stack of Dusty Records, the co-owner of Mystery Train Records in Gloucester, MA, will be digging into his deep space crates and offering some thematic accompaniment, while VJ Dziga mixes and mashes rare NASA footage and other alien sights on the big screen and TDOGG explores further levels of photon manipulation.
