For the new years, your Codefairy would like to offer a lament. She loves how many people have written brilliantly about the poor, cancer sufferers and or dearest friends we have lost from AIDS. She mourns for the innocents in Iraq, Afghanistan and Rwanda.
Today she feels she must write a lament
How bitter the year begins
You fight and rise to the top
Discarding unworthy opponents
Yet here you are assaulted by the unwashed
You gave them your greatness
You gave them your power
Now they take it and use it against you
You offered your very substance, your life blood
And they sucked you dry and keep sucking
Now, as you lay dying, you beg for mercy
Their very greed pulls more bits than you can supply
Parasitic executives and share holders have devoured your vast resources
Hollowed carcasses of Excite, NCR and too many to list rotting away
You are strong, but weak prey grows scarce
Poor, poor, AT&T
The users of iPhone, sucking at your teat until you bleed
You have given so much, but get no respect in return
Poor, poor, AT&T
Your screams are heard by no one
They mock you by drawing your image as the deathstar
They can not feel your pain
Like Mother Teresa, you are doomed to die in poverty
Those in need, have more than you can give
Your only hope in death is sainthood, if your bones be found
You know there was a chacce that that hideous twat of loser and his poster girl for retroactive abortion, Sarah Palin could have one the election:
she would simply present a lament. Laments are easy to write, but since you have to kill yourself after a truly good one and your Codefairy won’t leave your for a very, very long time it is fortunately not necessary.
Instead, your petite jeune fleur will leave you with some of her favorite videos to laugh until she can say something meaningful about the worst piece of shit decade since the last time the Republicans held both houses of congress and and the Presidency (Yes, she is looking at you Coolidge)
In the mean time, here is a lesson for all you out there in Codefairy land of what not to say to the hot guy who just took you out on a date :
I mean, like duh! Of course the mussels are fresh.
Now don’t try this at home, but this should get your blood flowing and is safe, barely, for work.
And since New Years is coming up and that pre-teen virgin apparently did not die in child birth, here is another video to make your day. Here is something to cheer you up:
Your Codefairy went with her sweetie and the ‘rents to see the movie, Avatar. Now, dear readers, you know how your demure, petite, jeune femme Codefairy is so often at a loss for words, so she will use some reviews to illustrate the point.
But the movie falls flat with its use of cliches: the over-the-top military evil guy, the slimy corporate guy, the noble savage, etc. It finally offers little hope with violence being the only solution (and it would realistically fail since the company would return with nukes and those bows and arrows would be evaporated).
Your Codefairy completely agrees! She has never seen over the top military guys commanding mercenaries to commit atrocities against innocents… Oh yeah,
And of course, the EVIL corporation destroying indigenous peoples and habitat for profit. That would never happen in this day and age. Your Codefairy must paraphrase Homer Simpson: No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, well …. maybe
Oh and military officials would never display such utter hubris by calling the wanton destruction of life, culture and artifact something dismissive like “shock and awe.” Well hell, you know what is coming.
Cameron’s vision of the future in the Terminator series captured the nightmares and fears created by the military industrial complex and the 80’s “Star Wars” initiative spawned by that bark at the moon, Glen Beck is my aborted love child with Ayn Rand, lunatic Jerry Pournelle.
Avatar captures our fears of a corporate greed that has no moral compass, a tale for the new millenia. And as pleasurable as it was to see Leonardo Dicaprio’s cold, frozen, dead body float past a sinking ship while a spoiled rich twat watched on, well, this is what he does best.
See your Codefairy thinks Cameron knows that much of his audience voted for Bush (four times) and don’t realize their great white god, Ronald Reagan’s atrophied brain did not have enough neurons to control his bowel much less form a cogent thought after about 1940.
He even made fun of his audience. I mean hell, with a 500 bazillion dollar budget he could have named the ore something better than Unobtainium if he wanted to.
No, this was a simple tale for idiots who believe global warming is a conspiracy by post-doctoral students who want to get grants–yeah, fake data so you can make 20K a year while studying and working 18 hour days… woohoo.
Your Codefairy knows a weeee bit about CGI and it is quite accurate to say that all other CGI looks like Steam Boat Willie.
More over, anytime a movie lasts more than two hours and she never thought about her ass hurting (that piece of crap, Paranormal Activity, gave her ass blisters in ten minutes) it must be something special.
Oh, and the soundtrack by James Horner, wow. OK, Apocalypto sucked royal ass and his formulaic music usually makes your Codefairy want to hurl, but, just wow.
Oh and happy pre-teen virgin pops out a screaming brat in a barn day while cow and sheep farts keep them warm or something or other.
OK, the code fairy is back in technicolor. What can she say? She is a capricious bitch but she is always entertaining. And she is here once again.
You see, dear readers, last night on Halloween, the code fairy doffed a costume (something unexpectedly butch like a tie and jacket) and went with her sweety to see Spike Jonze new movie, “Where the Wild Things Are.”
Let me pause for my dear readers who were not raised in North America, perhaps are blind and are reading this via text-to voice, the illiterates, or maybe those whose parents think their version of the “Flying Spaghetti Monster” will be upset. “Where the Wild Things Are” is a book for children that captures the angst, trepidation and unrequited love that haunts the thoughts of any semi conscious pre-adolescent.
Where the Wild Things Are
However, when your dear sweet Codefairy saw the reviews on Yahoo, she was utterly amazed. To wit:”
“Just saw this movie with my adult sister and our children, ages 11, 8, 7, 5, and 5. It played more like a primetime family drama than a kids movie. Lonely kid with a too busy single mom and rotten sister…
<snip>
I do not recommend this as a kid’s movie.”
Jesus Christ on a popsicle stick, did you even read the book? Can you read? Please, please get out more and fuck less. The last thing the world needs is idiots like you popping out more children.
I mean, and really, your sister????? I guess it is some small consolation she was an adult.
Your Codefairy is in a snit. No, not your normal, run of the mill pithy bitch fit, but a full on el encierro rage of a pithy bitch fit. You see the RIAA and Viacom do not get it. So let your Codefairy explain it in terms that even a media executive, if by executive you mean some dry drunk with severe frontal lobe damage from snorting coke off the firm buns of Mexicalli whores, could understand.
Once again your Codefairy knows a weeeee bit about psychobiology. The human brain craves and thrives on content and content is what the RIAA and Viacom have. The Codefairy remembers traveling through the Grateful Dead’s vaults looking at the original tapes of Jerry Garcia playing at the Santa Cruz folk-life festival in 1958. Now understand, dearest readers, that your Codefairy has never done nearly enough sugar-cubes to appreciate the Dead and spinning in tie-dyes only makes her want to ralph (both spinning and tye-dyes), but she appreciates the value of a true cultural artifact.
This tale involves a rare delight by the super-group composed of John Wetton and the two terminal hotties: Terry Bozio and Eddie Jobson. The song on U.K.’s second album is Rendezvous 6:02. If one searches for this ascendent piece on Youtube, you will find the following links, one of John Wetton with Geof Downes in some kind of lame Asia rehash and the other a grainy live performance obviously saved by some perceptive fan. Watch these videos, feel the music, the poly-rhythms, the shear artistry that went into this work. The base lines make one’s private parts tingle and would have been banned by Tipper Gore (Al’s TRUE anchor fastened firmly to his gal-bladder). The media and format suck, but this is the best that you can do. Even in these formats, your Codefairy falls frothing to the floor in pentultimate pleasure.
The videos on Youtube are put up either by fans who have third generation copies of copies or the artists themselves. In the former, there is a huge business model by providing the high quality equivalent the ‘fan’ vids. With the latter, they have competition, but that is what competition is all about. And it would be harder than hell to compete with John Wetton, Eddie Jobson and Terry ‘gawd what biceps’ Bozzio, particularly when the latter were so freakin’ hot (Modest Mouse eat your hearts out).
That is the key, but it fucks with these ‘executives’ limited business minds. They only have one mantra: one talentless artist sold to everyone per week. They have spreadsheets to prove IT:
One artist, six million, a few hotel rooms, some cheap Mexicalli hookers, some blow. Sell it to everyone on earth (6.2 billion and counting) for 20 bucks. Then repeat next week. Profit: 6.4 Trillion and change per annum. Way more than necessary to buy quality hookers and really, really, good blow and, like, every congress critter every born (congress critters are notoriously cheap).
However, if the artist is talented, customers will listen again and again and they may wait several weeks before buying another recording. This COMMUNIST act reduces the take by an order of magnitude so the ‘executives’ must hire slimy (but way more expensive than congress critters) lawyers to clog up the courts trying to kill any resemblance of creativity, artistry and, hence, resiliency of music.
This, dear readers, is why these ‘executives’ should be raped by not just rabid sperm whales but rotting rabid sperm whales with a good chance of an ultimately satisfying explosion which is a climax worthy of Nina Simone.
The codefairy was trolling her regular haunts of nerdom when she came upon a most fascinating article. It seems that men, when looking at pictures, fixate on both the face and crotch of males even of different species. The study does not distinguish between straight and gay so for the ten percent of gays to skew the data that severely those would have to be some hella darty eyed homos.
This study completes the ponderings of Marvin Minski when he wondered how a nine trillion synapse computer can sit and watch baseball on a Saturday afternoon. Apparently, most of those synapses are keeping the eye not only on the ball(s) but the bat as well.
Now the codefairy knows a bit about neuro-physiology and understands that a great deal of the brain is dedicated to instant recognition of objects. Indeed, humans can recognize faces from a few pixels. There is some mechanism, perhaps the illusive mother cell or a hierarchical recognition algorithm, programmed into the brain that causes the immediate understanding of a briefly glimpsed object.
One can easily understand how quick recognition of friend versus foe gives evolutionary advantage by preventing axe in head. Also, if women or gay men were the ones staring at crotches you could understand that they were merely wondering what is within the Levis. But what possible evolutionary advantage does staring at crotches impart on hetero males? Could it possibly be that robust endowment induces flight panic and this is reason that straight males purchase otherwise hideous large SUVs as compensation?
It has always been fascinating to the codefairy that the biggest homophobes are so imbalanced by the possibility of gay guys watching their John Thomases in the shower as evidenced in this rather bizarre ranting by Michael Medved. There are also many studies that demonstrate that the more anti-gay/Christian/homophobic a male tends to be the more he is aroused by gay porn. Crotch staring apparently cuts across all creeds and belief systems.
The codefairy personally believes that this hetero wally watching is actually evidence of a divine progenitor and that God was definitely neither a tit nor ass man. Ah, intelligent design by Loki, a god with an incredibly wicked sense of humor.
One last thought. The picture in the study shows baseball player who is obviously wearing a cup, hence, trillions upon trillions of synapses were needlessly wasted. This is the most likely cause of the discrepancy between male and female behavior. Women and, obviously, gay men instantly recognized the futility of staring at this particular crotch because they intrinsically understand that dating is like snow: you never know how long it will last or how many inches you will get.
The code fairy is having a contest (happy, happy, joy, joy). The first person to name all of the evil computers in her banner will receive a fabulous gift. Either a copy of the ‘Poofta Kama Sutra’ or a copy of a book every pseudo intellectual nerd must have on his or her bookshelf (if not actually read).
The first person to name all of them in response to this post wins! Good luck all you munchkins in codefairy land!
Dearest readers, today the codefairy must get something off her chest. You see she loves music. She lives for innovative, intense, personal, artistic music be it overblown Goth, soul crushing industrial, post punk techno new wave electronica, mind bending classical, the occasional auteur and even really old country western singers doing twisted versions of all of the above.
But this morning, sitting in a plane flying to the motherland of all fairies, your codefairy had a soul destroying moment of catharsis. Yes, she was forced to listen to an entire Bee Gees song and if that is Too Much Heaven, she thinks she will buy a timeshare on the river Styx.
Why does this crap get created? Well let the codefairy take you deep into the bowels of the sewer system called the RIAA. Now the code fairy knows that her readers are of the sensitive types so she will take you there by using a much less harrowing metaphor involving infinitely less vile protagonists.
Let’s say that you are a pimp who makes millions of dollars by taking desperate teensand whoring them out in the most degrading ways possible: persuading millions to fondle, abuse and generally suck their life out until they become loose, sloppy, diseased has-beens left to turn tricks for ten pesos behind dive bars in TJ or, worse, perform in next years Super Bowl half time.
Now, being a good capitalist corporation dedicated to maximizing the profits of your shareholders, you realize that product has fifteen minutes of shelf life and must be exposed to the largest number of Johns possible. But finding millions of Johns is expensive particularly when you only have the skankiest of whores to sell. You see, talented whores have standards, would never degrade themselves to the limits your margins demand and can be quite uppity. And, heaven forbid, your unappreciative slut may actually develop her own set of Johns and cut you out of her share.
What’s an enterprising corporation to do? First start a brilliant campaign to blame the fickle public’s penchant for not wanting yet another diseased romp with an uninteresting slut on … wait for it… the INTERNETS. Yes, that series of tubes must be the reason that your product loses is glimmer will before it is scheduled to become fetid.
Here is the kicker: being an enterprising, red blooded American corporation you now buy an even skankier congressman to make strained, bizarre laws to prolong your business model of forcing the cheapest skankiest ho’s on the public. You see you need to change the definitions. What used to be called ‘exposure’ and ‘publicity’ must now be called theft and you can use your lawyers to sue the crap out of poor mothers in the Bronx.
Forget that hair farmer stoner friends have been trading recordings on cassettes and 8 tracks for like half a century (yes, Lars I mean you). Forget that one of the most profitable times in the recording industry was during the HEIGHT of Napster’s popularity. Oh and pay no attention to study after study that shows there is no loss from online sharing of music.
No, the reason people don’t buy a million copies of yet another collection of power ballads from some washed up has-beens whose music at best was always closer to silly puddy rather than heavy metal is that damned series of tubes.
Well, the code fairy is going to let you in on a secret: one that causes the RIAA and all of those bloated, overpaid recording industry executives to piss themselves. The story has never been about music, talent or even marketing. It is a sordid story of control.
Mega pop stars would never exist without control. The likes of Frank Sanatra, Elvis, Michael Jackson and Madonna are not about music or talent but product and, like Corn Flakes, Kraft Mac and Cheese or Depends, placement, packaging, and shelf space are everything when convincing consumers they need this product or they will “most certainly die“.
And the industry is losing it. First, they controlled the studios. It cost hundreds of thousands of dollars to produce a recording. Then came Boston and recorded a mega-hit in a basement. Now a 24 track digital recording studio is cheaper than a stripped down Hyundai. Next, they lost the ability to press the content. The Internet removed all barriers to distribution channels. Payola to radio stations, purchase of shelf space, shutting out venues is no longer working, what’s an enterprising, over-bearing slimebag of a company to?.
And the marketing, woe, the marking… ad hoc communities such as My Space threatens to destroy their ability to control even the marketing.
The recording industry is over. Not because of some college freshman downloading the latest single from a peer to peer file system. But because access to music, good, juicy, happy, crushing, dancy, jazzy, talented music in its purest form and people to share it with can make the previous slams to the industry (Sub Pop, the punk movement, the original MTV) look like love pats
The real problem is that most of pop music is a stinking pile of shit. Some of it is mildly entertaining stinking piles of shit. Hell, even the code fairy has been known to smile upon hearing an occasional Linkin Park song. But really, the industry removes all talent, soul, excitement, sex, and hunger from music to create a palatable uniform product for the widest possible market: like Velveta cheese. Then the package it and sell it in the most toxic forms possible, like Lunchables.
If it should ever get out that musicians, real musicians, can make really good music that people love and that that music can be easily promoted by people talking with people and that the artists can actually make enough money to survive, the industry is over. The codefairy’s only wish is that she gets to dance in stiletto heals brandishing a pike in a rain of salt on the festering bodies of industry executives and all the ‘artists’ who have forced so many to listen to so much shite for so long.
The Code Fairy 
