Sometimes I may sign my posts "-P" or "-Paul", but often signatures will not suffice and you could just identify my posts by the presence of the words "what's the deal with that?", which I am adopting as my motto, or "ribald", which is now my token identification word.
Ryan will still be posting all of them to facebook though (automatically, I think. kid's an automaton.), so if you're ryan's friends (hi ryan's friends!) then hi! I'm paul. It's a pleasure to meet you, though you've mistaken some of my musings for the thoughts of someone else in the past. It's okay. I forgive you of these hasty misclassifications and any assuredly ribald thoughts you may have gotten after reading said posts.
-P.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Just two best friends thinkin'
Now that Paul has finally begun posting, I've changed the blog title to reflect it. I will start ending my posts "-Ryan" as well. Also, bookmark it if you care, I'm changing the domain name to http://ryanandpaul.blogspot.com http://paulandryan.blogspot.com
Love,
-Ryan
Four Thirty Fiction
Because I wasted so much time zoning out on the internet, losing track of time, and unnecessarily staying up until the moment I finish this post, why not some creativity to cap it off?
I present to you, a stream-of-consciousness short story that's possibly going to have some absurdity, little meaning, and a deadpan conclusion. It will be the first fiction I've written since my ill-fated attempt to start a novel about James Joyce's corpse.
THE MISSING SCONE
John anxiously tapped the ashes off his cigarette, exposing the orange embers below to the silent air of the cafe. It was eight o'clock today, somewhat cold, and fretfully absent of Rebecca. Today was going to change.
It all started when John swiveled his forearm up and prepped his lungs for another deep pull on the dying cigarette. Suddenly, the door jolted open. The air shook and glowed as it pushed back from the door and onto the blistering embers. John had not expected someone else to arrive at this time of night, failed to resolve the smoky breath correctly in his throat, and reacted with a violent cough. A genial man in a tweed coat hastily approached him from the doorway, a dour grin of guilt disguising the foppish prig that lay beneath.
"I'm dreadfully sorry! Have I startled you?" said the genial man in the tweed coat.
"Yes," said John.
"Well then bollocks to you!" replied the foppish prig that lay beneath.
Sick of all this bullshit, John promptly collected his belongings and headed for the door. Pausing a second, he ashed his cigarette a second time and dropped it in a trash bin. The foppish prig raised one eyebrow and set about reading his newspaper, while the genial man in the tweed coat worried about the fire in the garbage. In a bitter thrust of fate and psychology, the fire would consume the entire street block. There were eighteen survivors.
I present to you, a stream-of-consciousness short story that's possibly going to have some absurdity, little meaning, and a deadpan conclusion. It will be the first fiction I've written since my ill-fated attempt to start a novel about James Joyce's corpse.
THE MISSING SCONE
John anxiously tapped the ashes off his cigarette, exposing the orange embers below to the silent air of the cafe. It was eight o'clock today, somewhat cold, and fretfully absent of Rebecca. Today was going to change.
It all started when John swiveled his forearm up and prepped his lungs for another deep pull on the dying cigarette. Suddenly, the door jolted open. The air shook and glowed as it pushed back from the door and onto the blistering embers. John had not expected someone else to arrive at this time of night, failed to resolve the smoky breath correctly in his throat, and reacted with a violent cough. A genial man in a tweed coat hastily approached him from the doorway, a dour grin of guilt disguising the foppish prig that lay beneath.
"I'm dreadfully sorry! Have I startled you?" said the genial man in the tweed coat.
"Yes," said John.
"Well then bollocks to you!" replied the foppish prig that lay beneath.
Sick of all this bullshit, John promptly collected his belongings and headed for the door. Pausing a second, he ashed his cigarette a second time and dropped it in a trash bin. The foppish prig raised one eyebrow and set about reading his newspaper, while the genial man in the tweed coat worried about the fire in the garbage. In a bitter thrust of fate and psychology, the fire would consume the entire street block. There were eighteen survivors.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Similies do not belong in music
Musicians tend to think largely of their lyrical prowess, so unless you're listening to a tween-catering hunk or harlot singing about how "your eyes are like the stars themselves," a simile in music is almost never going to be direct or concise. Rather, they tend to be as overblown or confusing as a shot-for-shot reenactment of the Lord of the Rings trilogy by a stubby ginger kid with a thick lisp and a striped polo shirt. Take, for example, this puzzler:
"I can see it cower like a nervous magician waiting in the wings of a bad play where the heroes are right and nobody thinks or expects too much and Hollywood's calling for the movie rights" - Blues Traveler, Run-Around
In the context of the song, it may pass as a verse, but that doesn't forgive John Popper for creating this overly convoluted comparison that runs on and on and away on the semi-ironically delightful driving ditty "Run-Around." The worst offender, however, is not a flash in the pan of not-quite-classic rock, but one of the greatest lyricists of our generation:
"My style switches like a faggot." - Nas, Halftime
With all due respect to Nas, that is a really bad simile. It doesn't really need explanation. But it's okay, because Nas clarifies its absurdity in the next line:
"...but not bisexual, I'm an intellectual of rap."
Oh.
"I can see it cower like a nervous magician waiting in the wings of a bad play where the heroes are right and nobody thinks or expects too much and Hollywood's calling for the movie rights" - Blues Traveler, Run-Around
In the context of the song, it may pass as a verse, but that doesn't forgive John Popper for creating this overly convoluted comparison that runs on and on and away on the semi-ironically delightful driving ditty "Run-Around." The worst offender, however, is not a flash in the pan of not-quite-classic rock, but one of the greatest lyricists of our generation:
"My style switches like a faggot." - Nas, Halftime
With all due respect to Nas, that is a really bad simile. It doesn't really need explanation. But it's okay, because Nas clarifies its absurdity in the next line:
"...but not bisexual, I'm an intellectual of rap."
Oh.
Monday, March 22, 2010
About me- a revolution
I read facebook "about me's" and they usually aren't anything about the person. Sometimes they're inside jokes, sometimes they're quotes, sometimes they're ASCII pictures of cats, but rarely do I get to know anything about people. If they are about the person, they often seem to be more like what the person wants to be than what they actually are.
So, I'm going to start what should become a trend. I'm going to write an actual about me, and when I'm done, I'm going to hope that this blog post (and, because I don't know how to undo it, facebook note) become the norm in about me writing.
My name is Ryan Mandelbaum. I am 18 years old and I am a first year at Columbia College.
My favorite things to do are eat, shower, and listen to music. I also like to travel and I really like to swim.
In general, I'm loud, immature, and energetic. When you first meet me, you'll probably think I'm weird or a creep because I am extremely talkative and really extroverted. Try to be friendly back. I play really well off other people's moods. If you're happy, I'll be happy back.
I spend a lot of time in my head, and when I think, I think hard. Usually, it's too hard. I think pretty hard about everything.
I'm really, really hard to upset and I forgive people really easily. That being said, I am often paranoid that people are taking advantage of me.
Usually, I don't think before I speak. When I do think before I speak, I either don't speak or act really awkward.
I'm at one of those "find yourself" points of my life. It's basically me searching my mind and trying to find out what's "me" and what's "not me." I don't talk about it, but I write about it.
This post sounds like it's being written by a 15 year old girl.
Finally, my goals. I don't know what I want to major in. All I know is that I want to travel a lot.
Secondly, my only personal goal is to be really earnest (second Dictionary.com meaning). Maybe not honest, but definitely earnest.
So that's me, Ryan the 15-year-old-girl-with-mutton-chops. Now, tell me about you.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Rapidshare Premium Accounts
DieterFinch gave me the second password to his RS premium account, and lets just say that my computer can now hold approximately 10GB less than it could before.
Instead of downloading single songs or albums, I've gone straight for discographies and I can now tell you which were and which were not worth downloading.
1. The Knife, 700MB. I'd say worth it.
2. George Clinton, ~2GB. One should choose between Parliament or Funkadelic or only download P-Funk albums. There is no reason to have this much funk.
3. The Allman Brothers. 1.2 GB, >10 GB with live albums. Unless you're 60, no need to have any live album but live at the Filmore East.
4. The Grateful Dead. 2.2 GB, >20GB with live albums. Unless you're 60, no need to have any live album but Europe '72.
5. Royksopp. 200MB, Worth it!
6. Jamiroquai, 700MB. Probably not worth it.
7. Creedence Clearwater Revival, 1GB. I'd settle with the Greatest Hits album.
8. Journey, 2GB. NOT WORTH IT.
9. Rusko, 2GB. Eventually it all sounds the same. Not worth it.
10. Congo Natty, 700GB. Not worth it, almost everything released by Congo Natty is a remix of the song "Junglist" by Rebel MC.
Friday, March 19, 2010
My Empathy's Broken
I used to be really good at putting myself into other people's minds. I could see a person and what they were doing, and guess pretty efficiently what they were thinking. A couple of thing have put that ability to the test and ultimately, caused it to stop working.
1). Racism. I have no idea how you could be racist. I tried thinking about what it was like to not like someone for their race alone, and each time realized either people are jealous or hate people of different races for the precise reason why I like them.
2). "Cool." Someone please tell me what it's like to be cool. I'd really like to know. Does it feel any different from not being cool?
3). Literary Analysis. Why do I suck so hard at analyzing books? Are the people in my Literature Humanities actually that much more intelligent than I am, or are they far better at making things up.
I guess it's all part of this earnest vs. put-on thing that really bugs me. I always wonder whether people are conscious of their actions. For example, I create an art piece because I want to be an artist. Is this the same as an artist producing a piece? I wear sunglasses because I want to be cool. Is this the same as a cool kid wearing sunglasses?***
I should really stop being so cynical.
Maybe I should just go into psychology.
Who am I?
***See post "My Hobbies" From January 12th, Item 8
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