Why write new content when you can have your friends do it? Here's Gregor's review of the new Dave Chapelle movie.
Here's my review of block party. I fuckin loved it. It was like watching this great party sort of take shape, from a bunch of different perspectives. Sort of like Can't Hardly Wait with only black people. The music was sick, with the highlights for me Jill Scott, Dead Prez and Kanye West sort of accompanied by a marching band doing Jesus Walks. There was this sort of eery vibe to alot of the Chappelle stuff, knowing what would happen to him in less than year following the filming of this. He was still effortlessly hilarious most of the time, and I left loving him even more than i did beforehand, but he definitely throws some jokes in there about pressure and wealth. Maybe I'm reading too much into it because of the Oprah conspiracy theory, which i'm prone to believe because it's nutty. (Read the "Chapelle Theory" here - ed.) Regardless, it's probably the best concert film I've ever seen for the way it blends the music, behind the scenes and lead-up to the concert with Chappelle.
To give you an idea of Gregor's tastes, he described "Big Momma's House 2" as "'House, MD' with black people" and "Amistad" as "'Amistad' with black people."
Neat! That's the only way I can describe the experience of ordering an EP from one of my favorite bands, Bishop Allen, and having it show up in my mailbox in a handsome sleeve with my name and address hand-written by a band member, having made the journey all the way across the water from furthest Brooklyn via the US Mail (you can't get it in stores, it's limited-edition.) They're making an EP each month this year, this one's "January."
Even neater: the first one showed up chipped, so I sent an e-mail offering to pick up a replacement when I was babysitting in Brooklyn on Saturday night, and they said, "Sorry, we're recording." Musicians! Making music! I don't know why I think that's so cool, but I do. And the EP-a-month self-challenge is so damn up my alley and five bucks is so damn reasonable they pretty much have fifty-five more of my dollars in advance if they keep it up.
I got my replacement today, and it was worth the wait. Catchy-as-balls story-stongs and genuinely good lyrics that're super-refreshing in these days of willfully obtuse indie lyricism.
You can get the first track on "January," "Corazon," over on their website. Do it.
Private to Bishop Allen: play more shows, dudes. I have liked you for two years this month and I've still somehow managed to miss you every time, though we live in the same city.
Among this week's new record releases is an eagerly-awaited collection of greatest hits by the world's only known mad scientist/country singer, Dr. Johanne "Tex" Klenderhaus. The compilation is expected to feature the following Klenderhaus tunes:
I’ve Gone Mad (And You’re Just Plain Old Gone)
Please Sweet Lord Forgive Me (For Disproving Your Existence Beyond The Shadow Of A Doubt)
Bible In My Right Hand, Shotgun In My Left Hand, Other Shotgun In My Other Right Hand
The Only Time It Don’t Rain (Is When I Need Lightning To Bring A Monster To Life)
I Only Love My Truck And My Dog (So For Convenience I Fused Them Into A Barking Driving Ultrabeast)
Some Fellas Play Horseshoes, Other Fellas Play God
They Called Me Insane (‘Cause I Called You Darlin’)
I’m Cryogenically Frozen (Unthaw Me When You Aren’t A Bitch)
I Got Minions, But I Don’t Got Friends
A Raygun Ain’t A Six-Shooter And A Rocket-Pack Ain’t A Horse (But That Don’t Mean I’m Not A Cowboy)
My Talking Talk-Machine Don’t Talk As Much As You
I remember reading some interview with Ray Bradbury back when I was the sort of sixth-grader who read interviews with Ray Bradbury, and he said something about how you just rip off your three or four favorite authors and eventually through no fault of your own they blend and you have your personal style.
Belle & Sebastian, long one of this girlhairedskinnyperson's favoritest bands (if you were the sort of kid who read Bradbury interviews you sorta can't help being the sort of psuedoadult who has a soft spot for B&S), were imitating 70's pop and all the things they liked about in on their last record, "Dear Catastrophe Waitress," and at first I hated it then I grew to like all of it and love some of it ("I'm A Cuckoo" is the jam times three), but it was all so totally different from anything they'd ever done and felt more like a competent aping than anything. But on their new one, "The Life Pursuit," the styles have gelled and the result is fucking killer. It's confident and funky and funny and gorgeous. I'm pretty hardcore in love with it.
If you like melodies you'll like this record. To wit:
Teacup-gazing Scottish waifs can be the new Stevie Wonder, and I think that's awesome. Rumor has an MCDJ remix of this song hitting the blogs in a couple days. Stay tuned. In the meantime, go get this record, and tell me if you have any extra tix for the Belle & Sebastian/New Pornographers shows in March, 'cause I will seriously marry you for them shits.
Palms Out Sounds has a whole new Young Jeezy mixtape, if that's more your speed. But if you are a Modern Person, shuffle has no doubt taught you that Jeezy and B&S make more sense together than probably the Snowman or the art-school kids from Glasgow would like to acknowledge. Highlights include Jeezy decrying hotel minibars as a ripoff over Ye's "We Major" beat.
Hammerkatz is doing improv on Friday night as part of the Drunken Ice Cream Social at Red Room at 10:30, and Hammerkatz NYU is presenting a very ambitious new show at Silver Center for free on Saturday night at 9 and 11. Be in the building.
wack: To be of low or dubious quality. Origin: comes from 'whacky', which evolved to 'whacked' or 'whacked out'. Eventually shortened to 'wack'. The 'h' is usually dropped to differentiate the meaning from 'whack', which is to hit something hard or, kill (old wise guy terminology). From urbandictionary.com
And now, a dcpierson.com exclusive: A Brief Glossary Of Wackness
Wacktress - a wack actress, IE: "Emily's Reasons Why Not was cancelled because, despite millions of dollars spent advertising it, the show could not escape the fact that it was anchored by a wacktress." See also: wacktor.
Paint it wack - Something that is not, in and of itself, wack, and may actually be quite good, but has been rendered wack by its patronage by wack people. IE: Bob Marley's "Legend" album.
Wack on wack crime - Two wack things competing to excede one another in wackness, for example, two fratboys arguing about whether to put OAR or Bob Marley's "Legend" on the stereo.
Wackurate Assessment - Correctly labeling something as wack.
Wackura - A car its owner clearly puts way too much effort and money into. One suspects the car's owner may in fact be a 17 year old boy who works at Best Buy.
Wack Braff - Something not necessarily wack (though not necessarily great, either) every college girl is predictably, inexplicably passionate about. (See also: Wack Skellington, Captain Wack Sparrow)
Wack Marks - Physical evidence of wackness, such as clever facial hair or a black t-shirt reading "I Do Whatever The Voices In My Head Tell Me To."
Wack Addict - Someone who's all the time talking about how they're addicted to stuff (coffee, Snood, "The OC") when you know if they actually WERE addicted to something they'd have a pretty easy time of it because they'd just have to call their parents for more money to finance whatever it is.
Wacky - Unrepentant silliness just for silliness' sake in the guise of comedy is wack.
Aesthetic of Wackness - An essay by cultural critic Bell Hooks focusing on the production and perpetuation of wack things. She concludes that the two wackest things are girls who never drink and then go out and drink a whole bunch one night, and the band Train.
Fear of a Wack Planet - An album by Public Enemy whose central theme was that if we continue to allow institutionalized wackness and fail to seize the power from wack dudes, someday we may all be forced to listen to Train and puke while our freshman year roommate Nicole holds our hair back.
Wack Is Wack - An unsuccesful public-service ad campaign from the 80's designed to convince inner city youths that wack things are wack. It proved unsuccesful since A) Inner city youths pretty much knew that already and B) they were high on crack.
Wack Bauer - Something or someone who will stop at nothing, break laws, shoot witnesses, and go rogue in its undying pursuit of wackness. See also: The Wack-Eyed Peas.
Hell, while I'm in a plugging mood, I have love for my boys Hot Sauce (Adam Pally, Ben Schwartz, Gil Ozeri) who are doing a very special extended version of their sketch show "4th Floor Walkup" at UCBT tomorrow night. "4th Floor..." is what a sitcom would be if it had a stoned genie, Harry Potter's cousin, and a fish from 'Nam in it. Oh, also Bruckheimer-level special effects. Doug Mand, Michael Martin, and Jon Gabrus also show up to kick your ass. So ridiculous. So funny. If you are in the city, definitely hit them up at 8 pm on Friday. Website for reservations.
You can't just sit around and let this "alternative comedy renaissance" you keep reading about pass you by. You gotta show up. It's like CBGB in 1977 except instead of smacked-up punks, it's neurotic dudes in blazers. And neurotic girls with cool glasses. And we all have myspace accounts and short films and we all desperately need your approval. So come out!
Good friends/film gods Dan Eckman and Dominic's short film "Checkout" just got accepted into the HBO Aspen Comedy Arts Festival, which is a huge deal. Celebrate by checking out their recently launched website. The trailer is pretty dope. Ninjas AND samaurais in the same movie, finally. Blam: Checkout: The Movie
Season One versus Season Two of 24 raises an interesting question about life. And not just, "if somebody says 'You're just gonna have to trust me,' should I go ahead and trust them because they might be engaged in a high-stakes anti-terror operation they can't tell me about right now?" (If you don't watch the show but plan to this should be relatively spoilerless: I'm only about halfway through the series myself.) (And yes, definitely trust everybody.)
In Season One of 24, they weren't sure the show was gonna be a hit (which seems stupid now that it's such a phenomenon, but the idea of twenty-four hour in a dude's day stretched over a season seemed super-radical at the time and still does to anybody who, when you try to explain the show, asks: "So...it's like him getting up and taking a shower?") so at any given time they had to be within four episodes (hours) of wrapping up the series. They couldn't build a super-complex plot or tease stuff in the first hour that wasn't gonna get paid off until the twenty-fourth because they weren't sure they were gonna be around that long. They couldn't go very far out.
But by Season Two, they were a bonafide ubersuccess, and they could really have fun. They could build the foundations of a really ambitious house of cards without having to worry that it was all gonna get knocked down because the network wasn't selling enough ads. And from what I've seen so far holed up in my lair all Nyquilled up and going through the DVDs, Season Two owns Season One. It has the deed to its ass.
So basically my question is, should we conduct ourselves as though we might go at any time and get it all done now, or should we get a little more ambitious and lay schemes on things, set things in motion that we might very well not have enough time to see through?
'Cause we all know the people that act like they're gonna get cancelled tomorrow. Living it out and not giving two particular fucks about the future. In Season One a lot of the cliffhangers were the same, episode after episode. So it's like, yes, this is an exciting thing, but I've seen this exciting thing before ninety times and it's lost some of its dangerous luster and now it seems sort of desperate.
And we all know people for whom tomorrow is everything. People who are going to bed early and studying and saving their voice and whatever, and it's like: for what? Plans, plans, plans, tomorrow, always tomorrow. I honestly don't know how Season Two is gonna pay off, but I know another show that acts like that, perpetually teasing and answering questions with more questions ("Lost") and it's like, dudes, you had better have some awesome answers up your sleeve, or else all this teasing will have been just that: teasing. All that waiting will have just been waiting. And even if you do have an awesome payoff in mind, what happens if you get cancelled before that?
Of course, we don't have the luxury (or the burden) of getting renewed based on merit or ratings, we get cancelled by things like car crashes and infectious diseases and a radio falling into the bathtub. So how do we run our show?
My answer is, pack the front end with sex and violence to attract as big of an audience share as possible and wait 'till you have a big "guilty pleasure" following to start doing the real interesting stuff, and let the professional critics scoff at how lowbrow you are until their friends force them to watch, saying, "Really, there's something going on here."
And at this point you're saying, "But I thought you just said we weren't cancelled or renewed based on ratings? Surely you're not implying there's some cosmic audience who picks us or drops us based on how not-boring we are."
And I'm saying, Maybe I am.
And you're saying, "But what about John Belushi and Chris Farley and Elvis? According to your theory, shouldn't those really entertaining candle-at-both-ends types be around the longest, instead of the shortest?"
And I'm saying, maybe they didn't get cancelled. Maybe they got stolen by a more adventurous channel.
You're just gonna have to trust me.
The best thing to do when you have a cold is post up in the computer lab, suck on some on ColdEez and cook up a new DJ mix.
I've been reading a book about The Clash, so guess who this mix is heavy on/dedicated to. May also contain Orson Welles, early Magnetic Fields, reggaeton, and various former crack dealers.
My boy Tim from home left me a voicemail the other night telling me how much he liked my last mix. Maybe he won't like it so much when he hears the whole thing, who knows: it turns out when I posted it I only posted six minutes of the total sixteen. So here it is, in full for your ass:
Trust me, I'm an amateur.
You may have noticed there's ads now on the side of the page. This, along with the aquisition of a myspace profile, is part of my quest to become unrelentingly average. Next thing you know I'll be using this page to write about Actual Feelings I Have About Stuff. (Nah.)
Skidmore Fest this weekend was a blast, but who's surprised. We got a standing ovation! Few feelings better than that. HKATZNYU likes travelling so much we may try to mock up some sort of Spring Tour where we go to a different school every weekend or so and perform with their local buncha comedy knuckleheads. If you happen to be one of those knuckleheads and you're within a day's drive of NYC, drop dude a line. We only want to rock you.
It was funny to see an actual DJ (Donald) at a comedy party. It is weird how, even from a hundred or so comedy kids and hangers-on, you can get a nice little cluster of hot girls dancing unironically if there is a dude with some records and some iPods making sure the beat doesn't stop and They Might Be Giants never gets played. At previous festival parties (I don't think either of which were at Skidmore) I have witnessed parties seranaded by A) a mix CD on repeat, which had six tracks, only one of which was remotely Party Music (Justin Timberlake's "Senorita"), B) a girl's idea of Party Music which was actually all music I love too (Magnetic Fields, Broken Social Scene, etc.) but have been lucky enough to have the epiphany that there's music you listen to alone in your underpants with the door closed looking out the window and there's music you put on when people are gonna stand around your place in large groups bullshitting, dancing, boozing, and maybe trying to find somebody else to be alone with in their underwear with the door closed. It's called Hip Hop, and by Hip Hop I don't mean no fuckin' Jurassic Five, neither. I mean the more likely a song's lyrics are to make Susan Sontag spin in her grave, the more likely that song is to give people the impression that your party is a Fun Place To Be. And if they feel like your party is a Fun Place To Be, they may perhaps be coaxed into dropping it as though it's hot.
When we were driving back into the city you couldn't see the skyline because of the blizzard. Every corner looked unfamiliar. Walking a couple blocks home I felt like The Last Man On Earth. I ushered in this brave new era of human existence by sleeping for eight hours.
Today: Streetsoup! It was clear and warm(esque) so all those unfamiliar corners are now mazes where everyone stops and contemplates for themselves the best way to navigate the big icy puddles. Girls in knee-high waterproof boots plow through like shocktroopers that are late for Brit Lit class. It's sorta fun but you have to add ten minutes to your commute.
Pic is Bennett and Erik from NYU's premiere improv group, Dangerbox, all of whom it was a fucking pleasure reconnecting with this weekend.
I love Facebook photos but the problem is the ability of multiple people to post pictures of you taken on various days and drunken nights makes one thing inexorably clear: I only have like three shirts.
In one of his better songs, Talib says, "we stay doin' it, later for the conversation."
Course I could do more if every time I sat down to do it I didn't fuck around on the Internet for like three hours before I started doin' it. And by doin' it I mean writing. But damn if MySpace don't provide limitless resources for exploring life's deepest question, Did People You Went To High School With Get Fat Or What? (So far, the answer is no, but I am still making rigorous observations.)
Anyway today Hammerkatz NYU is trucking up to the National College Comedy Festival at Skidmore in Saratoga Springs. This will be my third year. It is never not a blast. Do comedy, drink too much at house parties, bum around upstate with my best pals. Kind of a dream when you get right down to it. Plus this year Donald's gonna DJ one or two of the parties, which residually means at some point I'll probably get to play with his fader (I do not yet have the wherewithal to actually touch the turntables in the presence of other people's ears.) And on-the-go playlisting in the car on the way up is gonna be legendary. I've said it before but I think if I could only perform one action for the rest of my life, I'd probably chose picking what song to play next. Or kissin'. Or doing comedy, drinking too much at house parties, or bumming around upstate wit my best pals.
Anyway please don't make me chose.
"The world is yours, and err'thing in it/It's out there: get on your grind and get it." Here's some Jeezy that's good to stay doin' it to:
I have now officially joined the ranks of everybody who ever picked up an instrument or touched a turntable or did standup at an open mic or was ever a fifteen year old girl who loves My Chemical Romance: it's the dude's myspace profile. Be my friend, because someday cultural scholars will look at my Top 8 and realize it was a comprehensive list of future tastemakers, influence brokers, and Gregor.
A poem for Valentine's Day.
Love is like a bird!
Love flits from tree to tree,
singing its song,
its feathers glinting in the sun
though some types of love are flightless,
and some scientists in Israel once created an outcry
by breeding a love without feathers,
which they claimed would make it cheaper to cook
Though not all kinds of love
some kinds of love
can swim short distances,
in order to
There are anywhere between eight thousand and ten thousand types
of love, and though a hundred and twenty are thought to have
gone extinct in the span of human history,
love remains the most diverse of all
A central metaphor comparing a man wrongly accused of rape to
a certain kind of love is the inspiration
for the title of Harper Lee’s only novel, “To Kill A Mockinglove,”
which takes place in Alabama,
(whose state love is the Yellowhammer,
AKA the Northern Flicker.)
A DJ about to play a romantic ballad might be heard to remark,
"here's a song for all you loveloves out there."
Watching a scavenger form of love eviscerate a carcass
then regurgitate the chewed-up meat into the mouths of its
tiny little love babies in their lovenest,
you can see why many scientists speculate
that love descended
History has aptly recorded the Futurist movement, a 20th century artistic ethos centering on a rejection of the past and its traditions, as well as its theatrical descendant, neo-futurism. But sadly, little scholarly attention has been paid to German Retro-Futurism, perhaps because it featured less fetishization of violence and quasi-facism, and more spiffy ray guns.
German Retro-Futurism’s few academic devotees all agree that the father of the movement was Arthur Pfannenschmidt, a bootblack in Dresden. Pfannenschmidt quit his day job after, in a burst of DaVinci-like foresight, he sketched out the as yet non-existent Retro-Futurist staples the Transphibious AtomMobile, Mindless Robot Henchman With A Lightning Bolt On Its Chest, and most astonishing of all, The Flying Saucer We Can Obviously See Is A Miniature Held Up By A String. In this singular moment of epiphany, the lowly 19th-century bootblack seems to have predicted much of the contents of the 1952 B-movie “Creatures From Moon-Station Zero,” despite the fact that he lived years before the invention of both film and stiff, hammy acting.
Pfannenschmidt found an acolyte in a man half his age and much higher up on the social ladder: Klaus Ebersbach, a moneyed playboy who mostly spent his days lounging on a divan comparing life unfavorably to various kinds of venereal disease to whomever he had paid to listen. Ebersbach would contribute to the Retro-Futurist movement mostly with his checkbook rather than his foresight, save for an absinthe-fueled fever dream which modern day scholars agree, after reading Ebersbach’s journal entry recounting the dream, was a one-for-one foretelling of “The Jetsons.” (Contemporaries accused Ebersbach’s dream of being just a ripoff of an ether hallucination another man had had about a working-class caveman in a world powered by dinosaurs. A time-traveler who happened to be in Dresden at the time accused both dreams of being ripoffs of “The Honeymooners.”) (It is a good thing the Retro-Futurists did not know they were in the same city as an actual time traveler, if they had known, most respected scholars agree, they would have shat themselves.)
Arguably the greatest prophet to be born out of the German Retro-Futurists was Gustav Fuchs, who, through his comprehensive vision of the streamlined look of the Retro-Future, was able to forsee that look’s influence on the tail-finned automobiles of the 1950’s, and from there was then able to postulate mid-century American culture in its entirety. His writings on “sockhops” and “drag races” were so ahead of their time as to seem insane to his peers, except for his treatise on “making out in the back seat at the drive-in movie.” “Making out in the back seat at the drive-in movie” was actually a popular activity for German youths at the time, with “Making out” translating from German as “performing dangerous unskilled labor,” and “the backseat at the drive-in movie” translating loosely as “a hot, cramped factory run by a tight-fisted child-hating miser.” Sadly, the diagnosis of Fuchs as insane would eventually prove all too accurate, as he lived out his last days in a cramped attic room, working as a rollerskating carhop in the burger-and-milkshake joint in his mind. (So comprehensive was his vision of 1950’s culture right up until the end that it is said his death rattle was the first few bars of “Lonely Nights” by the Shirelles.)
Though many modern thinkers have attempted to co-opt the Retro-Futurist moniker, its original German incarnation remains perhaps history’s purest ideology dedicated to predicting someone else’s prediction of the future which would itself never quite come true. Sadly, Retro-Futurism has no monuments in our modern world, save perhaps for a statue which is standing in the narrow Dresden alley where Pfannenschmidt had his bootblack stand.
It is a large broze reproduction of one of the father of Retro-Futurisms’ rare works in sculpture: “Googly-Eyed Space Alien (On Whose Back You Can Totally See The Zipper).”
"Evening Constituional of a Bowery Eccentric."
I cash in my change for a slice of pizza
and wipe the grease off my hands on the windows of the
Cooper Union library,
then I show the Cooper Union kids my dick.
I zigzag to the Asian Pub where a sign says
they got four dollar mojitos.
It’s hard to hear me tapping on the glass over whatever kinda
music they play in there but one girl’s staring out absentmindedly
so I show her my dick.
The people who work at the Village Voice are
just getting off of work and the ones heading north,
towards the magic-hour pink Empire State Building,
they get to see my dick,
‘cause I show it to ‘em.
Same for the cute girls in glasses who work at Kaplan Test Prep,
and their students:
They’re all gonna get a perfect 1600
on the have-I-showed-you-my-dick test.
The folks at B Bar underneath heat lamps and trees wrapped
in Christmas lights, they do spit takes with nine dollar drinks
when they see a dick,
not just any dick,
CBGBs is gonna close down, they say, so to the ghosts
of the past, of the old New York, I say:
go not quietly into that good night
but instead go: “Holy shit, look at that guy’s dick!”
I go into the shelter and get some soup
and some bread on a plastic tray,
thank Marla by showing her my dick,
then ask Ray Ray if I can sit with him
through the universal language of dick on display.
“Jesus,” Ray Ray says, “get a new fuckin’ trick, Al.”
Later on Bowery and Houston I smoke a butt.
The giant black-and-white Calvin Klein models show me their
asses and all their breasts save the nipples,
so I return the favor by showing ‘em my dick,
and all the speeding cabs in the world,
they get my dick, too.
Then I spit a loogie into the gutter and think
about the hurtful thing that Ray Ray said.
As I was walking to the library past one of the Stern School of Business buildings something went BOOM! and the usually tame steampipe unleashed a cloud. A block later I got all wet with the mist of whatever it was.
I hope it wasn't condensed Cancer Juice. That shit harsh.
I've done it again. Evangelism, espionage radio, filthy hip hop, Bukowski, lazy edits, a fuckton of horns, and even some indie for my skinnywhitefellows. Enjoy. (It's 16 minutes long.)
I love being alive right now.
Just after New Years: I spend like 45 percent of break in Phoenix downloading mp3s off blogs, one of them is Regina Spektor's "Us." I put it, along with everything else, on my new iPod. On the plane back home, it comes up on shuffle. "Damn this is a good song," I think, then promptly forget about it.
Last Friday night: I'm having coffee with Sarah when "Us" comes on the stereo in the tiny hot little coffee shop. "Oh yea," I think, "this song." Later that night we meet up with Daniel, Steve, and Matt for much drinking. Around 6 am I can't sleep and I'm not drunk anymore and I feel guilty about not having written anything the day before so I get up, get more coffee, and go to a computer lab with the intention of knocking out some of the stuff I have to write. I finish a sketch then spend the next, like, six hours fucking around with audio-editing software, ending up with this mix, which includes some of "Us."
Last Saturday night: Donald, Dominic and I are writing and pre-gaming for Ariana's 21st birthday party. Dominic leaves to go perform with Ching Chong Bundy at UCB. On our way out, I play Donald the mix. The "Us" part comes on. "Who is this?" he asks. I hip him to it.
Last Sunday night: Donald and I are writing the new HKATZNYU show. Before I take off I put "Us" on his computer: it's in my GMAIL 'cause I had sent it to Ashley from home.
Tonight: Donald posts this ill remix.
Okay, so it ain't exactly the long musical journey of "Apache" (read this insanely good article, with example mp3s) but I still happen to think it's pretty cool.
Also: in Philly I kept telling Steve's girlfriend Dawn she looked like Tori Amos. In retrospect, this was a fallacy. She is the spitting image of Regina Spektor. Here, tell me I'm wrong, facebookers.
Ugh. Nicole’s brain is so much cuter than my brain.
It’s like super-smooth in all the right places and I know brains are commonly thought of as pink but are actually grey but I swear to God hers is pink. And I know you’re thinking, you’re just a brain in a jar, how can you even compare your brain to somebody else’s, but I basically use the vast neural net we’re hooked into to look at the lab security cameras. And seeing her brain next to my brain is like the before-and-after picture for a brain weight-loss program or something.
She’s all like “what are you doing?” (telepathically).
And even though I’m really just staring at her stupid skinny brain, I’m all, “contemplating observables in Hermitian operators,” but she probably knows I’m lying because she totally knows I hate quantum mechanics.
And she’s like, “That’s funny, I was just revaluating the Everett many-worlds interpretation!” and you just know she totally is.
That’s what kills me: her brain is so goddamn cute but it’s like she doesn’t even notice the professors staring at her, she just goes on thinking about quantum stuff at like googleplex times normal human speed. And the big ugly brain, me, the one you’d totally think would be interested in string theory and stuff, I just float in my jar, wishing she would either like me or die.
It’s like, I spend all day trying not to use certain lobes so they won’t grow gross new cells on top of the unsightly lumps and bulges I already have, and Nicole just hums along, not even worrying about it. She thinks all day and I swear she never gains a neuron.
Maybe the next time the protein-distribution robot comes around I’ll tell it, via the neural net, that I had a really big breakfast. One time I asked one of the lab techs to siphon some protein fluid out of my jar after lunch. He did it and suddenly Nicole was all, “I hope you didn’t do what I think you just did, I hope you don’t do that all the time,” and I just wanted to be like “IF IT WEREN’T FOR GIRLS LIKE YOU I WOULDN’T BE THIS WAY!” but I didn’t and anyway it’s hard to yell telepathically, everything just comes across as this very wise neutral drone.
I know we’re supposed to be all super-enlightened since we’ve transcended physical bodies and have access to the fathomless breadth of human knowledge, but sometimes you just want to feel pretty, you know?