Thinking about Speaking

So I'm not sure exactly where this is going... It's certainly going to wander.

I've been thinking a lot recently about speeches. I've always had a particular love of the "St. Crispin's Day" speeches; The calls to war. The speech that makes you want to pick up a gun, or a sword, or a pointed stick and fight against the evil; at the very least it makes your neck start to tingle.

I think there's more to this than content... I think there has to be. People's beliefs are too varied, opinions to divergent to possibly appeal to the masses on that scale. You can't get "the people" prepared to die for a cause with words alone because the things people are willing to die for are too personalized and separate. "The people" aren't that unified.

So what makes a person able to unify them? Sure, there are the well documented logical and ethical arguments that are generally talked about as the tools of the speechwriter, spinner, story-teller or manipulator... whichever you want to say (and I would contend they're all valid.)

But I think there must be more. There is some evidence that there are some innate connections between music and the human species. Most of you have already seen this I'm sure, but it's become relevant here. Everyone in that audience got it. That is rather telling. I'm not going to claim to know why it works, but it apparently does.

Even more of a stretch is bringing up the now well known Where the Hell is Matt? video. What makes it relevant is that it's again demonstrating a unifying factor among unrelated and divergent people around the globe.

So back around to the St Crispin's Day speeches. It's going to be long, but I feel like I need to post the original in it's full.

• WESTMORELAND. O that we now had here 


But one ten thousand of those men in England 


That do no work to-day! 
 


KING. What's he that wishes so? 


My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin; 


If we are mark'd to die, we are enow 


To do our country loss; and if to live, 


The fewer men, the greater share of honour. 


God's will! I pray thee, wish not one man more. 


By Jove, I am not covetous for gold, 


Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost; 


It yearns me not if men my garments wear; 


Such outward things dwell not in my desires. 


But if it be a sin to covet honour, 


I am the most offending soul alive. 


No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England. 


God's peace! I would not lose so great an honour 


As one man more methinks would share from me 


For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more! 


Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host, 


That he which hath no stomach to this fight, 


Let him depart; his passport shall be made, 


And crowns for convoy put into his purse; 


We would not die in that man's company 


That fears his fellowship to die with us. 


This day is call'd the feast of Crispian. 


He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, 


Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam'd, 


And rouse him at the name of Crispian. 


He that shall live this day, and see old age, 


Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours, 


And say 'To-morrow is Saint Crispian.' 


Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars, 


And say 'These wounds I had on Crispian's day.' 


Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot, 


But he'll remember, with advantages, 


What feats he did that day. Then shall our names, 


Familiar in his mouth as household words- 


Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter, 


Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester- 


Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb'red. 


This story shall the good man teach his son; 


And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by, 


From this day to the ending of the world, 


But we in it shall be remembered- 


We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; 


For he to-day that sheds his blood with me 


Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile, 


This day shall gentle his condition; 


And gentlemen in England now-a-bed 


Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here, 


And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks 


That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.

Did you feel it? that tingle? I did, and thats probably the 20th time I read that today. Part of what I'm starting to see as I read many of these speeches is a certain pattern. Read the last eight lines... starting with "we few" again... read it like you were performing it. Go ahead, I'll wait. Stop reading this till you've done that.

filler spot

Now, that last line, how did that read in your head? Because what I hear is "That fought with us....upon...Saint..Crispin's..day."

In "Independence Day" Bill Pullman has a speech as the President, starting with "Good morning... In less than an hour aircraft from here will join others from around the world." I say with confidence you remember this speech if you saw that movie. It's the same thing again... the same call to arms, asking everyone there to be prepared to give it all. It wraps up with the line "We're going to live on, We're going to survive; Today, is our Independence day!"

Here we see that rhythm again, twice, actually. The full line, and then the "Today" bit right at the end.

It's not identical, but it does have a similar beat... as if it's morse code for "Get your weapons and go kick some ass"

Or how about something a bit more historical. There is a speech you might have heard of which starts with "Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal." It goes on, with natural syncopation thought the entire piece till getting to the last lines. that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom—and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth." and it's there again. Can you hear it, feel it in there...

I don't know what it is... I need to talk to some people to work my way into it.... I need more coffee... I need a sandwich and someone clever, but I believe there's something here.

Donald Trump on Bret Michaels: Besties; on Illegal Immigration: Worsties

Turns out the single loudest voice of concern for Bret Michael's well-being is his would-be reality TV fake boss (the best kind of boss). Donald Trump jumped into the Larry King Tepid-seat and defended Michaels to the last, even going so far as to tell King to "forget" any Apprentice success for now: "Everybody loves him, so we just want him to get better. Forget about the show."

The Legendary Titans of OldHair: King and Trump.

Trump, who is not known for throwing aside his business savvy for much, even went just a little bit anti-macho. (Don't call it gay, or he'll have you whacked.) Saying of a shirtless Bret, "He looked good," he expressed surprise about Michaels' current health situation, and a pretty surprisingly bromancy concern for Bret himself. Don't be mistaken: The Donald seems to be a decent dude, and so is Bret. Stages of careers for either aside, it seems like they're really quite mature guys, who might just deserve some lasting spotlight. They should get a buddy-cop show together. Or remake Jake and the Fat Man for the movies.

Here's hoping Bret gets better. Dude was apparently working pretty hard for that show, and the finale isn't filmed for a Trump-confirmed five weeks. A pretty enthusiastic manager released a very optimistic timeline for recovery, but only time will tell.

The interview took Donald's opinion down about a few current issues, including Arizona's new immigration law -- which he apparently believes is the right way to go. As is nearly always the case for Trump, ten out of ten for style, but minus several million for good thinking. Whatever your politics, Don, leave 'em out of the public eye -- your talent is in business.

All Hail the KFC DoubleDown

During the run of human history, we as a species have entered several quirky side-eras. Spearheaded mostly by single generations, they tend to burn brightly and die -- perhaps leaving bits and pieces of their DNA behind. Bell bottom jeans, anaglyph 3D glasses on cereal boxes, zoot suits and swing dancing.

So it should be no small task for my generation to look for its one serious, long-lasting contribution to society. The bit of DNA that will mutate humankind in some small way, leaving behind descendants of descendants to travel beyond the realm of nostalgia -- into that of societal custom itself.

I propose that the KFC Double Down is that contribution.

Everyone's gotta die somehow.

The thing has a pretty standard run of calories -- 540 according to KFC, which I'd actually think is a relief considering what you've got there: Bacon, cheese(s), and delicious sauce all inside two chicken filets. Chickenbread.

This isn't something a sane person created; at very least, whoever came up with this thing was also experiencing severe cranial pressure at the time. Judgment was impaired. Had to have been. After consuming it I can feel the chicken swimming around in my veins, leaving marks on my heart that will plague me for years to come. You get the sense eating one of these is like getting concussions while playing football: A few too many, your nose starts bleeding and you spend your early 20's sweeping floors at a local Subway while trying to figure out why it's so hard to read analogue clocks.

I've never experienced an actual sense of lightheadedness after eating, but apparently the musclework required to digest this hunk of gluttony has my blood occupied in an area other than my brain. Thankfully this has also cured my headache -- though I worry how much extra blood has vacated the vicinity. If I wake up tomorrow without being able to remember my ATM card's pin number, we'll all know why.

We've crossed a bridge. The novelty challenge-food has finally given birth to a fast food cousin: A conjunction of grossness so absolutely gnarly that it will almost certainly inspire competitors. Niche groups have already spawned the Chicken Big Mac; whether you replace the bread with chicken patties or add some to the already overloaded shit-tower is up to you. Choose now, though, because McDonald's is sure to jump on an official version now that KFC has broken open the genre.

As we look into the future, it's apparent that our generation has little to contribute to the annals of history aside from record-breaking levels of angst. Now, though, we have something to push toward. Should these culinary inventions outlast us all, they may even change the way we eat as a whole -- wrapping meats in other meats, only to shove them directly into our mouths without utensils. And if we cram as much terrible food into our mouths as we can, we may only have to eat once or twice a week -- leading to soaring productivity levels, skyrocketing business profits and a new golden age for the future of our planet.

As soon as we get up.

My dumbphone's IQ is maybe 63.

Damn you, iPhone. And you too, Nexus One. Droid can suck it too -- and I could HAVE that one. I just don't have the thirty-odd bucks a month for the Smartphone web fee. That's the shit of it right there -- I barely use the phone part of my phone. Better I pay the forty a month for a data-only handset and use Skype or Google Voice for my phone stuffs. Right? Right??

But alas, it's impractical. Yes, I could tether it to my netbook, allowing me to have internet literally anywhere. But I already do, don't I? At least I do in the places where I bring my netbook. No, I want that little bastard on the train. Zipping through meaningless social media, attempting to play the giant, real-time, text-based MMORPG that is Facebook. (Twitter? Bonus round. Beatin' the Car with Dhalsim.) I want Google Maps to tell me where I am. I want to take a picture of a diner, hit a button, and have my little IV drip of info tell me exactly what a short stack and a fried egg costs. (Yes, that shit is possible.)

Someday, I will leave my dumbphone behind. I'll miss Tetris, but I'll just get it again, I'm sure. And also online Scrabble. (shudder.) Until then, it is envy on public transportation. On the plus side, though, I have nothing electronically reliable enough to be my backup -- So I still remember how to be smart all by myself.

The Rabbit Hole

So I've been remiss in my duties to bring out the weird. I've been living hard in my own little fringe of the world, which I'll probably resort to talking about eventually. But I didn't forget about you kiddies; I did some homework for you all and wandered deep into the parts of the world a lot of people don't even want to imagine.

It started out with a simple question. How does a person come to the realization that they're a furry? This question has bothered me for a long time. See, here's my issue. With most fetishes and kinks... even if it's not my thing, I can figure out how it works. Hard core s&m stuff, not my kink. I like keeping my weapons and torture implements separate from my sex life, but hey... whatever gets you going. See... you get started with scratching and biting... then you get into spanking and maybe some ropes. I can see how that would lead to perhaps the riding crop, even the ball gag. I see a possible method of escalation. The furry thing... I don't have a damned clue. I don't understand how you suddenly realize how you figure out that's what you're into.

I have to go to bed in the real soon, so I'll cut to the beginning of the chase. I wandered into the deep reaches of the internet and started hunting. I started talking to strangers like my mother always told me not to do. I have chatted to a good number of furries, and will tell you all about what I've learned.

So for now, be safe and keep an eye out.

Return for a brief rant

Leno made me fucking old last night.

Now, yes, to begin: I am with Coco. No getting around that. But I decided to try it out: Leno's return is, after all, another piece of comedy history. The biggest blunder in TV late night gets reversed, only now Leno the Elder is leading into Fallon, who is NOT Conan (nor does he attempt to be, really). So I gave Leno the first episode.

At least I tried to, except the second his gray mane bobbed onto screen, I started falling asleep. Aside from the Betty White thing -- which I missed because I had already started dozing -- he started out with some half-hearted groaner about his show's lack of permanence, then launched into Lenoism. Aaaaand... PTFO.

I remember stirring during some thing about his desk, which I ignored. From the bits I could grab, he seems content to acknowledge his quick return and new, shaky status. But he's also eager to pretend nothing ever happened. This is at best a 9-month-plus set redesigning. It had an enormous budget, was behind schedule, and ruined NBC's late night in the process, but all they did was take Jay off the air to give him a new chair to sit on. But something did happen, and the stink hovers around the whole thing because of it.

Sure, Leno destroyed Letterman in the overnights. Big surprise. Dave wasted a big guest, from what I understand -- could have saved Bill Murray for Wednesday, then lead into him with another bigshot: Maybe even Andy Richter. History shows that Leno and Letterman trade ratings when their guests are monumentally controversial, and it is possible to keep the audience they steal. After over a decade of competition, Dave's crew knows this better than anyone, and they've had months to climb all over Jay's corpse. If they can do it quick, Leno's relative lameness could help the newer, slightly edgier Letterman lure back most of his viewer base pretty quickly. Even Kimmel got his exposure in, and now Conan's audience will follow wherever Conan goes (Especially to live shows. ESPECIALLY.)

My point is this: NBC gave up late night when they decided to tell Jay his time was limited. It used to be that the man with the ratings could name his own retirement date, but the age of Market Research and Demographics have opened up all kinds of new mistakes. Especially fun are the kind where you fuck something up years in advance.

Good luck, Jay, I won't be back. You put me to sleep for around 3 hours, then had me so sedated for the rest of the evening that I didn't even turn off the light in my bedroom until I woke back up at three in the morning. Whatever it is -- the timbre of your voice, the hypnotically soothing set colors you use, Kevin Eubanks' attempts at humor -- all it's doing is knocking me out before 11 pm. In a way, I became more like your audience base than I've ever been before. Only I can't blame the sleepiness on arthritis meds.