Jazz Reductio

A corona of sun is blistering on the otherwise black horizon as my Japanese fighting fish engage in the ancient art of war. An ornamental pair of weighted cloisonné balls, idyllically painted with the mythical Phoenix Dragon, rotate harmoniously in my palm as I channel the eternal resonance of the chi (a thing of vital import when suspended in midair by one’s diametrically stretched out legs which bridge the span of two petrified stumps spaced approximately five feet in distance). It is in these moments that I’m most clairvoyant.

Suspended here I listen to NPR, moreover Fresh Air with host Terri Gross. She currently lobs softballs to a lackadaisical Branford Marsallis: one of notable jazz and Leno lineage. It’s an acquired taste, this jazz - like martinis, or Harpo Marx. It’s a sound I’ve not been able to wrap my generally ajar head around. It’s a sound I regard with the same fervor as long division. And I’m not referring to the readily damnable whitewashed redux jazz of the Kenny G’entrification genre. I’m talking about the origin cool. The rim-shot fueled blue fire of bohemians, hipsters and literati alike.

Perhaps ignorantly I regard jazz to be overly emphatic on function over form. I find it to be calculated background static; unlyrical and solo-strewn drum and bass and saxophone drones of cacophonic desolation, instilling the marginal passion and sullen void of barroom ghosts and junkies. While I’m all for a little smoke-lit, back alley Beat romanticism, this musical vehicle of general association leaves me with a sense of a nonplussed collapse, much the same as a convertible stalled along an open stretch of American highway. Potential energy in a kinetic funk. Pendulums rusted by the drizzle of rains.

The esoteric equations, guised as melding collisions, are more effective, and subsequently affective, when sparsely entwined amid an emotive harmony in a movement like, say, Astral Weeks. For in the celestial words of Freidrich Nietzsche, you must have chaos to give birth to a dancing star. (rim-shot!)


Jefferson’s two cents: Ain’t nuthin’ funny ’bout that one.

Click Click, Bang Bang

Since its inception, Internet marketing has managed to eclipse all other forms of media in terms of insulting our collective intelligence. But rarely has this condescension been so blatantly evident as it is with these “shoot the target” banner ads – the ones which transform cursors into cross-hairs with which to draw beads and fire upon whatever target they’ve elected, be it fowl, fauna, or floating Screech heads. Now, this shooting gallery exercise would be a reasonable ploy if there were the slightest modicum of skill required. But these myopic marketers are so dead-set on having us click through to whatever site they’ve concocted, that merely shooting anywhere within the banner’s confines is sufficient enough to ostensibly win a free iPod or Xbox or whatever new-fangled contraption they’re baiting you with in a Faustian exchange for your infinite subscriptions.

At its basest level these ads are blatant lies: You don’t have to hit the target to win the prize. But propagating lies is nothing new to this enclave. What’s curious, however, is that there coexists a dilemma on their own behalf that these marketers have either failed to recognize or neglected to address. While this pseudo-videogame gambit may have initially piqued the interest of the more playful of the web-browsing patronage, the device immediately loses its luster due to the dawning realization that one’s marksmanship is completely irrelevant. In essence, playing a game in which all competition is drained of it is about as rewarding as candy cigarettes or dry humping. Their de facto message is comparable to that of the Special Olympics, in that we are all of us winners.

Which brings me to my next point: If one is incapable of hitting a veritable throng of targets moving at a glacier’s clip, then there can be no plausible explanation other than that the person is radically handicapped (And even then, you know what they say about a room full of monkeys with typewriters and Shakespeare and whatnot). But if the individual is indeed handicapped—or disabled, if you prefer—then any transactions that may transpire can be decreed null by law. And I can only assume these website provocateurs are privy to this loophole, given the astronomical amount of porn site subscriptions retracted by special ed. parents and caretakers since the dawn of the Internet.

And so the question is: If the average citizen is wise to this “shoot the target” contrivance, and the mentally-hindered populace is exempt from its trappings, then who’s responsible for sustaining its existence? In order to uncover this phantom demographic I adopted methods long practiced by marketers themselves: I hit the pavement for some guerilla research and data collecting.

For two weeks I frequented an assortment of locations, including bowling alleys, Ross Dress for Less, the DMV, Taco Bell, actual shooting ranges, and parking lots. What I discovered was nothing less than extraordinary. Without fail, every last person who frequented these banner ads was found to possess at least two of the following traits: They either read Soap Opera Digest, bought lottery tickets, watched Wheel of Fortune, ate Cheetos (or imitation cheese puffs), listened to Nickleback, collected commemorative plates, bow hunted, and/or preferred sweatpants to pants. An extraneous portion of my polling also found that these same individuals who partook of the “shoot the target” ads also habitually tried their luck with the equally inane “Who is this?” banner ads. I’m referring to the ads that show a celebrity’s face and provide you with three names to choose from. For instance, it may show Tom Cruise and then list the following options: a) Hulk Hogan b) Ludicrous c) Tom Cruise. Regardless of the fact that you would have to be either blind or Amish not to answer this correctly, these ads are calibrated so that even if you do believe that Tom Cruise is in fact Ludicrous (which some would argue), you’re still entitled to win a prize. God bless America.

These findings have led me to believe that a considerable amount of society’s paradigms are dictated by the lowest common denominators of our populace. Unbeknownst to them, the powerless are holding the reigns of our nation's industrial machinations. How else could one explain Keno? Or for that matter, Reno.

And so it would seem, for better or worse, that in our plodding march toward Armageddon, at least one Biblical prophesy is already in its nascency: The meek shall inherit the Earth.