Stupid Shit: Increase Your Typing Speed by Word per Minute!

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Hard Work, Great Art: The Radiohead Effect

by Corman

Sometime during my freshman year of college, when my musical curiosity was only just blooming, I illegally downloaded a bunch of Radiohead songs. The band had just released Hail to the Thief, and every music publication and grumpy record store clerk (is there any other kind?) that I consulted was preoccupied with the album and the band that released it, so naturally I became preoccupied with them too. If I liked their stuff, I would support them by purchasing their records. If not, I could erase the files and pretend the whole thing never happened.

At this point, I couldn’t have named a single Radiohead song, so when I started downloading their music, I stuck to the albums that most frequently showed up on the “Best-of” lists in those aforementioned publications: The Bends, OK Computer, and Kid A. I don’t remember the exact point when I actually became afraid of what I heard, but I’ll wager it was somewhere during “Idioteque,” a stuttering electronic spasm of a song that sounded nothing like the blues-based rock I ingested by the gallon in those days.

This? I thought. This is the greatest band of their generation? Who did these guys bribe?

But then, I started to worry. What if it’s me? What if they really are great, but I just don’t “get it?” What am I missing? This sort of self-criticism is, I think, pretty natural any time a work of art is praised and awarded high status but doesn’t resonate personally. At the time, though, I was haunted just trying to figure out which of my reactions was closer to the mark. Were the critics and fans just fooling themselves into crying “classic” because they wanted so badly for it to be true, or were my critical faculties not sophisticated enough to understand what I was listening to?

To be safe, I did what any intellectually astute young man faced with such a quandary would do: I ignored it. I shelved the whole Radiohead experiment, intent on proceeding with my Beatles and my Hendrix and my Pink Floyd.

But, oh, how it gnawed at me. I was pulled time and again back to Radiohead’s music no matter how I resisted, even going so far as to buy copies of a couple of their early, much more listener-friendly albums. They repelled me, then drew me back in, pushed me away and beckoned me again until one day, almost five years after I had first listened to their music, everything fell into its right place. I saw Radiohead in concert during the summer of 2008 and was blown away. It was like I had spent those five years wrestling with a complicated equation, and on that night, I finally solved for X. They played the hell out of every song, even the ones I was less familiar with, the ones that had scared me off years earlier. Suddenly, they just made sense. Part of it was the energy behind the performance (it’s easy to forget with all the electronics that the band actually plays all of those songs), but I think mostly it can’t be qualified.

That performance sparked Radiohead’s ascent to their current status as my favorite active musical artists. I eagerly anticipate the release of every new album and single. I salivate over the rumors of a 2012 U.S. tour. I adore this band and their music.

But all of this came very close to never happening. My initial urge to dismiss the band’s status as a byproduct of the hipster hype machine very nearly won out, and if it hadn’t been for that little niggling urge that drew me back to something I hadn’t originally grasped, it would have. And then where would I be? Who would I be? Does the question seem ridiculous? It shouldn’t, not if you believe that, at least in part, our identities are in some way shaped by the art we love. Or, at least, the types of art we love.

Let me explain. My Radiohead example is just one of many from my life. Often I have encountered albums, novels, films, and even television shows that have taxed and perplexed me. My initial reaction is always, no matter how “sophisticated” I think I’ve become, to push the art away, write it off as pretentious. But the good stuff, just like Radiohead, responds in kind. It calls to me, invites me back, slowly reveals a beauty or poignancy or sharpness that was hidden during our first encounter. Eventually, I had to concede that my first impressions could not be trusted, and while some great art does not require this level of, for lack of a better word, work, all great art rewards our persistent efforts at relating to and interacting with it.

I understand that some don’t see it this way. Many believe that art should meet you where you are, and if it doesn’t speak to you immediately, then that probably means it never will. These people look, like I once did, at what they don’t enjoy or understand (though they are often loath to admit the latter) with disdain, unable to grant even the possibility of value. This view is easier, but it is not best practice.

I don’t mean that we might, if simply enough effort were expended, come to enjoy everything. Our tastes will still direct us to that music and writing and film which resonates with us, but we must rely on more than simple taste. We must be willing to wrestle with and even struggle through difficult, challenging works to mine from them the value within.

The reward, though hard won, is inestimable. The reward is Vertigo and There Will Be Blood, The Brothers Karamazov and Infinite Jest, In Utero and The Age of Adz, The Wire and Twin Peaks. The reward is engaging with some of mankind’s greatest achievements and coming out the other side enriched, fulfilled, and maybe even changed.

I don’t know what’s out there waiting for you, but the only way to find out is to get to work.

Normally, I would end there, but I’d like to invite my fellow Verbal Infusers to take a crack at my central question: How hard should we have to work to appreciate great art?

Would You Rather?

Hello folks. It's time for another round of "Would You Rather."

You know the drill. Leave us your answer with optional explanation in the comments.

Today's "would you rather" is based on two real life stories. I'll be very brief. (I'll get the details as close as I can remember hearing them.)

First: My friend Petie, living in a small apartment in Lexington, Kentucky, was asleep, dreaming that his girlfriend's bird was nibbling on his chin. (I think his girlfriend actually owned a pet bird at the time.) He woke up to find none other than a damn BAT on his face. Waking in a start, the bat fell off, crawled under the door and into the living room. He and his roommate then had to go into battle in the middle of the night.

Second: There is an urban legend about giant sewer rats that climb up in your sewer pipes, and are waiting in your toilet when you open the lid, (most likely in the middle of the night, when you are least alert and off your guard. Mwahahahahaha!) Allegedly, this has actually happened.

So, would you rather wake up with a bat on your face, or go to the toilet in the middle of the night only to be shocked by a giant sewer rat within dangerous biting range of your most precious assets.

Remember, in both cases, you have this thing in your house, so you actually have to deal with it. You are home alone. No spouses to the rescue. Which would you rather deal with?


This:                                                                                  Or this:

Hitchcocktober 2011 Episode 1: To Catch a Thief

Hello and happy Hitchcocktober!

Hitchcocktober was a yearly tradition of Movie Club, a Wilmore, KY based establishment over which I enjoyed presidency. Throughout the years, Wednesday nights in October were devoted to Alfred Hitchcock's classic films. We watched the giants: Vertigo, Rear Window, North by Northwest, Psycho, The Birds. We watched second tier greats: Dial M for Murder, The Man Who Knew Too Much, Strangers on a Train, Suspicion, Rebecca, (the only Hitchcock Film to win the Oscar for Best Picture). We forayed into the somewhat obscure, but still awesome, realms of Hitchcock-Topia like Lifeboat and Rope.

Here at Verbal Infusion, we would like to continue the Hitchcocktober tradition and devote a few posts this month to the master of suspense, Alfred Hitchcock. It won't be a daily thing, but look for one or maybe two entries a week devoted to Hitchcocktober.

This post contains NO spoilers.

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To Catch a Thief

Who says it's wrong to start with dessert?

I want, simply and quickly, to tell you why you should sit down and enjoy Alfred Hitchcock's To Catch a Thief. I'll make it short and sweet. Promise.

The first few minutes of To Catch a Thief contain mystery, a car chase, and eyeful upon eyeful of the stunning French Riviera. The scenery alone makes this a worthwhile watch, as your heart will yearn after the stunning coasts and hills of green.

From there on it's more mystery, more sweeping views of the French Riviera, Brigitte Auber in a bathing suit, Cary Grant's charming good looks, and, oh yeah, Grace Kelly. Lots and lots of Grace Kelly. The very first shot of Grace features her oiling herself in a yellow bathing suit. If all of that doesn't sound like your kind of thing, then maybe you aren't alive....You are alive, aren't you?



It may not be the Filet Mignon of The Hitchcock spread. The Filet Mignons are films like the brilliant Vertigo or the practically perfect Rear Window. To Catch a Thief can't be ingested, digested, and dissected layer by layer the way the giants can.

To Catch a Thief is the creme brulee'. It's sweet, light, and it goes down so, so easy.

In case you forgot:



Unlike Grace Kelly, the film isn't perfect. The opening scene (beyond the opening credits) of a woman screaming past the camera is comically dated. One actor evidently couldn't speak a word of English and his lines were obviously and shoddily dubbed. It doesn't achieve the greatness of the Hitchcock giants.

But it also features scenes like this: (This clip is also spoiler free.)

Edible Scene. Yum.

This scene is so rich it looks almost fit to eat. Anyone with even decent knowledge of film will recognize the slick film-making prowess displayed here, and experienced filmmakers (cinematographers, in particular) will be drooling by the end.

You'll notice that I haven't said a word about the plot. I'm not going to. That's not to shortchange the story (which is intriguing to the last) or to suggest that the plot takes back seat to the tropical eye candy. I simply want you to remember that one of the most analyzed (and over-analyzed) filmmakers of all time also made some cinematic sweets to go along with the gritty Psychos, the convoluted Vertigos, and the philosophically heavy Ropes and Lifeboats.

If you've seen the Hitchcock giants but have never savored this sugary treat, you're long overdue. If you've never forayed into the world of Hitchcock, well, it's not always a terrible idea to start with dessert.


By Jonny Walls

Wine from the Pop Machine: An Education in the Classics from Professors Tom and Jerry

We here at Verbal Infusion would like to take this opportunity to announce that we are highly cultured. "Classy," they describe us. "Like, super classy." We like to think of ourselves as denizens of the upper echelon, purveyors of life's choicest sweets.

Lately, however, our upper crust has been crumbling under the crushing realization that for one of us - me, for instance - 22 years of playing piano, 15 years of formal training, 4 years of concentrated tutelage in music, and 1 expensive piano pedagogy minor are all wasting away inside a fading memory, unused fingers, and a piano-less apartment.

I once attended classical recitals weekly. Now, I listen to Jonny mimic a kazoo in the shower (not that he doesn't throw down a killer vocal kazoo.) I once aced tests where I identified musical works by genre, composer, opus, number, title, movement, and key. Now, I recognize cat food jingles (sometimes).
If I'm going to get back to that beloved haven of snoot to which I once belonged, I'm going to have to refresh my memory, and this time I'm taking you with me.

Whether we notice it or not, we are surrounded by the great works of composers of the last four centuries. Their music is in our waiting rooms, commercials, weddings, and Saturday morning cartoons. These are songs you know - you just might not know that you know them. I intend to tutor us all in the classics by identifying the titles and composers of popular works, those that hum softly in our collective subconscious. If you've heard a tune a million times before but have never asked its story or name, now is the time to learn. And so, for the first entry in a series on high culture in pop culture, we turn to the sources of all our accumulated knowledge: Looney Tunes and Hanna Barbera.

The Tune: Franz Liszt's Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2.

Where you've heard it: There are at least two animated shorts of note featuring the same song, one a Tom and Jerry and the other a Bugs Bunny. We could get into a discussion of who ripped off whom here, but I don't want to, so we won't. So there.

You might not recognize the tune it in its somber and unassuming first stanzas, but you're sure to know it by the frenzy of minute 5:30 in the Tom and Jerry short.

Cat and Mouse

Rhapsody Rabbit

A bit of useless knowledge for you: Evidently, Liszt had less webbing between his fingers than the average person, so intervals that stretched other pianists' reaches to the brink were no trouble for him. As a result, his compositions feature absurdly wide intervals all over the place. This makes his music difficult for Emily to play, which pisses her off. Now you know.

Emily's stupid guide to remembering the title and composer next time you hear it: You're going to have to remember the Tom and Jerry bit. 

1. Why does Tom chase Jerry? Because he's hungry, which sounds like Hungary. 
2. Next, we need to remember that the two of them run around all day with only half their clothes on, which is quite Bohemian of them. Bohemian Rhapsody. Hungry cat + Bohemian Rhapsody = Hungarian Rhapsody.
3. We can remember that it's Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2 because there are two animals in the animated short. 
4. Finally, we know that the composer is Liszt because we'll remember that I made a list to remember the composition.

So there you have it. We're well on our way to impressing tens of people with our new knowledge, and in the meantime, we can remember that in taking just a few minutes today to note a name and a title, we've tipped our hats to a great composer worth honoring.

(A Much Less Depressing) Requiem for a Dream

Ever had a dream crushed? Awful, isn't it? Especially when it's a dream that you've held onto for a while. Maybe it wasn't all that likely ever to be fulfilled, but damn it, it was yours, and as long as some small part of it was alive, it was a haven, a little alcove of fantasy in the often punishing ocean of real life. And then, just like the crack of a whip, it's gone. I'm nauseated just thinking about it again. You see, my former dream lasted for nearly a decade, and then, in just over ninety minutes, one documentary film unceremoniously destroyed it. That film is Conan O' Brien Can't Stop.

In high school, I watched Conan almost every night, rarely going to sleep until he had at least made it through his first guest. I paid for this late night habit as I dragged my exhausted carcass through the school day and came to rely on afternoon naps just to maintain the energy for another episode, but it was totally worth it. I loved Conan. In fact, the more time I spent watching Late Night, the more I actually started to believe that if age and geography and fame were removed from the equation, Conan O’ Brien and I could - nay, would - be friends.

Each new episode only convinced me further. Besides our height (both of us are over 6’4”), our highly compatible senses of humor (I laughed when he talked), our love of classic cinema (he mentioned Citizen Kane or The Godfather every once in a while), and our mutual respect for and study of the titans of literature (he famously graduated from Harvard after writing his thesis on William Faulkner and Flannery O’ Connor; I had read and been confused by both of these authors), there was an overwhelming sense that Conan had somehow, despite the endless parade of celebrities who graced those ugly, blue-green chairs next to his desk, remained normal, like he might decide at any moment that one more seven-minute segment with Parker Posey would kill him and hang up his pompadour, returning to real life to hang out with real people.

When Jay Leno and NBC pushed Conan from his seat at the Tonight Show last year, I was among those trenchant supporters who proclaimed, “I’m with Coco!” and watched with glee those last few glorious episodes as he skewered Leno, the network, and the absurdity of the situation itself, ironically reaching the pinnacle of his run on the show just as it was ripped from his grasp.

Then came The Speech. During his last telecast as host of the Tonight Show, Conan used his last few minutes one-on-one with the camera to speak directly to his faithful viewers and those casual, curious observers rubbernecking at the carnage. His last direct correspondence with his audience was as follows:

To all the people watching, I can never thank you enough for your kindness to me and I'll think about it for the rest of my life. All I ask of you is one thing: please don't be cynical. I hate cynicism -- it's my least favorite quality and it doesn't lead anywhere. Nobody in life gets exactly what they thought they were going to get. But if you work really hard and you're kind, amazing things will happen.

There could have been no more perfect ending to Conan’s most public moment. The shield of celebrity briefly dropped, and in a moment of choked-up honesty, Conan affirmed everything I had suspected about him. He left NBC, went on a live tour (which, of course, came nowhere near Kentucky, save for a secret Nashville show in a 400-seat record store), and filmed the aforementioned documentary Conan O’ Brien Can’t Stop. Though I watch Conan’s TBS show with some regularity (unfortunately, these days the feasibility of staying awake until 12:30 is essentially nil) and make it my business to keep up with Conan’s doings, until two days ago, I had not seen the film. Until that time, my dream had lived on.

Conan O’ Brien Can’t Stop is everything Conan’s television shows have been: funny, smart (in that special, stupid way), energetic, and warm. It is also, however, dark and disconcerting. The quality most immediately apparent when watching the film is Conan’s compulsive desire to be a nice guy. He never says no to fans, signs everything put in front of him, poses for picture after picture, and frets constantly about providing a quality show while on his “Legally Prohibited From Being Funny on Television” Tour. This is consistent, of course, with everything I have come to know or suspect about the man. But behind the nice guy, in those moments when he has just boarded his bus after snapping hundreds of photos and pouring his soul into entertaining his biggest fans, is a guy who, just like every other celebrity in his position, just gets tired. Tired of the endless requests and hectic schedule. Tired of being away from his family and moving from stop to stop. Tired, in a weird way, of being himself. It isn’t that Conan doesn’t honestly appreciate his supporters (it’s clear that he understands the causal relationship between his fans and his status), it’s that nobody, no matter how pure their intentions or how kind they are at heart, can maintain the level of sincere connection that Conan attempts with his fans.

So how did watching Conan struggle with fatigue and frustration as his tour dragged on end my dream of our eventual friendship? It would be easy to see Conan as disingenuous because he very often displays real anger towards many of the people who seek interaction with him when he’s out of their sight, but that isn’t it. I give him immense credit for continuing to oblige them time after time, despite his exhaustion. No matter how bothered he is, he never lets it show except in private with his most trusted compatriots. No, it wasn’t really anything Conan did. It was his fans.

Conan’s fans, especially his most vocal, are a unique breed. They mirror his quirkiness, his sarcasm, his intelligence (mostly), and even his faux-outsider persona. Watching these people approach and interact with Conan time after time revealed something to me that I guess - even though I’d never have admitted it previously - I had always known. Conan O’ Brien isn’t Conan O’ Brien. Or, more precisely, Conan the man, the husband, and the father, isn’t Conan the performer. They’re both funny and smart and they both love great music and films and books, but because there is such a thin line between those two Conans, people like me have been fooled into thinking that if we ran into Conan in line at the grocery, we could make just the right remark about As I Lay Dying and be welcomed as a friend. There wasn’t one person who Conan spoke with, outside of his assistant, his producer, or his crew, for whom he was not performing. Every encounter was a show, and the only way to get beyond that curtain would be years of proximity that might slowly pull it back.

It’s probably this way with every celebrity of much note. At that level of fame, the world must seem your stage, but all the folks clamoring for your autograph are not your fellow poor players, but the groundlings, to be pandered to at best, wholly ignored at worst. There was a time when I would have found fault in this view, but since Conan O’ Brien Can’t Stop, I can’t do it. We adore them for their performances, and that’s what draws us in, the adoration of the persona, not the person. We create the distance between the real versions of these people and the version projected to the rest of the world, then we want them to bridge the gap and become bitter when they can’t or won’t. Conan’s Tonight Show farewell rang in my ears as the credits rolled on the documentary. I won’t be cynical. I’ll just let Conan do what he’s always wanted to do: entertain me.

Here’s lookin’ at you, Conan. We’ll always have the string dance. And the masturbating bear. Oh, and the “Let’s Go Mets!” chant guy. It makes me laugh just thinking about it.

The Power of Association: Don't Underestimate Your Own Brain, Dummy

There is a reason that every time I cover a public toilet seat with toilet paper before I sit down, I think of a certain unnamed friend. I'm just not sure what that reason is.

I don't know why or when this started, it just did.

It doesn't happen when I walk into the bathroom knowing full well that I'm going to be using the stall, it's not as I turn around and lock the door, it's exactly when I start laying down that paper. He just pops into my head. Every single time.

I can only attribute this to the power of association. For the life of me I can't recall any incident or conversation that would link this person to the activity to which his memory is tied. But somewhere, at some point in my past, my mind went and made some random association between this sanitary activity and my friend, and so there it is and ever shall be.

This got me thinking about more relevant instances of association in our lives. We all experience them. Not one person who reads this article won't know how it feels to smell some specific scent and immediately, involuntarily, be invaded by a swath of memories that are forever and irreversibly linked to that particular aroma. Often we know exactly how, when and where the association was made: An ex's perfume or cologne, the distinct smell of the cabins from your middle school summer camp, or the musky smell of your high school gym. I bet you can smell every one of them in your mind's nose right now, can't you?

But, like my bizarre and somewhat unfortunate friend-toilet seat covering association, some just can't be explained.

You'll forgive me my arrogance, I'm sure, but in the field of random association, I am a prodigy. I'm a savant. A natural, as it were.

When I was young, I didn't know that it was abnormal for words, all words, to have flavors and tastes. I didn't know this was strange.

One day, around age fourteen, sitting around the kitchen in my friend's house after school, I revealed for whatever reason that my friend's name, "Josh," tastes like toast and butter.

Blank stares.

I also revealed that my friend Travis' name tastes like processed potatoes, and that my friend Steven's name tastes like watermelon seeds, and that my friend Adam's name tastes like apples. (Go figure.)

I was assured that this was not normal.

A few years later, my friend Leah, a psychology student, told me that my ability is a rare phenomenon called synesthesia.

There are multiple forms of synesthesia. The majority of synesthetes, as it turns out, see particular colors when they hear sounds or tones. (I also dabble in this one, though very lightly. A famous synesthete of this particular variety is singer/songwriter John Mayer.) Other synesthetes assign personalities to numbers, letters, and other symbols. Others see certain numbers and symbols in particular colors.

All synesthesia is involuntary. We don't choose the colors or personalities of our symbols, the colors of our notes and tones, or the tastes of our words. We don't alter or change them. We don't forget them. They just are.

Mine, the rarest, as I have come to learn, is called Lexical Gustatory Synesthesia. In a nut shell, my brain has, on its own time, behind my back, made thousands of associations between words and flavors. I don't know how or why, but they're there. Some are obvious (like the Adam=Apple one), but others don't make any apparent sense (News=Cooked Spinach...I don't know why). Depending on how hungry I am (and how strong the flavor is), I can almost taste the flavors when I hear the words.

And yes, the names of foods always line up with the flavor of that food. Always.

This super power, aside from making me a unique brand of party favor for excited people who want to know what their names taste like (and let me assure you, it doesn't bother me in the least to be asked), is pretty useless. It can even be inconvenient. If I hear the word choice enough, I'll start craving sloppy Joes so bad I'll have to go to the store and get the ingredients.

I tell you all of this simply to illustrate the power of association. We may not all be synesthetes, but we are all subject to association.

For me, it isn't all toilet seats and flavored words. The movies I love, the music I love, the places I love, are all heavily influenced by association. For example, when I listen to Ryan Adams' album "Heartbreaker," somewhere a synapse (or something) fires in my brain that touches a certain nerve, and suddenly I feel how it felt to be driving in my jeep back in Kentucky or hanging out at "The Cabin" in the winter of 2003-2004, wondering about that one girl and letting the melancholy of the Kentucky winter wash over me. (This isn't to say that the scientific process of association, however inaccurately I have described it, in any way robs the process of its Romance. The complexity and end result of the whole phenomenon reek of transcendence and divinity.)

But what about the people I know? Are there some deep associations I couldn't possibly identify dictating who I enjoy hanging out with and who, for some reason, have just always rubbed me the wrong way?

Whatever the case may be, the fact of the matter is that this all comes down to feelings. I didn't sit down and make the logical choice that I'm going to taste strawberry Kool-aid when I hear Emily's name. It's just a feeling.

I didn't, believe it or not, sit down and decide that I'm going to be crushed and even depressed when Notre Dame loses a football game. It's a deep-seated feeling.

I didn't decide that every time I smell the Victoria's Secret scent "Very Sexy" I would suddenly remember exactly how it felt to hug that one girl. It's an invasive and involuntary feeling. (Emily once offered me a whiff from a "Very Sexy" sample and asked if I recommend she get a bottle. I quickly nixed the idea.)

I didn't decide that when I hear "One Headlight" by The Wallflowers that I will be so overcome with feelings connected to adolescence and divorce and change and self-discovery and friends and the search for identity that my chest will want to burst. It's just a feeling.

I think, despite all of the things that happen to us, and the things that happen because of our choices, and despite the feelings we carry, we have Choice. Turns out we always did.

I could have chosen never to drink strawberry Kool-aid, never to watch Notre Dame football, never to talk to that girl, and never to listen to The Wallflowers. But I did all of those things. I didn't have any clue what the results of those actions would be, but they were my actions nonetheless, and now they're my feelings.

I mentioned earlier that this all got me thinking about the more relevant instances of associations in our lives. Well, believe it or not, they're all relevant. You'll never know what consequences will come of the choices you make. But if you take a look at that big tangled mess of crossed wires of feelings and emotions and associations that is your heart, you may start to be able to sort out which choices were wise, and which weren't.

That's at least a start, right?



By Jonny Walls