I have to admit - I’m a shameless sucker for all things synthesized. My favorite synth tracks are the ones where the synthesized melodies are as important (if not moreso) as the vocals. I chose these 19 tracks because I think they’re some of the best examples of how synth can be the musical glue that holds a song together. Some of them are cheesy, some of them are epic, and some of them are just a little bit overdramatic, but I have a soft spot for all of them, and thanks to the magic of the Internet, you can listen to them while you read my obnoxious comments!
Did I leave any of your favorites off the list? Please feel free to leave your favorite picks in the comments!
My online introduction to Ricky (not his real name) was really nothing out of the ordinary. Occasionally I glance through my “Who’s Viewed Me” list on Friendster to find out who has been looking at my profile, with the hopes of finding a handsome stranger who was interested, but just too shy to get in touch.
The last time I decided review my catalog of incommunicado stalkers, I was greeted by the smile of a handsome, surprisingly boyish 25-year old redhead named Ricky. His small collection of photos on Friendster had him in various states of business attire, sometimes from awkward angles, smiling with friends, and having a good time.
His profile indicated that he was from Toledo, which wasn’t surprising to me. I seem to meet Midwestern ex-patriots on a constant basis, all of whom usually share the common dream of living a less oppressive lifestyle amidst the streetcars of San Francisco. In general, these boys are often shy, warm, and trusting — not yet tainted by the challenges of living and dating in the homo-jungle.
I went right to work by sending a “smile” to let him know that I’d like to chat sometime, and soon we were having the usual back-and-forth banter that I’m used to when talking to boys online. Before too long, we had arranged to meet for lunch on Sunday. As we were solidifying our plans and deciding where to meet, he nearly shocked me from my desk chair onto the floor.
I will confess — if you’re looking to find me on the Internet, it’s not that hard. I have accounts on Friendster, MySpace, Yahoo! 360, Hot or Not (don’t scoff!) and probably even more social sites that I haven’t even thought of. My vast online presence has made me completely unafraid of posting pictures of myself, personal stories about my life, and all sorts of other identifying information. It’s so easy to hit “upload”, “send”, or “submit”, that I don’t often stop and contemplate the potential consequences. Until now.
The online threat du jour in today’s tale of horror and intrigue is MySpace. As a rabid opponent of the ugliest, most poorly designed site on the Internet, I was only forced to create an account because I wanted to view the accounts of my friends, who begged me to join. Because I fill in some non-required information (sexual orientation, for instance), I tend to get targeted by a lot of strange, unsolicited messages from complete strangers.
The most common messages that show up in my MySpace mailbox are from people with names like “HungBrandon” or “Top2Bottom” who are (or are posing as) porn stars, trying to acquire as many “friends” as possible. I usually deny those friend requests because I figure that the word “friend” should have at least a tiny bit of meaning. I don’t consider the lady who bags my groceries at Safeway a “friend”, and I’ve met her in person. Therefore, it’s silly to think that “Top2Bottom” is going to be on my friends list when he hasn’t even bagged my groceries.
Then, there is the type of message that I really loathe — the “let’s go for drinks even though I don’t know you” message from someone who I would never be even remotely attracted to. I know that this sounds snobby, and I generally feel quite bad for not replying to these strangers, but I usually don’t spend too much time thinking about it.
That all changed last week. But first, the background story. February 7, 2006, at 2:16am, I received this message on MySpace from someone I’d never seen or talked to before (personal info redacted out of respect):
Subject: your hella cute Body: i wanted to say hello to you
CXXXX
408 417 XXXX
Although poor grammar is a deal-breaker for me, and I don’t much appreciate people thinking it’s okay to give me their phone number without even chatting with me first, I looked at his profile and decided to simply ignore the message. While I won’t go into to many details, his profile spends quite a bit of time (and poor spelling, and excessive amounts of bandwidth dedicated to pictures and movies of models, Frappucinos, and Pepperidge Farm Goldfish) explaining how he’s the “fun one” in his group, and how he makes “people show off their true humor in one self”. Uggh. So I didn’t reply. Yet, it didn’t end:
Date: March 14, 2006 8:06pm
Subject: hey cutie Body: your hella cute and we should talk some more and hang out sometime
CXXXX
408 417 XXXX
Beyond the use of “hella”, can you guess what else is wrong with this picture? We should “talk some more”? We haven’t talked yet. AT ALL. Nor will we. EVER. Again, I ignored this unwanted solicitation. Yet still, he persists:
Date: April 19, 2006 3:27pm
Subject: hey steven Body: i thought i say since i see you on myspace alot and never get around to saying hello, you are very handsome and if you want i wouldn’t mind talking to you a little more.
CXXXX
A much better attempt, with the use of the word “handsome”, but there’s no way I’m biting. You “never get around to saying hello”? You’ve already emailed me twice, and I’ve ignored you! And again, if we’ve never talked before, you can’t say we should talk “more”.
Although the saga of unwanted MySpace messages ends there, last week something substantially worse happened. I was out in the small park near my apartment walking Miss Cleo, my new chihuahua (who I owe a dedicated blog post, to come later). I had my earbuds in, and I was listening to one of my usual morning podcasts, when a total stranger approaches and starts staring at me and my dog.
After an awkward moment or two of this staring, I took my earbuds out.
The stranger asked, “Is your name Steven?”
“Yes,” I replied. “Do I know you?”
“No,” he said, “But I’ve seen you on MySpace.”
Then I recognized him. It was the unsolicited emailer. Standing there, approaching me randomly, in the park. Because I’m not rude, I tried to make brief small talk, and then I turned away to continue monitoring Miss Cleo to verify that she was doing her business. He just kept standing there, silent, for 30 seconds, staring at me.
Finally, he left. I reflected on this bizarre encounter for a few moments, and the more I thought about it, the more it irked and angered me. In the world of meeting people online, there is an unwritten rule that if you see someone from online who you recognize, and you’re not on familiar or friendly terms, you don’t approach them to meet them for the first time. It’s common courtesy. You don’t ever put someone on the spot like that. Especially someone who clearly has no intention of ever meeting you.
I’ve seen people from online before and I’ve chosen not to approach them because it’s wrong. Yet this socially handicapped crazy person felt that it was okay to approach me by myself in the park. I guess I’ll give him credit for having guts. But that’s where the credit ends and the fury begins.
I suppose I’ve learned a very important meta-lesson. However unrecognizable you think you are, there’s always the possibility that the wrong person from the Internet may see you and strike without warning. Then, the only thing you can do is think of some way to get out of it. Next time, I think I will just lie down on the ground and play dead until the attacker goes away. After all, it works on bears.
Maybe FOX will create a new special called When MySpace Freaks Attack. I’d be more than happy to participate in a reenactment of my brush with danger.
Yeah, it’s true — this is my first time ever using Northern California’s premiere word: Hella. But it was the only thing I could think of that rhymes with Coachella other than Nutella, so you can certainly understand why I had to make the choice I did.
Tomorrow I depart with Ernie and his friend Adam to meet up with Eric and his posse (or harem, perhaps) of what are certain to be tendy, beautiful SoCal boys so that we can party our asses off poolside at a luxurious Palm Springs vacation home, inbetween dancing our asses off at Coachella, SoCal’s most fabulous music festival.
The schedule is jam-packed for Saturday and Sunday and I’m going to get to see some artists I’ve never seen live, one that I have, and potentially a lot more that I’ve never even heard of. Here are some of the acts that have me nearly wetting myself:
Depeche Mode - I can’t believe that I’ve never seen them live! Along with Erasure and the Pet Shop Boys, DM is one of those bands that has completely defined my taste musically, and for whatever reason, I’ve been missing them every single time I’ve had the chance to go.
Madonna - Stereotype police! The reality is that Madonna puts on one hell of a show, and even though I’m going to be seeing her in San Jose in May, seeing her in the Sahara Dance Tent (a smaller venue for certain) is going to be as close to having her in my own living room as I will ever get without chloroform and duct tape.
Scissor Sisters - *swoon* I’ve loved them since I first heard their album and their tracks are probably at the absolute top of every playlist I’ve ever made. And Jake Shears (a.k.a. Jason Sellards) shall someday be mine. It can’t come quickly enough.
Mylo - I just recently discovered this DJ. His infectious song In My Arms samples Waiting for a Star to Fall by Boy Meets Girl, and Bette Davis Eyes by Kim Carnes. Any song that mixes these two cheesy 80s staples has got to be by someone who kicks some serious ass. And he went deaf briefly this year. How dramatic and deliciously tragic!
She Wants Revenge - This band reminds me of Dead or Alive. Dark, a little bit dancey, and a tiny bit pained-sounding. I haven’t listened to most of their album, but the tracks I know are really intriguing.
Bloc Party - I don’t need to elaborate on this one. New wave retro rock is still fashionable, no matter what anyone tells you.
The Like - What I Say and What I Mean is the track by these hot rock chicks that got me really interested in their music. Girls who aren’t afraid to sweat and play guitar are hot.
There are also a few more artists I might be seeing (lord knows there are enough to choose from) but I will save that for after the show is over, the sweat stops flowing, and the porta-potty line shrinks to a manageable size.
Ah, another birthday! This is a big one too, since I can now apparently get cheaper car insurance and rent a car without having to pay an exhorbitant and unreasonable amount of money!
My birthday morning started with a 7:30am phone call from Kelsie, which I promptly ignored and silenced since I was trying to sleep in. She insisted later that she was only calling so early because she wanted to be the first one to leave me a birthday message, but sometimes I think that she forgets the Central-Pacific time difference.
With the amount of work I’ve been doing lately, I decided that I should at very least take one day to treat myself to some of the finer things in life — namely clothes shopping at Express, cake batter ice cream with almonds, caramel, and Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups from Cold Stone Creamery, and a fancy-schmancy clay mask and some DKNY Be Delicious cologne from Sephora.
After my self-indulgent day of shopping and ice cream, I spent the evening consuming excessive amounts of alcohol (in the form of lemon drops, kamikaze shots, and Long Island iced teas) and singing my ass off at The Mint in San Francisco with friends and co-workers who went out of their way to make sure that I had a good time. Thanks to Nate, I had a drink in my hand for the entire night, which certainly kept things interesting.
The first (and only) member of my group (besides me) to go up to the mic was Andy, who did a stunning rendition of Sweet Transvestite from Rocky Horror. I had only heard about the magnificence of Andy’s well-rehearsed stage act, but finally getting to see it in person was quite the experience.
Thankfully, I had the forethought to capture part of his ground-breaking performance for all eternity so that I could present it here:
My songs were It Must Have Been Love by Roxette, and later in the evening, a very drunken rendition of Higher Love by Steve Winwood. What I remember most about the second song was that the words on the screen were highlighting a bit too fast for me to actually keep up with. I also could swear that a whole group of “fans” were clapping to the beat in the front, but I might have been having some sort of rock-star fantasy. Isn’t it sad that I would choose to have my rock star fantasy to a Steve Winwood song? … *sigh*
As the evening of karaoke tapered off and the posse began to leave, eventually only Andy and Adric and I were left. Someone had the clever idea to go to Badlands, so we stumbled for a few blocks to get there. I only really recall a few things:
Andy meeting some Southern boy whose number he was upset that he didn’t get
Discovering that there was a second bathroom at Badlands that I never knew about
Feeling tired and wanting to leave (which Adric later described as me being “pouty”)
Andy drove us back to his place, where Adric & I crashed on his sofa bed and were awakened in the morning by Andy’s obnoxious roommate and his boyfriend, who felt the need to use every loud appliance possible while we were attempting to sleep. Before leaving, Adric and I had a lovely time trying to psychoanalyze the disfigured characters in the ugly art Andy’s roommate chose to hang above their television in the living room. The martini-holding, poorly dancing party-goers in the photo each had stories of their own — from the Romanian woman in the black dress who clearly was a manipulator, to the gay guy in the middle who was clearly the fifth wheel, to the subservient Asian girl in the red dress who would do whatever her Romanian friend told her to.
The burning question that everyone seems to ask at birthday-time is whether or not I feel any older. Honestly, I really haven’t had time to process it. I know that at this point I’m halfway through my twenties, but it doesn’t really bother me that much. I keep telling myself that thirty isn’t nearly as old as it used to be, but as I continue my march towards 3-0, we’ll see if I continue to feel that way. One of the things that I’ve learned from my father (who still looks great in his fifties) is that you’re really only as old as you allow yourself to be.
As long as I keep on singing, winning stuffed animals from claw machines, and watching cartoons, I don’t think I’ll grow up.
In terms of turning graffiti into a respected art form, I can’t think of any well-known artist that had more of an impact than Keith Haring (1958-1990). Haring’s “Barking Dog” is hanging over my bed, and one of his famous untitled “crowd” prints is the main piece of focus in my living room. I find myself drawn to the simplicity, the day-glo colors, and the cultural significance of the pieces.
While I lived in the New York metro area, I never got a chance to go and see any of Haring’s famous murals, but during my random web-surfing procrasturbation yesterday, I came across one that I had never even seen photos of before, titled crack is wack. This double-sided mural was painted in 1986 on a handball court at 128th St. and 2nd Avenue, and is still there today.
Besides the obvious Whitney Houston images that the mural’s catchphrase evokes, there was something about this public project that amused and inspired me. In an unrelated yet convenient crossing of coincidences, I was playing with Adobe Illustrator CS2, which has new features called Live Trace and Live Paint, which allow for the easy transposing of bitmap images into vector paths.
With some contrast adjustment, an hour or two of tweaking, I ended up coming up with an interpretation of crack is wack for my desktop that pleases me. I decided to use Live Paint to fill in some of the bright day-glo colors that Haring is known for, and added some reflection and depth to make it a little more interesting and eye-catching.
As a Yahoo! employee, I feel almost obligated to blog about the experience of having Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes here at the campus yesterday. All of my comments are purely my own opinion, and obviously don’t reflect the opinions of Yahoo!, any of my fellow Yahoos, or the Church of Scientology.
First, let me ‘fess up to something. I’m a total celebriwhore. If you don’t know what this word means, let me try to sum it up. A celebriwhore is someone who is interested in seeing a person solely for the sake of their fame. In terms of a celebrity like Tom Cruise, I can understand why someone might want to see him because he’s a good actor.
The truth is, I think I’ve only seen one of his movies in its entirety, War of the Worlds, and I really didn’t think it was even that good. No, I have not seen Top Gun. I walked out of Eyes Wide Shut. I don’t really understand why he wants the truth and Jack Nicholson tells him he can’t handle it. I don’t even know what movie that is.
That certainly didn’t stop me from going to sneak a peek at the circus.
Armed with my digital camera and telephoto lens, I got into the line that was stretching around the campus outside of our cafeteria, URL’s, and waited for about 30 minutes to get my spot in a very limited seating space. Little did I know that we would be waiting much longer.
My co-worker Jenny and I took our seats in the cafeteria, which was completely full of people. We were seated conveniently behind a giant gray pole that was directly blocking the stage, so some shifting would be necessary to actually be able to directly see the presentation without having to watch the giant projection screen.
While I snapped test photos to figure out the correct exposure settings for my camera, this endless loop of song clips played, cleverly featuring songs taken from Cruise’s movies. I would have to say that after hearing 30 seconds of Take My Breath Away no less than 72 times, I was a bit worn out. The presentation was supposed to start at 10:30. As 10:45 arrived, and then 11:00, something wasn’t right.
This perky lady (who was either one of Tom’s people or a Yahoo! person — I’m not sure) came out and said something to the effect of, “I know, I’m not Tom Cruise. [laughing to herself] Tom is *SO* cool that he flew his own small plane here, and he’s delayed by the weather! But he should be here shortly!”
At that point, a large crowd of people decided to walk out. After more waiting, our CEO Terry Semel came out to nervously explain the situation and keep us amused while we waited. We watched a dramatic 9-minute montage of Tom’s movies that was supposed to be what was playing when he made his entrance, and Mr. Semel continued to get messages in his earpiece about Tom’s status and whereabouts.
Everyone was excited when Tom finally arrived, in aviator glasses and all. Rather than trying to remember the event enough to give a play-by-play, let me share a few of the highlights:
Tom flew a P51 Mustang WWII-era bomber plane into San Jose airport.
He brought Katie Holmes with him. She is at least 13 months pregnant and looked like she was ready to burst. Had Tom flown commercially with her, he would have arrived on time.
There was no mention of Scientology or South Park.
Even in his women’s jeans, Tom did not set off my gaydar in the slightest.
He jokingly stood on top of his chair to make fun of the controversy over his behavior on Oprah.
He arm-wrestled Terry Semel in response to a (pre-submitted) question about which of them is more athletic.
He presented the trailer for Mission Impossible 3, and two clips from the movie.
After the event, Tom and Katie were escorted on a tour of the Yahoo! campus. They stayed on campus for several hours, actually.
NBC11 in San Francisco decided to use some of the photos I took during the event. You can see their write-up on the story, complete with my photos, here.
The only word I can use to describe how I felt after the event is: filthy.
Honestly, I couldn’t wash the stink off. It wasn’t because of anything Tom said or did. I felt slimy for taking pictures of the guy just because he’s a celebrity. I think I’ve discovered why I can’t live in L.A. When the entire thing was over, I felt incredibly drained. Tom was very polite, and seemed like a good guy overall, but the fuss that was made over his visit made me a little sick to my stomach. I guess the concept of “celebrity” is just so deeply burned into our collective American conscience that there’s not escaping the excitement of it.
Perhaps I learned an important lesson about the utter absurdity of fame: That several hundred very smart people could be turned into drooling zombies over the prospect of seeing a celebrity talk about his career.
You can see the original versions of the photos I took here, and photos taken by other Yahoos here.
One habit I brought with me from the East Coast involves walking around in public places with my iPod, Shure E3c earbuds inserted deep into my ears, listening to music or podcasts while I go about my business.
In New York City, this was really nothing strange. One out of every three people on the bus, subway, or street would be plugged into an entertainment device of some sort. I think it may be a side effect of New Yorkers’ notorious anti-social mentality. It is a city, after all, where you’re advised not to look anyone in the eye on the subway.
I discovered early in my iPod-listening days that walking around constantly plugged in also can have its dangers. For instance, you can’t hear someone approaching you from behind, or (in my case) the subway zooming up along the track beside the platform that you’re walking dangerously close to. Feeling the train graze my elbow when I didn’t even hear it coming woke me up to the danger very quickly.
Now that I’m in California, the iPod-walk takes on a whole new meaning. I now plug myself into music even while I’m shopping at Target. While everyone else is listening to screaming children, arguing couples, and other generally annoying people, I’m enjoying the Pet Shop Boys.
People seem quite puzzled by my behavior, though. They walk up to me and start asking if I need help, or asking me other various questions, and I have to slowly remove my earbuds and ask them to repeat the question. Usually it’s something completely irrelevant, boring, or obnoxious, and I just go back to listening to my music.
For those of you who haven’t experienced this yet, try it! You’ll be shocked at how much more tolerable a trip to Fry’s is when you can’t hear it.
It can’t come quickly enough.
New wave retro rock is still fashionable, no matter what anyone tells you.
