God, I love Putin so much.
http://blog.foreignpolicy.com/posts/2012/01/12/things_vladimir_putin_is_not_too_busy_for
Curated Tunes 1-11-12
A quick collection I threw together of songs I was listening to today. It’s a nice semi-laid-back-day list. Enjoy Enjoy!
1. Sometimes – Beach Fossils
2. Golden Haze – Wild Nothing
3. Beach Comber – Real Estate
4. Dirty Cartoons – Menomena
5. Book of Revelation – The Drums
6. Child – The Maccabees
7. Red Socks Pugie – Foals
8. Boom Puma – Morning Teleportation
9. I Woke Up Today – Port O’Brien
10. Consequence – The Notwist
11. 1 Samuel 15:23 – The Mountain Goats
12. The Sea Is a Good Place to Think About the Future – Los Campesinos!
13. 1930′s Beach House – Movietone
14. Sleep Forever – Portugal. The Man
DOWNLOAD
Dear Virginia, Sincerely Jacques Lacan
Is There A Santa Claus?
Dear Jacques,
I am 8 years old. Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus. Papa says “If you see it in The Sun it’s so.” Please tell me the truth, is there a Santa Claus?
Virginia O’Hanlon,
115 West 95th Street,
New York City
Virginia, your little friends are right. So is your father (but is that not always the case…?). You have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. You strive for socio-symbolic completeness. You think that nothing can be which is not confirmed by some larger sociolinguistic entity — in Seminar XX, I call this the big Other. All minds, Virginia, whether they be men’s or children’s are incomplete. In this traumatic universe of ours man is a mere insect, an ant, in his intellect, as compared with the boundless world about him and his inability to come to grips with the constitutive lack.
No, Virginia, there is no Santa Claus. Or, perhaps Santa Claus exists as exception to the universal — the not-all. Which is to say, only in the sense that he does not. Your father wants to control your jouissance. He does this precisely through the Superego imperative to enjoy!
No Santa Claus! Thank not-God he does not live, and he does not live forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay, ten times ten thousand years from now we will still reside in these elaborate fantasies constructed out of a need to explain the unexplainable. I suppose in that sense, Santa might as well exist.
Sincerely,
Jacques Lacan
Repairs — A Narrative Portion of My Life #398
The glass door doesn’t swing forward as easily as I expect, so I end up in that awkward heavy-pushing position just to get inside.
Two sets of skanky middle school eyes are sneering at me, momentarily distracted from pawing at iPods they will never own to take in my difficulties.
“Can I help you with something?”
Can you? There are so many people working in the Apple Store today, I start to wonder if unemployment even exists.
“No, thanks. I’m here for a Genius Bar appointment.”
“Oh, let me get Craig.”
If you insist. She does.
“Craig, paging Craig, can you put up your hand?”
He does not, and I awkwardly stand right in the doorway of the store. I fiddle back and forth doing the little dance with my feet that signifies aimlessness. At least the angsty acne-ridden monsters have become distracted again. We have technology to thank for many small miracles.
“Craig, Craig, are you back there? Throw up your hand, Craig!” She chuckles.
Throw up your fucking hand, Craig.
“Craiiiiiig, can you wave real fast? I’ve got a Genius Bar guy.”
His hand shoots up from the mass of obesity, opulence, and red-shirted Appeople at the back of the store.
“Do you see him over there?”
No, I have suddenly become blind. Lead me to him!
“Yes, thank you.”
I walk through this thrawl of people. I’m not claustrophobic, but if I were, this Apple shopping experience would be infinitely less comfortable. I wonder briefly about people who fear Aluminum, and how hard walking to the counter would be without crying. I then imagine the oddly short individual next to me crying. It fits him.
“Hi, I had an appointment, but I’m a little late.”
“What was the name?”
“Brad.”
“Oh– I see, well you’re going to have to sign up again.”
I already signed up. I’m not that late. Can’t I be squeezed in?
“Oh, really?”
“Yep.”
“Um… so can you do that for me? Or do I have to go home and come back?”
“No, no, can’t, sorry. You can however grab one of these desktops and sign up — HA HA — not these kids computers here.”
I was planning on using the kids computer so I could feel like a giant. The Appeople will deprive me of even this small pleasure.
“Ok, cool.”
I walk over to the computer, next to an avid white man transfixed by the magnificence of an Apple Cinema Display. It reminds me of what I picture to be the general pants-pooping that followed early public demonstrations of electric lighting.
I sign up for an appointment an hour later. After spending too much (which would really be any) time in Eddie Bauer, I head back.
This time, things will be different.
I am a few minutes early. Craig, you will not again deprive me of the opportunity to fix this computer. I am on a mission.
I burst through the doors like the Sultan charging into his highly profitable, all-white harem. Apple’s annoyingly pretty industrial architecture will not catch me off guard like before. The doors do not really burst because of their hydraulic systems, but it is nonetheless dramatic.
I shoot devil stares at all non-adults in the room. Those roving pre-pubescent eyeballs will not fuck with me. They recoil in terror. Unfortunately I also pass my evil glower over a baby. Sorry, baby. You were a casualty of something far grander than yourself.
Out of nowhere, multiple red-shirted employees appear, readying their memorized introductory sequence:
“Can we–”
THERE WILL BE NO HELPING ME TODAY, APPEOPLE!
I spot Craig chatting with a colleague in the exact same place as before.
“Brad. I’m here for my appointment.” I say it with the maximum possible amount of gravitas — which means, very little.
“Ok, wait a few moments.”
Oh, Craig, I will wait decades for this fix.
And then after running all the tests in the book, I was told there was no problem with my computer. So I left with exactly the same computer as before. But with a much higher level of JUSTICE.