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eye phone jaw bone
After recent discussions with Los Angeles' most mildly mannered Superhero, StainBoy, led to my enlightenment regarding the TCO of Apple's amazingly sexy iPhone, what else could I do? I took a slightly longer-than-usual lunch and purchased one for myself. And if you aren't jealous, you really should be.
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Considering that $60/month provides plenty of rollover minutes, unlimited data transfer, and sufficient (for me) SMS Text Messaging, and considering further that my current plan (SprintPCS - the worst cellular service on the planet) gives me pretty much NOTHING aside from old-school, non-rollover minutes and charges me even MORE for the opportunity, it was pretty much a no-brainer for me to cancel my current service and take up residence in the Brave New World of Apple.
Talk about an upgrade!
I also picked up a top-of-the-line, noise cancelling bluetooth headset, the jawbone. Although mine didn't come with the sexy, brooding black woman featured on the website I wasn't too disappointed . . . one of those is pretty much all I can handle anyway.
*ducking whatever deadly object Nurse Ratched has just tossed at the back of my head*
The iPhone is certainly not perfect. As utterly AMAZING as this next-generation User Interface is, it is not as wonderful for music and video playback as the classic iPod's dedicated control wheel. The specialized nature of THAT interface allowed it to be both (a) incredibly intuitive and (b) usable by touch alone. This latter point is a large part of the original iPod's true genius. I can reach down and turn my iPod's volume up or down, skip to the next or previous track, and pause or resume playback without looking away from my computer screen, the road, or what have you.
Not so the iPhone.
With the exception of volume, all other playback-related actions require looking at the UI so that one knows where to touch the screen. While this isn't really too problematic with a device that is primarily, as the name suggests, a telephone, it makes the iPod Touch (essentially the same device, sans telephone) a bit less compelling. The iPod Touch is, like its predecessors, first and foremost a device for media playback. No matter how sexy the new UI may be (and it happens to be VERY VERY sexy), it just isn't optimized for media playback.
Oh well.
I'm sure that Apple will eventually find a way to give us the best of both worlds. In the meantime I must run, for mine iPhone awaiteth me.
Your New Toy-totin' Tango Terroriste,
---the PseudoLatino
Posted by earwicker at 08:00 PM
Sober and Amused
Your Hero has just returned, sober and amused, from the first of Dallas' two Holiday milongas, this one at that most excellent Ethernopian restaurant, the Queen of Sheba. Sober, because it's truly difficult to get drunk when one is dancing non-stop, and amused because . . . well . . . because it was a DFW tango event, and the entertainment factor is always high at any event where delegations from multiple TangoCliques are forced to intermingle.
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Tonight's QoS milonga was hosted, as usual, by Nazrin Barmaki and Hassan Parsa and received a hidden and unexpected infusion of Tangueros thanks to the Tango Terroriste, aka me. Which is to say that the Valerina twisted my arm behind my back until I cried like a little girl and agreed to make Fred and Ginger aware of their inadvertent scheduling faux pas, which I did--with requisite haste--indeed do. The good part is that I regained usage of the arm in time to dance a little bit tonight . . . no thanks to Nurse Ratched . . . and that there were, by my count, nearly twice as many people at the milonga than there otherwise would have been.
Damn I'm good!
Of course much of Your Beloved cast and crew were on hand for the evening's festivities: Fred and Ginger, Rocky and the Bullwinkles, Don Vito y Mama Carmella, the Sadistic Nurse Ratched, Anal Bede and his Hedonista, Pei Ghi Su, Don "Bringing Sexy Back" Roberto y Mimi and their lovely daughter, Lizzy Borden (sans axe, sans whacks), and thousands of others dressed to the nines and waiting to bust their moves (or throw out their backs, depending upon the age of the attendee in question).
The DJ for the evening was Phyllis, of Bullwinkle fame, and although she did an adequate job, she was a little short on variety this evening--a definite step backwards from the last QoS milonga I attended. She did step it up a little bit after midnight, but it was a case of too little too late. The PseudoLatino has heard her do a much better job on the podium, and hopes she'll mix things up a bit more next time. On the positive side, she did recommend Gorilla Spit for my shoe problem, and is always cordial to Your Vicar of Verisimilitude despite His past criticisms, of which she is unquestionably aware. Props to Ms. Bullwinkle for being a stand-up kinda gal.
So . . . aside from the tremendous entertainment of people-watching, I was able to snag some wonderful dances . . . Pei Ghi Su, the Evil Nurse Ratched (who's in the middle of growing some holiday love handles to make it easier for me to lead her in certain tangic machinations), the inimitable Ginger (love that Vals, grrrl!), Mama Carmella, and even Jemima Olsen, long lost sister of Spiderman sidekick Jimmy.
All in all a nice event. And after 3 years of dancing, which include 4 holiday seasons, it's nice to take stock of just how far I've come out on that dancefloor. And I've barely begun!
A big thanks to all you ladies for putting up with me thus far (except you, Valerina, cuz you know it's the other way around with you . . . right? Right.)
Happy Holidays.
Your One and Only,
---PseudoLatino
Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM
Nulla vidua distringatur ad se maritandum & other Socio-cultural Fables
On an otherwise dank and dreary Friday evening, the PseudoLatino made a brief appearance at the dirge-like Holiday party for His current place of employment, the Bearded One in tow. If it gives my greatly empathic readership any notion of just how boring this party was, it turns out that Valerie and I quickly became the primary entertainment for the evening. And this not because Nurse Ratched climbed up on a table and started reciting the full 1215 text of the Magna Carta to the tune of "Old MacDonald had a Farm" (after a Tequila Sunrise and 2 stout Margaritas).
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As a matter of fact, people seemed pretty unimpressed by her recitation until she got to Article 8 and switched to the upper octave, baring her soul, if not her bosom, for that fetching non-rhyming couplet: "Nulla vidua distringatur ad se maritandum, dum voluerit vivere sine marito" arriving at a piercing, unwavering high B-flat on the final ma-ri-TOOOOOOOOOOOO. Totally HAWT!
[editor's note: it turns out that I've been mistranslating this line for years, having believed it to mean "No buxom hottie shall be forced to remarry unless she refuses to perform hot acts of steamy lesbian sex in the presence of the PseudoLatino" . . . rather than the oh-so-much-more-mundane "No widow shall be forced to marry so long as she wishes to live without a husband." *sigh*]
Shortly thereafter, our caché as entertainers rose greatly as my supervisor, and several members of the company Beer Club (sorry, but the first two rules of Beer Club are that you can't talk about Beer Club), decided that watching the Tango Terroriste and His Beautiful Compatriot dance would be more fun than tolerating any more of the DJ's ridiculous fucking party games. This says little about our dancing. I mean, even the biggest dullard amongst us would find Dancing with the Stars a more entertaining choice than removing one's own genitalia with a rusty butterknife. I realize that only a true moron could watch this bloodless excuse for entertainment willingly and with a straight face, but the simple truth is that a brief lapse into drug abuse and alcoholism can help one repress memories of the horrid Dancing with the Stars. A missing vagina, on the other hand, will always a missing vagina be.
Ummmm . . . where was I?
Oh yes.
Through no merit of our own, we became the evening's entertainment, dancing first to Gotan Project's Chunga's Revenge. Perhaps needless to say, we were a big hit for an audience of soon-to-be-no-longer-employed engineers and their bored, annoyed, Harlequin-romance-reading housewives. I must admit that it was fun to bust a few moves and be carried along by the Bearded One's exhibitionist tendencies (on which more later). We got lots of props, had a pretty decent time, and I was informed by every guy I work with that Valerie is "hot."
No shit?
Thanks for pointing that out, doods! What with all her show-boating and philosophical perversions, I hadn't noticed the utterly perfect posterior, the long, limber, flexible legs, the total lack of bodyfat (well, except for those holiday love handles we discussed in a previous post), or the sexy tramp stamp she has on her lower back--a multi-colored realization of the goddess Artemis devouring a fire-breathing snake with her toothy vagina . . . can you say "feminazi symbolism?"
Nope. Hadn't noticed. I missed all of it. Hadn't picked up on a single thing. Nada. Nichts. Null.
Well, dancing with this cocoa goddess apparently signals to my coworkers that, amongst other things, I'm an ultra-virile manly-man; an über-macho stud-amongst-studs. I guess we all knew this already, yes? No one would dare disagree with such an assessment, right? I mean . . . other than perhaps my viagra dealer. Or the guy who makes my toupees. Or the woman who tailors my custom made Depend Undergarments. But everyone else? They damn well BETTER agree, goddammit!
I suppose I can't give these guys tooooo hard a time. My entire department (some 70 souls)--many of whom have been employed at this famous, century-old bastion of American Industry for 20+ years--recently discovered that their jobs are being terminated over the next three months. It turns out that Yours Truly, the sole contractor in the bunch, just got a 6-month extension on His current contract and will probably be the Last Man Standing at the company, which sold out its loyal employees in the name of feigning enhanced profitability to maximize the company's apparent value as a short-term acquisition.
Gotta love the American Corpocracy, dontcha? Next thing you know, we'll start to base our national environmental policy on what's good for Big Oil!
Oh.
Wait.
Ummmmm . . . . Nevermind. Forget I said that. It was a mistake. I was just confused. Just for a second. Just momentarily. Don't wanna end up in Gitmo with some guy shoving a hot curling iron up my ass, telling me I'm an eco-terrorist trying to bring "my" country to its knees, asking who all my terrorist friends are, do I?
Pah! Whatever. The upshot of all this is that I had a reasonably good time, considering it was a company party.
The Valerina, however, had other things on her mind. The night was still young, we were hungry, and she knew for a fact that several stages at The Lodge had poles on them. And no, I don't mean people from Poland. So we fired up the PL-Mobile and headed off into the rainy, cold, desolate night. I had been to The Lodge only twice previously, the last time being several years ago when I was invited to a lesbian birthday party (yes, I truly DO live a charmed life). It wasn't as fun as drag-queen mud wrestling, not by a long shot, but it was certainly amusing . . . particularly when my ex-girlfriend called in the middle of a lapdance, causing my phone to vibrate at precisely the moment when Sable--her real name, I'm sure--decided to grind upon my left thigh. After her initial shock, Sable quickly synchronized her grinding to coincide with the telephonic vibrations.
Talent takes many forms.
On this evening, there were to be no lapdances--either for Yours Truly or the Bearded One, but that didn't stop it from being well worth the price of admission. As one expects from The Lodge, particularly on a weekend evening, the eye-candy was top notch . . . with far (far!) less store-bought hardware than one finds in the usual Adult Cabaret. Nurse Ratched had obtained for us seats right next to one of the side stages, so we were able to examine the goods at first hand. Apparently Her Highness found the view every bit as pleasant as did I, for several Buttery Nipples into our meal she springs to her feet, folds a dollar in half, places it between her teeth and stands before the leggy blonde on the stage next to us, waiting patiently for her current spin about the pole to come to an end, which presently it does. Not content to have Legs simply remove the dollar from her teeth, Nursey Nurse turns her back to the stage and bends over backwards, resting her elbows upon the stage and looking directly up--or so it seemed from my angle--into the scarcely-covered, gaping vaginal maw of The Blonde, who was now smiling broadly. Although we were seated rather far back in the main room of the club, the Valerina's shenanigans were not without an audience, for, aside from Yours Truly, the outcome of this serendipitous turn of events was being followed with rapt attention by two entire tables full of freshly-scrubbed frat-boys whose eyes had only too recently set about popping from their vacant little heads.
Did I not say that we'd return to her exhibitionist tendencies? Am I not a man of my word? Indeed.
Well . . . after a brief pause during which Leggy Legs resituated herself astride Nursey Nurse, the PseudoLatino and the Kollegiate Krew were treated to some white-on-black Wet Dream Type activity involving the mouth-to-mouth transfer of the Dollar Bill in question, some whispering in one another's ears, and other not-work-safe gyrational gymnastics which most certainly, ummmm . . . well . . . which will be causing some hair to grow on MY palms, if no one else's.
It was at about this time that I started drinking hard liquor.
And though I'm sure you're all hoping the story will blossom into something even more explicit, or tawdry, or worse . . . or hoping at least that there's gonna be some extended sequences of drunken misbehaving . . . I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint. The truth of the matter is that shortly after this awe-inspiring exchange of American currency it was time for Last Call and the PseudoLatino took His partner home to sleep off her Buttery Nipples. The last I saw her she was ascending the stairs to her apartment, giggling loudly and asking me--quite loudly--if I could think of an appropriate Stripper Name with which to christen her. I was about to convince her of "Sassafras . . . 'Sassy' for short" when three of her downstairs neighbors opened their doors and invited me, shotguns in hand, to find my way off the premises post-haste. Oooops.
As I drove away, I could here her asking their opinions about stripper names, too. And giggling.
There was one MAJOR upside to her craziness this evening: photos. Yup. Photographs. The Bearded One and I are currently in negotiations to determine whether (1) I will post the photos I took of the events with my new iPhone or (2) she will pay me USD $10,000 to destroy them. I'm betting on the $10K.
Peace and Buttery Nipples to One and All,
---the PL
Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM
Merry Mythmas...
...and a most Happy Jew Year!
So,--
Have,--
A,--
'Nother look,-- at the Army that
Wrote the Book,-- take the Path that you
Should've took-- and you'll be
On your way!
Get, up, and, wipe-off-that-chin,
You can begin, to have a
Whole new oth-er life,--
Soldj'ring for Christ,
Reas'nably priced,--
And nobody's missing
The Kids or th' Wife! So,
Here's the Drill,
Take the Quill,
Sign on the Line or any-
Where you will,
There's Heretics a-plenty and a
License to kill, if your're a
Brother in the S. of J.!"---Thomas Pynchon, Mason & Dixon
I wish you the happiest of holidays, Dear Readers, and I'm sure that by now most of you have opened your hastily-purchased and likely unwanted presents, exchanged obligatory, superficial cordialities with those you really have little or no desire to see and have descended rather quickly into innocuous smalltalk, socially-sanctioned drug use (some folks call it "drinkin'") and passive participation in the drug-enhanced athletic achievements of our youth's mentally substandard, amoral, petulant and radically overpaid role models.
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In short, I'm sure most of you are celebrating the Winter Solstice in the usual way, gathered together with kith (if you're lucky) and kin (if you're not) and/or kin-in-law (if you've done something to earn access to the fires of hell) pretending you want to be there--perhaps feeling bad about yourself because you don't--and otherwise enjoying all the riches that our decaying American Empire has to offer: rampant consumerism, cultural superficiality, intellectual poverty, and the collected set of fairy tales that together comprise the majority of our so-called spiritual lives.
YummmmmmmY! What a great and admirable way to mark the passage of time and to stake out our place in History, don'tcha think?! By engendering neither peace, nor love, nor good will towards man, and by pretending--let us not forget!--to keep Jesus H. "Fucking" Christ in Christmas?
I agree whole-heartedly! What a nifty idea!!
And therefore, with the degree of warm-heartedness to which One and All have grown accustomed, Your Heroic Hagiographer would like to propose a toast appropriate to the season as it now exists . . . a toast to honor this remarkable accomplishment which stands at the end of 6000 years of recorded history, an accomplishment of which we are understandably and justifiably proud . . . a toast to the childlike, incomprehensibly STOOOPID beliefs of the Christians, Jews, Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists, Sikhs, Wiccans and adherents of 4000+ other irrational cults whose memberships thankfully continue to degrade with the growth of meaningful, useful knowledge of the world around us (with no small measure of relief, we note that the third largest 'belief' group in the world, after Christ-insanity's 2.1 billion and B.S.-lam's 1.5 billion is "Secular/Non-religious/Agnostic/Atheist," currently at 1.1 billion and growing). So please, lift your glasses with me . . . .
*the PseudoLatino raises his half-full glass and addresses the assemblage*
"My dearest Religious Believers of all stripes . . . as we gather together to celebrate the passage of yet another year and the renewal of our Hopes and Dreams, Your One True PseudoLatino wishes for each of you that the law-abiding Causalities of good ol' Mother Nature may unfold in a manner you find desirable and that you can continue, hysterically and erroneously, to label as "blessings" and "miracles" and "god's will" because you are, in point of fact, too butt-fuckingly ignorant to understand the universe in a more complex and factual way and because without the salvific of superstition you are too shallow, unimaginative, and cowardly to face the existential void and discover meaning therein . . . or to motivate yourselves to act . . . or to find love . . . or to discern the moral course of action . . . or, apparently, to do much more than wipe your asses;
"May you continue to misunderstand and pervert the teachings of your Prophets and Holymen--both real and imagined; May your irrational self-delusions and self-righteous ignorance continue to support your smug, groundless sense of spiritual superiority and the laughable belief that you, unlike the majority of mankind, are a follower of The One Truth (be it also the Way and the Life, or some other);
*lowering His glass to waist level, the PL takes a breath before continuing, somberly...*
"May your missionaries--each and every one--die horrible, painful, protracted deaths trying to proselytize their version of this Truth to those who have neither asked for it nor need it; May your clergies continue to extort tithes and submission from those in the world too poor and uneducated to resist them or, alternatively, may your cash-infused, ideologically vacant, suburban American, evangelistic mega-church leaderships continue to derive incalculable wealth from the fact that you are too fucking stupid to know that they are scheisters and con-men;
"May a local Priest sodomize your youngest Catholic child in God's name; May your younger sister contract HIV from an African boyfriend who didn't wear a condom because the Pope, cowering in fear inside his Pope-mobile, said it was a sin; May an Imam encourage your Muslim wife to wear a C4 strap on and rid the world of a few more evil American, or Sunni, or Shiite, or Jewish, or other infidel schoolchildren;
*with a special look towards His Horror Flick-loving friends, and a twinkle in His eye, he continues...*
"May you be invited to the World Premiere of Michael Bay's newest Zillion Dollar Blockbuster Jesus vs Mohammed: Requiem -- This Xmas There Will Be No Peace On Earth (based on a true story) and find yourself able, despite your clear mental handicaps, to recognize its ham-fisted attempts at metaphor;
*taking a breath, and watching a few in the assembly begin to squirm angrily, the PseudoLatino again raises His glass high...*
"May the pugnacious, war-mongering Israel continue to oppress the Palestinians living within "her" borders (yes, yes, we know . . . despite historical facts, there is no such thing as "Palestine," much less a "Palestinian," so how can the Israelis oppress one?) and disappear forever into the sea while those previously-mentioned American evangelicals cheer them on from the sidelines in the name of the Holy Babble's Book of Stupid Fucking Revelations; however--and this is important--may Israel remain protected from this disappearance until after she has managed to nuke The Rest of The Brown Ones (who are, after all, stubbornly getting in the way of various promises made by that immoral, violent dumbfuck of a hebrew god for the last, ohhhhhh, 6000 years or so) and give birth to at least one generation of three-legged, psionically-enhanced super Jew-babies--said Jew-babies being necessary to provide additional fodder for attempts, from the evangelical peanut gallery, at "learned" scriptural exegesis and interpretation of texts which were, after all, written by superstitious idiots in the first place;
*smiling, Your Host puts his nose down below the rim of the glass and breathes deeply, closing his eyes, pausing to savor the bouquet . . . after a moment he looks once again out into the crowd*
"And in general . . . may you all continue to base your politics, your wars, your child-rearing, your morality and your sad, spiritually impoverished little lives on hand-me-down, second- and third-hand fictions evolved from countless pre-existing cultures, passed down and parroted with unquestioned reverence from, and to, societies of uneducated, superstitious people who believed that their lives were charted by the alignment of stars and their illnesses caused by demons, who believed that bloodline determined human worth, who thought that an eclipse was a portent and a rainbow a miracle, who believed they saw the Virgin Mary in a piece of French Fucking Toast (or a tree, or a piece of coral, or in Britney Spear's stretch marks . . . oh wait! That's what real people think TODAY!!!), who believed that thousands of their innocent neighbors were witches, and killed them for it . . . from various peoples who, basically, had less understanding of the natural world than today's bottom-of-the-barrel third-grader.
*...and with a final flourish, He concludes...*
"Here's to your Religious Beliefs--moronic, one and all--and to the endlessly entertaining fanaticism and gullibility they engender and require (respectively, of course). It was of, though perhaps not to, those who hold such beliefs that the Great Secular Prophet Phineas T. Barnum so famously spoke:
" 'There's a sucker born every minute.'1"
*...looking around the room, meeting the eye of each and every guest, Our Hero drinks deeply, lowers His glass, and takes His seat*
And with that, my friends, I'm off to finish my drink, pour another one (or two, or three), and find something--anything--better to do than watch sports on television with other idiots who watch sports on television (yes. It's true. ALL people who regularly watch sports on television are fucking idiots. And that means you, IF you watch sports on television).
Hmmmmm . . . what can I do instead? Maybe I can go write something for my blog?!
Yeah. That sounds like just the ticket.
Hasta la vista, Baby,
---the Very Merry PseudoLatino
(1) Since P.T. Barnum never said any such thing, attributing it to him and accepting it as gospel is, uhhhhh, let's say it's just a weeeeee tad apt in this context.
Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM
L.A's Only Superhero
No. It isn't the Toxic Avenger, relocated.
It's Stainboy.
And though Tim Burton may have falsely, though lovingly, represented My Hero and His Origins, Stainboy isn't upset about it . . . and he spent the better part of a post-Mythmas afternoon speaking with YOUR Hero, the PseudoLatino, about life, love (according to that vacuous billionaire dumbcunt Oprah), politics, religion, iPhone the God, economics, skydiving, Burning Man, and the dangers of jealous wimmins.
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Naturally we spent LOTS of our precious time orally disquisiting--over the course of a passable Chipotlean lunch and too-numerous shots of Starbuckian espresso--on the theoretical dangers of these self-destructive, jealous, pole-dancing women who theoretically sing the Magna Carta whilst theoretically standing upon theoretical tables at theoretical office parties. This was, in theory, fine and dandy. However . . . betwixt and between topics that rat bastard kept getting his god-forsaken Teutonic drool on my iPhone! What's up with that, home-skillet?
In any case . . . short and sweet though this post may be, it was nice to see Ol' Stainboy once again, and to hear about His Heroic Exploits. Those of you who encounter Him, however, must remember to remind Him (and this, Dear Readers, is of vital importance):
Ask first, negotiate later
(That's for Stainboy to understand, not you . . . which is to say that YOU--unlike LA's only Superhero--should remind first, ask later)
Our pleasant reminiscences were followed by an interminable drive back to Dallas, and some totally, COMPLETELY lame excuses from the Bearded One regarding her inability to Come Out. She said she was "in" and wasn't "Coming Out" any time soon. Hmmmm . . . and here I was pretty damned sure she was hetero!
I guess you never know about some folks.
Your Beloved,
---PseudoLatino
Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM
Dumb. Dunn. DJ.
This was, one supposes, a reasonably relaxing day. If a relaxing day can feasibly include a trip to the cinema, some light reading, and a quiet conversation on the possibility of noncummutative spaces with a heroin-shooting leprechaun named Vito.
Vito?
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The conversation ended when my oddly-named companion started complaining about his μ-opioid receptors and my inability to grok Drinfel'd-Jimbo quantum groups. He then dropped into an uncomfortable 5 minute near-silence during which his insensate eyes rolled back in his head, drool streamed from his slack lips and he mumbled repeatedly, in a muffled pianississississimo, something that sounded like "Hare Krishna Hare, ate no Calamari, browsed with Mac's Safari, Hare Krishna Hare" . . . . He then suddenly caught his snap and began insulting my mother, my father, my father's father and my mother's mother and--eventually--all my ancestors back to some dood named Marcus Aemilius Lepidus, who he claims was schtupping Agrippina the Younger, the woman who was to become my progenitrix and who was sister to that oh-so-cool role model for U.S. Senators and Catholic Priests everywhere: Gaius Julius Caesar Augustus Germanicus aka Caligula (yes, that Caligula).
Apparently this Marcus Lepidus was also a little on the slow side when it came to women and mathematics. However, unlike Marcus, complained Vito, Yours Truly would NOT be assassinated for his stupidity and he, Vito, would not have the unreserved pleasure of observing the event. He then vanished into thin air.
Fucking uppity leprechauns. Who needs 'em?
After such a strange and annoying conversation (one-sided though it was), the Tango Terroriste threw together some tandas and headed out to DJ all or part of the final Dunn Bros Milonga of 2007. For a change, I thought I would simply let you take a look at my playlist for the evening, which even includes--despite their generally poor performance and recording qualities--a few pseudo-obligatory tandas of Golden Era recordings. For my own amusement, and to demonstrate once again how EASY it is to put together a musically coherent tanda according to the prevailing mores of unimaginative Tango DJs worldwide, Your Fearless Leader adhered primarily to the one ensemble per tanda, all vocal or all instrumental, all similar tempo and style approach. In a later post, we will demonstrate how this simplistic concept of musical coherence demonstrates impoverished creativity and a lack of musical sophistication on the part of those who adopt it (the so-called "purists"). Musically astute readers will already discern in the list below some more interesting strategies for tanda composition, strategies upon which we will elaborate some other day.
For now, and without further distractions, hesitations, delays, dawdling, procrastination, or dilly-dallying, here is this evening's playlist.
With all due sincerity,
I remain,
Your Devoted Irritator of Leprechauns,
---the PseudoLatino
SONG |
ARTIST |
ALBUM |
| La Tablada | Rodolfo Biagi | Mariposita |
| Duerme Mi Nina | Rodolfo Biagi | Mariposita |
| Estrella | Rodolfo Biagi | Mariposita |
| Racing Club | Rodolfo Biagi | Milongueros |
| Hy A Scullyas Lyf A Dhagrow | Aphex Twin | Drukqs |
| Bailate Un Tango Ricardo | Los Solistas de D'Arienzo | Homenaje A Juan D'Arienzo |
| Paciencia | Los Solistas de D'Arienzo | Homenaje A Juan D'Arienzo |
| Loca | Los Solistas de D'Arienzo | Homenaje A Juan D'Arienzo |
| Mi Dolor | Los Solistas de D'Arienzo | Homenaje A Juan D'Arienzo Vol 2 |
| Hy A Scullyas Lyf A Dhagrow | Aphex Twin | Drukqs |
| Bahia Blanca | De La Guardia Vieja | Hoy Baile Hoy Vol.2 |
| Al Verla Pasar | Ariel Espandrio Sexteto | Puro Tango |
| Guardia Vieja | De La Guardia Vieja | Hoy Baile Hoy Vol.2 |
| Hy A Scullyas Lyf A Dhagrow | Aphex Twin | Drukqs |
| Romance De Barrio | Orquesta Típica Imperial | Concentracion Troileana |
| CB Vals | Conjunto Berretin | Tangamente |
| El Aeroplano | Conjunto Berretin | Tangamente |
| Hy A Scullyas Lyf A Dhagrow | Aphex Twin | Drukqs |
| Gran Hotel Venos | Orquesta El Arranque | Cabulero |
| Recuerdo | Orquesta El Arranque | Tango |
| Zorro Gris | Orquesta El Arranque | Tango |
| Hy A Scullyas Lyf A Dhagrow | Aphex Twin | Drukqs |
| El Flete | El Choclo | Tango Only |
| Milonga del 900 | Conjunto Berretin | Tangamente |
| Campo Afuera | Conjunto Berretin | Tangamente |
| Hy A Scullyas Lyf A Dhagrow | Aphex Twin | Drukqs |
| Viejo Abasto | G-Spliff | Tango Chill Sessions |
| Ostinato | Carla Pugliese | Ojos Verdes Cerrados |
| Tango, Que Misterio - edit | Tango Jointz | Palermo Nuevo |
| Hy A Scullyas Lyf A Dhagrow | Aphex Twin | Drukqs |
| Naipe | Francisco Canaro | Glorias Del Tango: Canaro Vol. 2 |
| Tres Amigos | Francisco Canaro | Glorias Del Tango: Canaro Vol. 2 |
| En Un Beso La Vida | Francisco Canaro | Glorias Del Tango: Canaro Vol. 2 |
| Poema | Francisco Canaro | Poema |
| Hy A Scullyas Lyf A Dhagrow | Aphex Twin | Drukqs |
| A La Gran Muñeca | Orquesta De Tango | La Tipica |
| Igual Atacarìa | Orquesta De Tango | La Tipica |
| La Yumba | Orquesta Típica La Furca | De Puro Guapo |
| Hy A Scullyas Lyf A Dhagrow | Aphex Twin | Drukqs |
| Corazón de Oro | Orquesta Típica Imperial | Ruidos Molestos |
| A Orillas de la Plata | Trio Hugo Diaz | Tango Argentino |
| La Cumparsita | The Tango Group | Amor Por el Tango |
| Hy A Scullyas Lyf A Dhagrow | Aphex Twin | Drukqs |
| De Cara a la Pared | Lhasa De Sela | La Llorona |
| El Pajaro | Lhasa De Sela | La Llorona |
| La Confession | Lhasa De Sela | The Living Road |
| Hy A Scullyas Lyf A Dhagrow | Aphex Twin | Drukqs |
| A Evaristo Carriego | Color Tango | Grandes Éxitos con estilo para bailar |
| Mala Junta | Color Tango | Grandes Éxitos con estilo para bailar |
| Malandraca | Color Tango | Grandes Éxitos con estilo para bailar |
| Hy A Scullyas Lyf A Dhagrow | Aphex Twin | Drukqs |
| Prologue (Tango Apasionado) | Astor Piazzolla | The Rough Dancer & the Cyclical Night |
| Calambre | Lalo Schifrin | Tango (Soundtrack) |
| Cité Tango | Astor Piazzolla | Inspiración Espiración |
| Hy A Scullyas Lyf A Dhagrow | Aphex Twin | Drukqs |
| Maki Maki | Goran Bregović | Tales & Songs From Weddings & Funerals |
| This is a Film | Goran Bregović | Arizona Dream |
| Hop Hop Hop | Goran Bregović | Tales & Songs From Weddings & Funerals |
| Hy A Scullyas Lyf A Dhagrow | Aphex Twin | Drukqs |
| Pobre Flor | Alfredo de Angelis | Valsecitos de Antes |
| Mi Novia de Ayer | Alfredo de Angelis | From Argentina to the World |
| Flores del alma | Alfredo de Angelis | Valsecitos de Antes |
| Hy A Scullyas Lyf A Dhagrow | Aphex Twin | Drukqs |
| Saludos | Orquesta Típica Sans Souci | Al Estilo del 40 |
| Inspiración | Orquesta Típica Sans Souci | Al Estilo del 40 |
| La Maleva | Orquesta Típica Sans Souci | Al Estilo del 40 |
| Hy A Scullyas Lyf A Dhagrow | Aphex Twin | Drukqs |
| Gallo Ciego | El Desquite | Tango en Esquina Carlos Gardel |
| La Bordona | Orquesta El Arranque | Cabulero |
| Canaro en Paris | Orquesta El Arranque | Tango |
| Hy A Scullyas Lyf A Dhagrow | Aphex Twin | Drukqs |
| Dos | Carlos Libedinsky | Narcotango 2 |
| Otra Luna | Carlos Libedinsky | Narcotango |
| Gente Que Sí - edit | Carlos Libedinsky | Narcotango 2 |
| Hy A Scullyas Lyf A Dhagrow | Aphex Twin | Drukqs |
| La Milonga De Buenos Aires | Francisco Canaro | Glorias Del Tango: Canaro Vol. 2 |
| Milonga Sentimental | Francisco Canaro | ?? |
| Reliquias Portenas | Francisco Canaro | Milonga Vieja Milonga |
| Hy A Scullyas Lyf A Dhagrow | Aphex Twin | Drukqs |
| To Nie Ptak | Kayah & Goran Bregović | Kayah & Bregovic |
| Tango to Evora | Loreena McKennitt | The Visit |
| Ta-Bakiera | Kayah & Goran Bregović | Kayah & Bregovic |
| Hy A Scullyas Lyf A Dhagrow | Aphex Twin | Drukqs |
| Derecho Viejo | Atipica Orquesta De Saxofones | A Modo De Tango |
| Tanguera | Atipica Orquesta De Saxofones | A Modo De Tango |
| Libertango | Atipica Orquesta De Saxofones | A Modo De Tango |
| Hy A Scullyas Lyf A Dhagrow | Aphex Twin | Drukqs |
| Gran Hotel California | Trio Garufa | Tango en el Mate |
| El Choclo | El Desquite | Tango en Esquina Carlos Gardel |
| Pantera Tanguera | Cuarteto Almagro | Hemisferios |
| Hy A Scullyas Lyf A Dhagrow | Aphex Twin | Drukqs |
| Flaco Aroldi | Orquesta Típica La Furca | De Puro Guapo |
| Zita | Orquesta Típica Fernandez Fierro | Destrucción Masiva |
| Tango Villero | Orquesta Típica Imperial | Ruidos Molestos |
| Hy A Scullyas Lyf A Dhagrow | Aphex Twin | Drukqs |
| La Cumparsita | Lalo Schifrin | Tango Soundtrack |
| La Cumparsita | Tango Chillout | Tango Chillout, Vol. 1 |
| La Cumparsita | Andre Popp & His Orchestra | Delirium In Hi-Fi |
Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM
Erotica
Labias and Sperms---
It seems as though Your Quasi-Infallible Pope de Tango earned his quasiness with last night's post. It would appear that I managed to delete the playlist (basically the whole point of that enterprise) while attempting to improve upon the telling of the Tale de Vito.
Fear not! Both the list and my infallibility have been restored. To view it (the list, not my infallibility--which is, after all, visible on virtually every page of this fine weblog for the whole world to see!), you can simply click here:
His Holiness,
---the Pseudo PopeLatino
PS
I admit it . . . the title should of this post should actually have been "Errata," but how many of you pervs would have read it with that title?
Right. That's what I thought.
Posted by earwicker at 12:00 PM