Eric and Seth: Book and Book-ability

I had quite an interesting Facebook Wall conversation today with my good friend, Eric Mueller. It's funny, yeah, but also sort of interesting if you think about it. Enjoy:

Eric Mueller (Santa Fe) wrote
at 12:47am

If you read a book online does that still count as reading a book?

Hmmmmmmmm...this is going to keep me up tonight

Eric Mueller (Santa Fe) wrote
at 12:51am

Like, you can read the news from a newspaper, and you can read the news online...but you cant read the newspaper online

Eric Mueller (Santa Fe) wrote
at 9:58am

You can however "bookmark" web pages

The plot thickens...(pun?)

Seth Plattner wrote
at 10:18am

Hey, take it easy over there. I've already got enough on my plate without the conundrum of the validity of cyber literature.

But, one must also consider: what constitutes the reading of a book and/or newspaper? The physical act of turning a page? Or simply the intake and organization of words? And if it comes down to just page ingestion then we could easily argue that, if a book is read online, we are still in fact reading webPAGES....

Good God look what you've done to me...

Eric Mueller (Santa Fe) wrote
at 10:44am

Yes, yes I came across that same theory earlier on as well
But the internet is a little different. In the real world, what is and what is not a book is quite clear.

However, online I'm afraid is quite the opposite. How can you tell the difference from a book online and just a long typed story? Is it a book just because it says it is a book?
Does actual physical publishing in the real world validate it's..."book-ness" online?

If you pay to view it online does that make it a book? If so then are blogs and forums, that you pay for to view, books? To go further, books can have multiple authors, as well as editors. Forum moderators and admins have to power to edit what is said on blogs and forums…

Eric Mueller (Santa Fe) wrote
at 10:44am

Then you have the Public Domain to take into mind. Centuries of Literature, ancient libraries composed of thousands upon thousands of authors; everything from that written world can be digitized on a single webpage…for free. Is it then one book, or many, or is it just a series of long written stories?

Now here comes the big brain twister. Is it, in this digital age, that a page now consists of books rather than a book consisting of pages?

Seth Plattner wrote
at 10:53am

But, in following your argument, if pages may now consist of books, we are lead right back to your previous observance: books can now be compiled on pages, but do those pages, though made up of books, in turn become books (again)? Of course, as you pointed out, it simply depends on what defines a book. I'm afraid we've found ourselves in a dialogue of circularity.

We need to publish and essay on this. Are we revolutionaries?

Eric Mueller (Santa Fe) wrote
at 2:31pm

I think I have come to the conclusion that a book is the name of the physical object of the complied story in the physical world.

If you read a "book" online it is not a book, because it is only the digital manifestation of the story and not the physical object - a book.

So in short: Online, it should be called a story/fiction/non-fiction/

or whatever else genre it is, not a book.
For example: “Oh man I just read some really good fiction online today.”
Not: “Oh man I read this really crappy book online today.”
For a mixed example, (using both the digital and physical world) “Wow that was such a great story online. I think I’m going to buy the book later on today.”

Does that fit?

Seth Plattner wrote
at 2:34pm

I believe we are settled.

That was intense...

Eric Mueller (Santa Fe) wrote
at 2:42pm

So therefore, if someone asks me, "How many books have you read recently?" I will have to say none...

Great

Withdrawal

Seth is...

Beaten Worn Ripped Scarred Slashed Hurt
Ached Trodden Warped Scratched Mutilated
Bruised Neglected Shattered Trampled Weakened
Broken Shredded Forgotten Slapped Marred
Torn Burned Whipped Crushed Dissolved
Smashed Mangled Erased Discarded Starved
Pommeled Obliterated Slaughtered Nullified Scorned
Hated Ravaged Maimed Crippled Deformed
Wounded Scraped Paralyzed Battered Wrecked
Gnarled Lashed Faded Gnawed Destroyed

Spent

Utterly Spent

Who are You (According to Grease 2)?

After introducing my roommate Aja to the immeasurable joys of Grease 2, we've concluded that there is only way to separate the world into two, very polar, very black and white groups: Those who like Grease 2 and those who don't. Usually everyone tries to avoid labels and say things like "It's not that easy to just separate people into two marked groups," or "There has to be a gray area." Well, with Grease 2 it is precisely that easy, because everyone who has seen or will see it always knows how they feel about it the minute it ends (or, in my case, after Michelle Pfeifer sings "Cool Rider").

So ya like it or ya don't is basically what I'm saying. And derived from that opinion is the type of person you are. What we decided is that if you don't like it, you can be characterized as a stick in the mud. Someone who doesn't realize the value of intentional camp. One who thinks that movie prowess is equivalent to only appreciating the art house indie or the studio darling. That person who can't watch G2 and understand that, despite it's over-the-top cheesiness, there lies an actual thread of thought and wit: Michelle Pfiefer's chic and entirely modern wardrobe? Fabulous! The cinematography in "Who's That Guy?" Sexy! The Heller-esque absurdist satire meant to reveal the inherent inanity of the wartime in which the movie is set? Brilliant! Ok, that last one may be a bit of a stretch, but, I would still argue that the movie has some cinematic merit if you just watch (again, I site the red-wash lighting in "Cool Rider" that only enhances Pfeifer's badass Stephanie Zinon).

Now, those of us that watch the movie are the ones who can have fun at the movies. We can appreciate a campy crap-fest because it was made for precisely that reason--to be ridiculous and funny and even better after a few beers. We understand that to take G2 as a serious feature is to entirely miss the purpose of its creation. To compare it to the original Grease is simply idiotic, only guaranteeing that one would miss the value of G2. The true movie genius will also understand that, in the face of tradition and witless dedication, G2 actually has the better soundtrack. Watch both movies back-to-back, wait an hour or two, and just wait and see which soundtrack you start humming.

This is our assessment. No, our truth. Those reading know we're right, and most of you likely fall into the latter category simply because you've heard someone else say "Grease 2? What a shitty movie." your response: "Oh I know, it's so stupid." When you're really saying in your head "But it's just so fabulous!." Watch it again with one of your best friends, someone you know won't judge you and see how much more tolerable it is when you have your guard down, when you know that you are just going to have fun watching. As soon as it's finished, grab your ball and shoes, head down to the bowling alley and have your own sing-a-long with "Score Tonight."

Seth

Simple Pleasures....

Some thing that just make me smile...

Saturday in New York, 70 degrees, sun shining.

The changing aspens in Colorado.

Colored match heads.

Soft pillows.

The perfect cup of coffee (cream, 1 1/2 sugars).

"Banana Wind" by Jimmy Buffett.

When someone holds your thumb.

Guilty pleasure movies.

A dirty martini w/ blue cheese olives.

Horseback riding.

Thinking the same thing as your best friend.

Taking a cat nap with a cat.

Azaleas.

Holding feet while cuddling.

Cupcakes.

Writing a really great sentence.

Reading a really great sentence.

Milk.

A good commercial.

Laughing when you're not supposed to.

Dogs.

Campfires.

Belting showtunes in the car with a friend.

Cold pools on hot days.

A smile from across the room.

Smelling cologne/perfume that reminds you of someone.

Great outfits.

Tea and scones.

Floating.

"I miss you."

Late-night sushi.

Meeting someone and knowing they'll be in your life forever.



What are yours?


Seth

The Fray: A Year Later

I'm a little slow on the uptake here, so please forgo the judgment--I'm well aware.

Nevertheless this post is a manifestation of opinion, mostly formulated this morning while I watched The Fray's AOL Music Session.

Let me interject here and give due credit to AOL for their Music Sessions. If you aren't watching them already you should be. Seriously, they have every artist from Neil Diamond to Dashboard Confessional and they are wonderful, intimate performances of the best the artists have to offer.

As I was saying, The Fray. I tried for a long time to avoid this band, not because I didn't like their music but because I just kept hearing everyone talk about them (and isn't interesting how every person in the world was the first to discover them?!). Not to mention "Over My Head (Cable Car)" was all over the radio. And I will openly admit: I tapped my foot to it, I bobbed my head, I belted it in my car, I knew every word...I loved it. However, the pangs of conforming kept me from buying the album and I moved on, or tried to. And then along comes "How to Save a Life." Poignant, beautiful, catchy and ultimately tied to one of the most addictive TV shows in history, Grey's Anatomy.

Obviously these guys and their managers know how to work a formula, and if it bothered me at first, it was something that I just had to resign myself to, because I like them. There I said it. And ya know why me, my mother and every other emotional soul out there loves them? Because they are the band you wish wasn't mainstream. They are the group you wished you stumbled upon on MySpace music or in some second hand CD shop. They are the band you wished you could say "Hey have you heard The Fray? No? Well listen to this," to which your friends would respond with awe and admiration for your uncanny musical prowess.

The Fray is not this. But they sound like they are, and that's why I can't help but adore their music. Perhaps some, or most, of this is tied up in my existence as an emotional junkie, one who is never afraid to wear his feelings on his sleeve or the find the next sad song to express how I'm feeling. I respond with a great deal of relevancy to their lyrics--most recently and tortuously to "Look After You" which I can't stop playing because it so describes my life right now. And I know they are sometime sappy and a little too addicted to the song that sends a message, but even if that's not your fare, everyone can still relate to it publicly or privately.

Beyond content is the aesthetic of their music. Pianos, violins, acoustics: all those instruments that only serve to aggrandize the emotional punch of the songs. The most effective "instrument" though for me is Isaac Slade's voice. He cracks it in all the right places; he pushes it when it needs to be pushed; pulls it back when appropriate; and, his tone is so undeniably sexy that it becomes the perfect addition to The Fray Formula which produced The Fray Fixation for The Fray Fans. And--ugh--I am now amassed forever with The Fray Fans.

I feel like I'm in The Fray's Anonymous meeting. "Hi, I'm Seth...and I like The Fray." But isn't that first step to reconciliation? I feel proud of myself and, yes, I like--oh Hell--I love The Fray.

Random Lists

Though most of you don't know it, I'm sort of a list maker. I'm always thinking about the Top 10 this or the Top 5 that, and occasionally I jot them down--and spare me the Reality Bites comparison. I know I'm not that original. Avril Lavigne inspired the original post, so I present, with no precision, some random lists.

*none of these lists are in any particular order. I'm too indecisive to differentiate. I like what I like.

Top 10 Recorded Vocal Performances:
10. Bartender - Dave Matthews Band
9. Defying Gravity (Wicked) - Idina Menzel
8. He Touched Me - Heather Headley
7. Star Spangled Banner - Whitney Houston
6. Since U Been Gone - Kelly Clarkson
5. Not Ready to Make Nice - The Dixie Chicks
4. I'm With You - Avril Lavigne
3. Romulus - Sufjan Stevens
2. Time to Say Goodbye - Andrea Bocelli (the one with Sarah Brightman isn't bad either)
1. The Flesh Failure - The Actors' Fund of America Benefit Performance

Top 5 Writing Utensils:
5. Paper Mate Sharpwriter (the yellow ones with the twist up lead)
4. Pilot Precise V-7
3. Ticonderoga lead pencil
2. Any Mont Blanc Fountain Pen, preferably the Meisterstück
1. Sharpie Marker (on large surfaces)

Top 5 Cereals:
5. Captain Crunch
4. Count Chocula
3. Fruity Pebbles
2. Cinnamon Toast Crunch
1. Frosted Flakes

5 Thing that Make a Perfect Saturday:
5. Latte
4. Shopping in Soho
3. An afternoon movie
2. Great dinner with great wine
1. A few drinks with friends

10 Songs that Make Me Cry:
10. Night After Night - The Sounds
9. Sailing - Christopher Cross
8. The First Day of My Life - Brighteyes
7. Amazing Grace
6. Angels Among Us - Alabama
5. I'll Cover You (Reprise) - Rent (seriously, I've cried all 15 times I've seen the show).
4. Look After You - The Fray
3. Colorblind - Counting Crows
2. Say Hello, Wave Goodbye - David Gray
1. The Luckiest - Ben Folds

Welcome Back

If you leave New York, you ain't goin' nowhere.

I stole that quote; from whom I have no idea. Nevertheless, I find it presently poignant now that I am back in the city that I prematurely left almost exactly a year ago. To say I didn't go anywhere would likely be hyperbolic. Professionally, sure, I was a waste in Denver. Emotionally and mentally, though, Denver was a wake up call, so it was good for me in that way. But, considering the momentum I had built in New York--graduating with high honors from NYU, interning at SNL, solidifying a group of amazing friends--when I left I left a lot behind.

Though, as city life would have it, coming back to New York proved to be just as--maybe even more so--fervent and opportunistic as it was when I left. Within two weeks of leaving Denver I was already back in the city interviewing for a job I subsequently got, expediting me into the northeast before I even had time to reflect. I had contented myself with being home for a while, enjoying the friends, family and freedom of Arkansas. But, as opportunity comes at you with a battering ram sometimes, I had no choice but to leap the chance to reclaim a life I was afraid I was losing.

Interestingly enough, being back isn't quite what I expected. When I left I was a student, a youngster, a 22 year old kid who thought that everything would just fall into place. I spent my last months of college writing papers at the last minute and drinking more alcohol in a week than I had in previous months. It was uncharacteristic but fun, and I don't want to give the impression I regret it. But, a year later, a year older, a year more mature or maybe just more aware, New York isn't NYU. We all have jobs that require 7 a.m. wake up calls. 9-5 is a schedule that doesn't exist here. Some of us are lucky to leave work by 7 p.m. Yes, kids, this is the real world. Of course we still go out and no doubt we are still young (the operative word here) adults. But when I found out I was coming back so soon I had to ready myself for a New York that wasn't familiar. I didn't come back to a dorm; I didn't come back to a class schedule and I certainly didn't come back with a healthy checking account balance. I was entering into a city where it was time for me to finally fend for myself, for better or worse. Whereas I used to return to New York apprehensive because I had just spent a winter or summer break at home having fun with friends only to be thrown back into school work, now I was distressed precisely because I no longer could identify with that life anymore. This was, is, new and unexplored territory.

Forgive me if I sound whiny. That is hardly my intention. I simply have to verbalize the whirlwindeness of this experience. Like anything and everything, it has sent me into a recess of reflection, so, alas, this blog. I am, most definitely, glad to be back here. Different is good; and I know I have so many amazing things in store for me being back here. Not only with my job, but with relationships and personal development. Like anything good for you, it takes a degree of adjustment, and that's exactly what I'm doing. Even though I wasn't keen on the idea of adjusting to a place I thought I was already mine, I am, without a doubt, adjusting.


Seth

To Denver...

It is the eve of my departure from the Mile High City and, being the contemplative writer I am, I feel it needs some commentary. As most of you know, it hasn't been the easiest 7 months of my life, but it also hasn't been the worst. I'm trying out this whole positive thinking thing, so what follows is my oratorio to my time out West.

To the skiing. To the mountains. To the powder. To the out of bounds. To the Rumsey's cabin in Breckenridge. To their double headed steam bath shower. To their remarkably soft sheests. To Breck Brewery. To Joey, to Meg, to Sarah, to Steve, to Sean, to Elise: the weekend crew.

To Kona Grill. To reverse happy hour. To sake bombs. To barbecue pizza. To meeting new friends and finally knowing old ones.

To The Stadium. To dive bars. To Rumseys. To never having to pay for a drink. To drunken debates. To Journey. To the DU kids, who showed me a college life I never knew.

To LoDo. To Uptown Tavern. To Downtown Tavern. To Vesta. To Everclear margaritas at Rios. To The 16th Street Mall. To Mad Greens. To Starbucks with Meg and Sarah. To The Celtic. To Delaneys. To mini bowling.

To a town that surprisd me. To people that I will forever call my friends, even if I expected not to. To coming to know, to understand, to accept myself and to those who love me for it. To the one who showed me the way; who told me it was OK. To the one I'll never be able to thank enough, but will try anyway. To learning from mistakes and laughing at them later. To realizing that life is about exploration; about trying, and sometimes failing. To falling and getting back up stronger than before, ready to continue. To never regretting anything, ever. To anticipation. To dissapointment. To reconciliation. To happiness. To everything and everyone. To Denver.

Today then tomorrow

I'm perfect.

My hair, a muted sepia with natural highlights of chestnut and lowlights of chocolate, swoops and spikes in just the right places. My eyes shine with the same rich color, only strengthened by the long feminine eyelashes that frame the dark globes inside white void. My nose is thin on the bridge and appropriately flared at the tip and nostrils; it flows easily into my dark pink lips which pout just enough to make everyone that sees them want to kiss them. With the crack of a smile a row of perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth appear punctuated by a set of canines that are at once unsettling, yet also intriguing. My chin rests comfortably at the conjuncture of a mildly sloping square cut jaw line. My skin, rosey in the cheeks and a peachy porcelain throughout, contours to my face in all the right places: taught, smooth and clean. This head sits comfortably on broad, strong shoulders that are ready to take the world from Atlas, and what holds it all up is a body that is healthy, proportioned and impeccably dressed.

I'm perfect.


I'm perfect.


Im perfect.


Imperfect.


imperfect


my hair is dull, thick and coarse--only manageable when manipulated with gobs of product. my sunken eyes are wrapped in swollen eyelids, barely able to reveal the forgettable brown irises that envy the blues and greens of the world. the bump in my nose ruins my profile. my lips are dry and cracked, constantly arid from years of over-balming. when feigning a smile, bleached teeth, recessed gums and a jagged tooth reveal the mouth's insecurity. a pudgy, pointed and often blemished chin dangles from a slacked jaw. the skin that shrouds this face is pale, bumpy and all-too-often flushed and sweaty with fear and self-consciousness. my misshapen head, which is plagued with anxiety, restlessness and pessimism, barely balances on shoulders that take on too many responsibilities, too many problems, too many "yes'" and not enough "no's," too many emotions and too many whip lashes. below is a weakened, soft body that holds a scarred heart, a compulsive stomach, and a deep-seeded anger that threatens to ruin my world; and nothing that covers it can fix it.


I'm perfect.

Sticky

I took this picture at my older brother's wedding reception party. On the left is Ross, my twin, and at the right is his girlfriend. I was browsing photos and it inspired the [completely fictional] story that follows.

Her glossly legs stick to one another, pasted by a cohesion of mid-May heat and humidity. Her feet, swollen and slightly blistered, bob to the music, which keeps the straggeling guests, who are all too drunk and happy, languidly moving on the patio. The grass is beginning to cool; she inches her toes over the edge of her flip flops, bends back the flexible sole and runs her feet over the blades. Having had just the right amount of champagne and wine, the texture of the grass--which would normally tantalize her sensitive skin--feels good. Now comforted by the aesthtic confection that surrounds her, she leans into him, her moist body heavy on his. Her wine glass feels heavier, awkwardly aqueous as the ebb and flow of the thick liquid heaves with her wavering hand. She rests the foot of the glass on his knee, knowing his steady disposition will keep it, and her, at ease. He smells good--musk, cologne, sweat, hair product. She leans in deeper, her chest at his back, and she exhales across his neck.

He braces himself on the corner of the lounge chair, prepared to absorb the full weight of her body. He feels her breasts pressing against his shoulder, conforming to the creases of his back. Her breath is thick with the smeall of fermented grapes. Her chin plunges into his left deltoid, the pointed bone sending a ticklish jolt up his spine. He has loosened his tie and rolled his sleeves knowing that tonight he will become the fulcrum to her wilting frame. The black loafers he bought for this night are speckled with wine and whiskey, dulled in the moonlight, dirty and proud as they brace his tired legs. He grasps his beer with tightly folded fingers; his right thumb gingerly abrades the neck of the bottle. A freshly cut fingernail methodically peels the edge of the label while his inside fingers slip on summer condensation. He smells the grass and smells her. He is at once annoyed but also at ease knowing that she needs him. Drunk--or even not--her body, her head, her shoulders, her thin arms and cinched waste would be disoriented without him. He knows he loves her, and he is certain she loves him. Actively touching her or even acknowledging her intoxicated advances would ruin this moment, maybe even ruin them. As she fades further into a wasted drowsiness he knows what he must do. Planting his feet, squaring his shoulders, he takes a sip of his beer and takes a deep breath. He turns his head and exhales on her, knowing that the next intake will be breath of alcohol, of grass, of her.