Oops - URL Redirect
Mood:  energetic
Topic: Net Junk

1. This poor guy put a redirect on his website, so any URL off the main domain goes to the home page. Seems sensible, but in effect, it means you can type in:
   http://digitalsplendor.com/cunt.html
   and it goes straight to pics of his wedding, honeymoon, orchids, etc.. My first reaction before realising the issue was, "I can't believe he called his page that! What does his wife think?

My Goals as a Musician
This is what I want my songs to make people do:

pump

Noz's First Film
Mood:  celebratory
Now Playing: SlapStickin' by The Solution (aka Me)
Topic: Movies
15:44 28/03/2005

Feelin' like Martin Scorenoze...

I'm really getting into this movie thing! I've been playing with Microsoft Movie Maker for the last couple nights and it's a blast!

I put together some of my photos, my videos from the last Noz Update, and some of my music that I made with Tim Nutman, and I've made my first film!

How cool is that?

I know everyone else has been making movies for a million years on their PC, but this if my first, so I'm quite amused with myself. A special thanks to all the warm generous and giving souls at Microsoft - that confederation of selfless philanthropists!

Here's my first finished product:

Noz's First Flick

As always - response posting's invited: how to post

Fashionasties
Mood:  sharp
10:56 25/03/2005

Ok. I'm going to indulge in a little self-mockery. A few of these only make sense if you know the labels involved, but it's my blog, so screw you.

Most people know I'm basically on the cast of Will and Grace when it comes to fashion. ("Honey, I thought we'd talked about that suit.") Like Jack, I talk the talk and usually walk the walk, but catch me on a lazy Tuesday and I might be wearing a chic ensemble of potato sack with kleenex boxes on my feet.

Nevertheless, I've been called Zoolander and been hard pressed to argue. Things like lack of attention to necklines or accessories, running shoes (trainers) with dress pants, or jogging pants on a weekday scrape at my eyes like salty nail files. Cotton-poly blends, and sports-trademark clothes (worn without jest) wound me to my very soul. I wear Zara, but I'm slightly embrassed about it. I forgive myself because their price+build quality combo basically makes them disposable clothing. One of my Friends (of Dorothy) once said, "Who wants clothes to last more than a year anyway?"

A solid point.

Still, the world of designer fashion - like most other old institutions - needs a perodic battering.

I'm moved to take action because:

• I recently moved to central London
• February is "sale season" in Paris, and I was staying just off the Champs-Elysees. Thank Fahri I'm saving up for my Canada trip, or the friction would've melted my credit card...
• Even one weekend in Geneva always makes one label-concious. That city makes you feel bad for not driving a Ferrari and carrying a vertu
• Dare I count Amsterdam as a fashion hub? Last month's KLM in-flight Magazine was a fashion-focus, and this month's did a spread on Amsterdam's little pocket of boutiques.

Below is a list of "Nozzed" taglines for a few of the labels I love (or love to hate). I think taglines are supposed to answer the question "Why should I buy your product?" so I went for a L'Oreal Paris "Because you're worth it!" motif. Most of these lables don't actually have taglines, because, does anyone need a reason to buy Armani? No. What a stupid question!

I love the irony of doing this while wearing a Dior shirt...

Fashionasties:

• Dior - Not always that dull
• Salvatore Ferragamo - My name is more interesting than my clothes
• Yves Saint Laurent - Skin-tight and pink isn't just for ladies
• Yves Saint Laurent Rive Gauche - Indiana Jones: the Jungle Queen
• Hugo Boss - Meh...we don't know either...
• Gucci - You have just too much money
• Dolce & Gabana - You're gay
• Valentino - These clothes will get you blown
• Chanel - Hey, maybe this cut will come back in someday!
• Armani - Put the plebs in their place
• Kenzo - Not really so expensive, it's the import taxes! Tokyo's FAR, Dude!
• Louis Vuitton (Women's) - You'll show that bitch
• Louis Vuitton (Men's) - Your Sugar-Momma dresses you
• Burberry - Approachability's overrated
• Roberto Cavalli - You might need to go to Mardi Gras someday...
• Diesel - Taking out a loan to buy casual-wear is totally reasonable
• Lacoste - Because her Daddy's cuter than she is (and he signs off the trust fund anyway...)
• Calvin Klein (or Guess) - Hey! Fuck you! We deserve to be in this magazine just as much as Diesel or D&G! Elitest cunts... eat our shit, Fuck-sore!
• Prada - Hello, like, we're Prada? DUH!
• Jean-Paul Gautier - Deep down, you're a French homosexual too
• Nicole Fahri - It's not that itchy, you wuss! I blended in some cashmere!
• Ralph Lauren - Hey, basic is good. We're more interesting than Dior!

As always - response posting's invited: how to post

Chocolate Rimming Sugar
Mood:  celebratory
http://www.urbanaccents.com/products/product_detail.asp?c=0&p=120

Roots Bloody Roots
Mood:  chillin'
Now Playing: the hum of elodie's 'hummer' laptop
Topic: Language
I'm in Le Havre staying with Elodie. We were talking, and she said she was having trouble remembering how to spell 'Wednesday'. I had similar trouble not so long ago, and I fixed it by linking the spelling to the etymology of the word in my head. Wednesday = Wodnesdaeg, or "Woden's Day". Or "Odin's day", depending on the dialect. Since then, I don't screw it up. It would have been much easier if they'd simply explained that when we were in school instead of saying, "This is how it's spelled. Live with it!" Anyway, I took it upon myself to learn the rest of the days, and I found both the Latin and Germanic day-name roots! Bonus!

---

In A.D. 321 Constantine the Great grafted the Hellenistic astrological system onto the Roman calendar, making the first day of the week a day of rest and worship and imposing the following sequence of names on the days: Diēs Sōlis, "Sun's Day"; Diēs Lūnae, "Moon's Day"; Diēs Martis, "Mars's Day"; Diēs Mercuriī, "Mercury's Day"; Diēs Jovis, "Jove's Day" or "Jupiter's Day"; Diēs Veneris, "Venus's Day"; and Diēs Saturnī, "Saturn's Day". This new Roman system was adopted with modifications throughout most of western Europe.

In the Germanic languages, such as Old English, the names of four of the Roman gods were converted into those of the corresponding Germanic gods. Therefore in Old English we have the following names (with their Modern English developments): Sunnandaeg, Sunday; Mōnandaeg, Monday; Tīwesdaeg, Tuesday (Tiu, like Mars, was a god of war); Wōdnesdaeg, Wednesday (Woden, like Mercury, was quick and eloquent); Thunresdaeg, Thursday (Thunor in Old English or Thor in Old Norse, like Jupiter, was lord of the sky; Old Norse Thōrsdagr influenced the English form); Frīgedaeg, Friday (Frigg, like Venus, was the goddess of love); and Saeternesdaeg, Saturday.
http://www.answers.com/topic/wednesday

---

Lo loves the beauty of this choice for the names of our days, and feels it demonstrates the need to connect with the universe. I think it's interesting that we so much need to have meaning. We hate things to be meaningless, so to communicate something unvisersally, we choose things that have a connection to universal things, like the planets and stars.

Hook Engine
Mood:  lyrical
Now Playing: The Chrystal Method - Busy Child
Topic: Music
I've discovered a new way of creating hooks. Put your MP3 player on random, turn it up, and go in the next room. Turn on a fan or other appliance until you can only hear a light layer of sound permeating the wall.

Try to sing along with the hooks. You'll find the muffled melodies will give you all sorts of new ideas, that if you walk into the room, sound *nothing* like the original. They are your brain piecing together the broken information by interspersing your own creative mortar.

Orgy After the Orchestra
Mood:  lyrical
Now Playing: Basement Jaxx - Where's Your Head At?
Topic: Poetry
Harmony and hard-on dreams, it seems
Burst through every seam in me
Especially when we three take tea and crumpet
My Musketeers with whom I thump it
And to whom I choose to trumpet my garish tune
I specialise in the high-noon swoon
Where the one who croons is festooned with roses and panties
Shall we up the ante? Oh, yes, let's!
Let's place our bets on which maiden fair will first let down her pants and hair
And display her lunar derriere to a pair of erections from the rhythm section
Let's pop another cork from the muzzle of a bottle
And swing it about, so we all can guzzle
Maestro! Play one a bit less slow!
Madame! Pass the one with the rosy glow!
I know, I know, she's too young and I'm too old, but the song's just started
And here is where tales are made and where the legs are parted
I'm gliding now?
Slipping back and forth and sliding now
Dancing across the centre of the floor
Cheers and muffled giggles lift my feet like gentle tickles
Decorated with girls on each arm, like medals, rose petals
I am commandant for this song
This long, strong, tong of melodies and mentalities flung upon the throng
It's on!
Artist! Grab a canvas and paint me an explo-shee-on!
I'm gone, up the stairs with everyone
Run if you will, but don't trip, you'll spill your drink, such a waste I think
Bring the band and some champagne, for the music now can change
We'll make it ourselves, on cotton strings and shiny oboes
If you've tympani or congas, you'll still know how the song goes
Just watch the baritones make those tenors go soprano
Myself, I've spent years mastering the conductor's wand
Its staccato patterns of which I?m so fond
With its jaunty snaps from nimble twists of the wrists
And how I love the jubilant tits on the percussionists
And the beautiful pursed lips of the enthusiastic flutists
How delicately they handle the instruments?
All as one, sway to and fro,
To the crescendo!
For this is the bit where everything fits
Together!
Now or never!
Play this, my fugue, my heroes and heroines!
Brutalise your violins and stroke your cellos, fellows!
Remember now why and how you came to earth:
To live and die and take the time between
For everything that it is worth!


Orgy After the Orchestra
Ben Noz Urbina
(c) 2005
Sunday, 30 January 2005

Watching Almodovar all day on a sunday
Now Playing: "All About My Mother"
Topic: Movies


I'm like a balloon full of tears, and the scenes stab me.

Insert Poem Here
Mood:  chillin'
Now Playing: the sounds of the cars on the rainwashed streets of le havre
Topic: Poetry
Insert poem here:
[











]
Remember to use beautiful words
Words that capture just how you feel
Use this space to transmute experience to reference to wisdom
Choose slowly and carefully or choose quickly and honestly
Clarify your thoughts retrospectively
On life, death, sex and love
Use this space for all of the above
Because if you don't, who will?

Innovative
Topic: Poetry

Innovation is a bitch
Think I, as I try to sit and stitch these words together
These ancient words I learned from someone else
I try to reuse now by myself
With precious little guidance

Creative recycling, really...
That's the mission that I'm feeling like taking on
And on, and on?
I've gone to say with these borrowed symbols - What?

That I can re-spill ink better
(I hope to think)
Than that other guy from over there
Who got birthed out from between a finer pair...?
Of parents ? from their loving care ? I take my materials
My hand-me-down syllables
That hopefully I'll grow into

Hopefully, I'll fit these shackles
And find little tasks which we can tackle
On a little pitch
With little point and little result
And very little chance they'll make me rich

Seriously, innovation is a bitch...

Noz Update - Le Havre (the crowning of a queen and the return of the king)
Mood:  crushed out
Now Playing: Still nothing... still at Rachel and James'
Topic: Noz Update
Elodie and I get hitched. I get back in touch with Mr Kress.

Check it out:
Noz Update

You?re Mine
Topic: Poetry
Like a mine, you?re floating
Tangled in my seaweed
Masked and misshapen, lurking
In a mesh of brown and green
And when I break my alibi?

So there's no movement possible
There's no possible movement
Floating with this dark reminder
So close, but I must never touch
This bleak omen, of what I'll do
Of what I'll accept
Of how low I'll go
How deep
Into iron and rust and saltwater below

Death wrapped in life and tied up in string
So like a prisoner, yet really the king
Triggers on all sides and a vicious temper
I'd best not touch you
I'd best let you fester

? Ben Noz Urbina 2004

Streams of Consciousness
Mood:  not sure
Now Playing: Marilyn Manson - Irresponsible Hate Anthem
Topic: Poetry
I was so lost in my own thoughts; I didn't notice the time passing. Nor the trees rushing by; they provided nothing but a visual vibration such that I didn't notice I wasn't looking at something. Nor did I notice the sounds of the train as we smoothly slipped across the landscape. I had a shell around me. A sensory cocoon which gave me nothing to do but sit and metamorphose.

25 years old. Obviously the most vital, transitive, educational point in one's life. I'd thought when I was 16 that it was 16, but in retrospect, I was young and silly to have thought it. If I had known then what I know now...

If I had known then what I know now, would I be sitting on a train rushing along to a strange place to be this strange person with these strange values? At 16 I was sopping over with lofty ideals and adamant beliefs. I thought theists and republicans were fools who didn't know what I - a 16 year old wise far beyond my years - knew.

I knew the meaning of life.

Or at least, would know soon. I knew I was having a wilder time and had better friends than anyone in the world. I knew my insecurities and fears were like no one else's. I knew I was missing out on something, but I didn't know what.

Now at 25, I can reflect with amusement. I know that I was missing out on something. I still don't know what, but at least I stopped caring. At 25, I'm building a career. Like a farmer, I plant my little seeds and tend to my field. I fertilize and dote, waiting for my little sprouts to mature. I think often of a healthy harvest. When my season comes, will it be bounty, or just sustenance? I ponder this as I survey my fledgling plantations. Meanwhile of course, my employers hold up handfuls of dirt and deride me for not returning barrels of corn.

At least I've broken ground and sown.

At 16, I couldn't conceive of having a field. Surely I'd die first, I thought. Not due to unwillingness, but surely I was a star that burned too bright to last! Surely. Surely! Surely neither I nor the cosmos could sustain such passions, such visions, such experiences for more than about 20 years. 25 maybe?

The orange juice I got at the train station was quite nice. A bit tart. The train was passing through a field; to my left, fresh green and lush growth; to the right, rich brown soil, turned and waiting. Soon I'd get off and do my thing. I'd smile and shake and wink and take action items.

I'd sow.

I still know the meaning of life - mine anyway. I still think theists and republicans are foolish, if not fools. But I accept that maybe they know something I don't. I know I've had the wildest time. I know I've got the best friends - in theory, if not in the world. I know 25 is the peak of existence, surely.

I am starting to think, however, that the cosmos might be more robust than I'd thought.

Train to Reading (Change at Slough)
- Noz, April 29, 2004

Whoism
Topic: Poetry
What precipice?
Every day I face this.
Handicapped and faceless.
Every time, fruitless.

On expectation perched, I realize something.
I know the pattern, yet, I hold on to hopes that do survive in spite.
In spite, I have an ally, but it asks a hefty price.

I'm just after an outlet. Which will open just after I've left.
Supposedly there is a tone that would please, and release all the keys.
To liberate notes from page; bird from cage; man from age;
Metamorphosis from a cocoon stage.

Nidicolous - possibly. But I'm trying, really.
I don't work right. I don't take flight.
I fear most when it's best. I always fail this test.
I am blessed with an inconsistent measure of self-destructive pleasure.

I can't tolerate acheivement. I'm scared of extremes.
The half-way house is comfortable - the one between hell and dreams.
Fighting only makes it worse. I deliberate on every word of verse.
Which - becomes - infinitely - less - terse.

Speculate, flagellate, or palpitate and panic worst when it's getting great.
Because I cannot take the possible success.
Because I cannot tolerate that mess.
I'm earth-bound. Hard fast. Monorailed for duress.

Distract me please before I accomplish something.
"Something" - a would-be death down in the depths.
Trust better stomach pains and shallow breath that suffocate me,
That restrain me, or maybe, sedate me? That placate me.

Ok. Today's attempt is complete. We will repeat tomorrow our defeat.
Now surrender to resistant feet and back away from the threshold gladly.
All watching eyes now wrinkle sadly,
At oppurtunity missed so - so - badly.

From the edge, homeward, slowly, turn to start - again.
The brink is my business. It is my art. It is my friend.
But no sales today. All has gone well. No one saw what I would sell.
I don't take flight. Because I don't work, right?