Author Archives: Cynthia Wang

Here’s the article.

Yup. Definitely seems to be the case of an institution (ASCAP – American Society of Composers, Authors, and Publishers) not looking out for the rights of those it claims to protect, but taking away options and avenues of exposure for people who CHOOSE to freely share their OWN music and OWN creations.

It’s almost like saying you don’t want gay marriage because, oh god! If the GAYS can marry, then people can marry all SORTS of things like their DOG or an AMOEBA. (which, BTW, is a dog a consenting adult? yea, didn’t think so)

As in, wanting to hitting the nail on the head, except the nail is 10 feet away from where the hammer is striking. You’re not solving the actual problem, you’re just running around like a chicken with your head cut off because you’re at an utter loss as to how to approach the ACTUAL problem.

Small world.

On Monday, one of my professors at NYU, Sal Fallica, emailed me about an article that was going to appear in the NY Times on Tuesday about Justin Bieber’s backup singers, an Asian American music group called Legaci (which was discovered via YouTube, apparently).

On Tuesday, I was at my friend Evan’s going away party (for which, he says, I have the best excuse not to show up – we’re going to be at USC together for a very very long time), and at the party, I caught up with two old friends, Claire and Sloan, who mentioned that Dawen was mentioned in the New York Times. The same day, I saw that Alfa (check out her new music vid on her site: alfa-music.com) had written a congratulatory note to Melissa Polinar for her mention in the New York Times. Melissa and I had songs that were featured on the same sampler mix on Asiantalentonline.com years ago, and I had fallen madly in love with her song, “Meant For Me.”

Today (Wednesday), I received an email from USC – the CommLine newsletter, the one for Annenberg, and realized the article is written by Josh Kun, who is the professor at USC I spoke with when I visited in March because I felt we had similar research interests and I would learn a lot from working with him.

Fun, eh?

Here’s the article:
http://www.nytimes.com/2010/06/20/arts/music/20legaci.html

I usually don’t blog about my day because I find that prosaic, but today was just…a really weird day. I woke up in Queens, as I’m there cat-sitting for Ray and Robbi, and went to have tea at Alice’s Tea Cup with the other Cynthia. For those of you who have been to Alice’s and have partaken in their awesome afternoon tea sets, you know that there is a LOT of food, and you’re allowed a to-go container. Which is what happened.

While walking home with my container of leftover Alice’s, a random woman made a beeline for me and grabbed a hold of my container. And pulled. I pulled back. She wouldn’t let go! And she looked me in the eye and said “Thank you.” I deliberated about 5 seconds. 5 pretty long seconds. She said “Thank you” again. Uh. Whatever. I said “ok” and let go. I figure, she probably needed the food more than I did, but…would it have hurt to ask rather than just…assume?! SO bizarre.

Later in the afternoon, my brother and I caught a quick dinner at Flor de Mayo, this Chinese-Peruvian fusion place uptown that has amazing chicken and amazing other foods. Quick dinner, because we were supposed to catch the screening of Mikado Project (a film Ray stars in, and I make a cameo appearance, which also marks my “screen debut” – in quotations because this may very well be the last time I’m ever on screen). I sent a quick text to Chil (the director) to say hi and let him know I was looking forward to seeing the fruits of our labor from last summer. He texted back with something along the lines of, “Uh, Cynthia. The screening is NEXT MONTH.” At first, I thought he was yanking my chain, so I CALLED him. He wasn’t kidding. Apparently, I had read the date wrong. It wasn’t JUNE 20th, it’s JULY 20th. Needless to say, Kenneth and I found ourselves with an evening free, which we decided to spend watching Toy Story 3.

We made a quick stop at home, where we sat in front of the air conditioner in my room for a good while, until I jumped 3 feet in the air because something was buzzing around my head. I turn to see a huge flying insect-like object hovering around my desk. Just as I was about to take the latest issue of People magazine to smash it, it lights up. Bright green. It’s a firefly!! I can’t kill a firefly! People write songs about them! So, with the help of my brother, we liberated it outside in the courtyard after trapping it in a plastic cup. Sort of dumped it in some plants. Then we sat staring at if for a couple minutes because, while it was moving, it didn’t seem interested in flying away or showing us any pyrotechnics. Finally, it feebly gave off some light, as if to say, “I’m ok, you guys can stop staring at my ass now.” Kenneth prodded me and quipped, “Ok, let’s go. It still works. It’s butt is lighting up. I wish my butt lit up like that. It would be so convenient in dark rooms.” Then he attempted to demonstrate how his butt would light up if it could. I won’t go into details.

Toy Story 3 was fantastic. But the 3D was so unnecessary. Just the theatre’s way of making more money. Damnit.

And after dinner, we got a midnight snack at Landmarc, where we both ended up rolling ourselves out the door, and decided we needed to burn some of the food off, resulting in a very VERY late night walk out to Riverside Park, where we found two pianos sitting in the middle of the pier. Apparently it’s some sort of project where the pianos are out there for public use. They were even painted with the words “Play me” or something like that on it. So we did. At 2am. In the middle of the Hudson River. SO RANDOM.

And this is at the end of a week of my brother in NYC, where he got very lost on the subway. Oh, this one’s a fun story.

A few days ago, I asked Kenneth to meet me and a few friends in Union Square for dinner. We were going to walk to Madison Square Park (23rd Street) for Shake Shack at 5pm. 5:15 rolls around, and no word from Kenneth. It’s fine, I get it. No reception in the subway. 5:30. I get a little bit worried. At this point, I’m checking my phone every minute, wondering where he is, with horrible scenarios of my little brother (who, ok, is taller and stronger than me) getting raped or robbed or killed in NYC. He finally calls at 5:45, and this is how the conversation goes:

Me: Where the hell have you been?!
Kenneth: On the subway! I was on the subway for over an hour! There was no Union Square stop.
Me: (uh ok whatever, I didn’t believe him) Well, where are you now?
Kenneth: Uhh, I’m at 59th Street.
Me: (assuming he’s talking about 59th/Lex stop off the R) It does not take an hour to get to 59th Street. Did something happen?
Kenneth: No! I think it just looped back around. I’m at 61st Street and 4th Avenue.
Me: (something doesn’t feel right, since there’s no 4th Ave at 61st Street – it’s called Park Ave. Are you guys getting it?) Uh. Ok. Just take the R back to 23rd Street. That’s where we’re at.
(MORE THAN A HALF HOUR GOES BY. HE FINALLY CALLS AGAIN)
Kenneth: There was no 23rd Street stop.
Me: ….are you sure you’re on the R?
Kenneth: Yes! I’m on the R!
Me: Uh. Ok, where are you now?
Kenneth: At 23rd and 4th Ave.
Me: Head west, and you’ll see Madison Square Park.
(A FEW MINUTES LATER)
Kenneth: I’m at 23rd and 5th.
Me: Did you see the park?
Kenneth: No.
Me: Did you pass Broadway?
Kenneth: No.
Me: ……….are you in Manhattan?!
Kenneth: Uh, I don’t know!
Me: Well, are there any tall buildings?
Kenneth: Uh…no.

It turns out he was in BROOKLYN. At that point, he was so frustrated he just wanted to go home and watch the Lakers game in QUEENS. Which is what he did. We’re calling this incident Kenneth’s Four Hour Mis-Adventure on the NYC Subway System.

It’s way past time to sleep. But I’m sitting here writing this blog as I’m waiting for laundry to be done.

The latest example of “democratizing talent” seems to be this video of Grayson Chance playing Paparazzi. I tweeted my eye-rolling reaction to it, but felt I needed a bit more than 140 characters to express why this bothers me so much.

I think what bothers me most is how we like to invoke “democracy” whenever someone is “discovered” online. It’s not democracy, people. It’s luck. Wait, let me elaborate before you jump down my throat.

People getting “discovered” online is much like how it happens in an offline world. We can sit around here and say that the Internet “makes space” for everyone with a computer and an Internet connection to post media and distribute art, and sure it does. But you can also make space by putting your artwork up on a street corner. Doesn’t mean how talented you are, if someone from traditional media doesn’t see it, doesn’t think it’s good, you’re dead in the water. (of course, this works the other way too – you’ve got to be talented, or that curator of the MoMA or the record executive from BMG isn’t going to give you a second glance, unless it’s one of abject horror)

The article states how Grayson has teamed up with Guy Oseary (a manager), who’s a traditional media guy (read: plays and understands the game of music industry power, and probably makes up a few of the rules himself). Look at the chain of happenings – it’s not about talent – it’s about popularity, and, perhaps, how easily impressed we are nowadays. Shervin Pishevar (the author of the article that riled me up) received the video through Nowmov, which is this box of algorithmic fun, spewing out what “collective intelligence” deems worth the time of millions of Internet users. It has nothing to do with talent. After all, “David After Dentist” (60 million views) and “Charlie Bit My Finger” (close to 200 million views) are two of the most popular videos out there. And damn, those kids are wicked talented (facetious, people). (I use this example to say that just because something is viewed many times does not mean its subjects are necessarily “talented,” and while I will admit to not knowing much about Nowmov, it looks like an algorithmic trap based more on numbers than human opinion and sensitivities)

It is also because of Pishevar’s connections with the music industry’s Powers That Be that propelled little Grayson into the pop culture stratosphere, and indeed, his seemingly personal relationship with Ashton Kutcher, who is involved with Nowmov. How about the other thousands of would be Elton Johns and Billy Joels out there?

So stop patting yourself on the back for thinking you’ve helped in the process of democratizing talent. Truly democratizing talent (or to make an argument that the Internet does so) would be for all kids who are talented, who have YouTube videos, to gain economically (like Grayson Chance will, no doubt) from their talent. No, right now, it’s all about the bottom line for those entities at the top (the PTBs) who hold all the cards and in their fickle benevolence bestow fame and fortune upon the select few.

Email from my mom (Soupe is our turtle’s name):

“Our fish family is shrinking though while soupe is growing big. A couple weeks ago, the fish population was 5 plus 1 (that small one). Just few days ago, it became 4 plus 1. Daddy was shouting yesterday… now 3 plus 1!!! That little one swims fast so he survives from the big jaw. Or maybe he is too skinny that does not attract soupe’s appetite.. Please pray for the remaining fish family.”

From an email from my friend Tania.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Once again, The Washington Post has published the winning submissions to its yearly contest, in which readers are asked to supply alternate meanings for common words.

The winners are:

Coffee (n.), the person upon whom one coughs.
Flabbergasted (adj.), appalled over how much weight you have gained.
Abdicate (v.), to give up all hope of ever having a flat stomach.
Esplanade (v.), to attempt an explanation while drunk.
Willy-nilly (adj.), impotent.
Negligent (adj.), describes a condition in which you absentmindedly answer the door in your nightgown.
Lymph (v.), to walk with a lisp.
Gargoyle (n.), olive-flavored mouthwash.
Flatulence (n.) emergency vehicle that picks you up after you are run over by a steamroller.
Balderdash (n.), a rapidly receding hairline.
Testicle (n.), a humorous question on an exam.
Rectitude (n.), the formal, dignified bearing adopted by proctologists.
Pokemon (n), a Rastafarian proctologist.
Oyster (n.), a person who sprinkles his conversation with Yiddishisms.
Frisbeetarianism (n.), (back by popular demand): The belief that, when you die, your Soul flies up onto the roof and gets stuck there.
Mind you, my personal 2005 favourite comes from “I Am Sorry I Haven’t a Clue”:

Mishmash (v.):, to skip a religious service for reason of inebriation.
The Washington Post’s Style Invitational once again asked readers to take any word from the dictionary, alter it by adding, subtracting, or changing one letter, and supply a new definition. Here are this year’s winners:

Bozone (n.): The substance surrounding stupid people that stops bright ideas from penetrating. The bozone layer, unfortunately, shows little sign of breaking down in the near future.
Foreploy (v): Any misrepresentation about yourself for the purpose of getting laid.
Cashtration (n.): The act of buying a house, which renders the subject financially impotent for an indefinite period.
Giraffiti (n): Vandalism spray-painted very, very high.
Sarchasm (n): The gulf between the author of sarcastic wit and the person who doesn’t get it.
Inoculatte (v): To take coffee intravenously when you are running late.
Hipatitis (n): Terminal coolness.
Osteopornosis (n): A degenerate disease. (This one got extra credit.)
Karmageddon (n): It’s like, when everybody is sending off all these really bad vibes, right? And then, like, the Earth explodes and it’s like, a serious bummer.
Decafalon (n.): The grueling event of getting through the day consuming only things that are good for you.
Glibido (v): All talk and no action.
Dopeler effect (n): The tendency of stupid ideas to seem smarter when they come at you rapidly.
Arachnoleptic fit (n.): The frantic dance performed just after you’ve accidentally walked through a spider web.
Beelzebug (n.): Satan in the form of a mosquito that gets into your bedroom at three in the morning and cannot be cast out.
Caterpallor (n.): The color you turn after finding half a grub in the fruit you’re eating.
And the pick of the literature:

Ignoranus (n): A person who’s both stupid and an a _ hole.

I’ve noticed in the past year that I get bad headaches and nausea when I drink coffee. Usually coffee that tastes acidic. So I’ve strayed away from coffee lately. Tonight after dinner, though, we stopped by a Starbucks, and I got one of my favorite drinks from days of yore – the White Chocolate Mocha. Doing ok so far. Starbucks never gave me an icky feeling. Maybe I should just have Starbucks.

J said they should put alcohol in coffee. All I can remember is my EMT teacher telling us that mixing Red Bull (stimulant) and alcohol (depressant) will confuse your heart so much (since it won’t know to slow down or speed up) that it will simply stop. Swell. Plus, you’re not allowed to have open containers of alcohol in NYC. Or LA. Can you imagine if Starbucks put alcohol in your coffee? And you were pulled over?
“Uh, Officer, I swear, it’s just a coffee. Want a taste?”

Hrm. How does Kahlua do it? Does Kahlua even have caffeine in it?

I think that coffee made me sleepy.

And finally, the best quote about coffee I’ve discovered lately:
“This coffee tastes like poopy shit!” ~Alice in TLW
Although my coffee tonight definitely did NOT taste like poopy shit. It tasted like delicious heavenly white-chocolately sweetness.

K. Time to finish watching my Netflix DVD so I can get a new one.

Yes, folks. I have an iPad. Me. Who made fun of it since before it came out. Life’s ironic that way, isn’t it? It was given to me as a gift from the professor I TAed for this year, Mr. Aaron Cohen (of Anyclip – check it out).

I proceeded to spend 6 straight hours playing with it last night, from putting all the applications I ever owned from my iPhone onto the iPad, then realizing I had screen clutter, and a ton of applications that weren’t compatible with the iPad. I went from 9 screens of applications to a screen and a half, and a mild case of iPad-finger – from the repetitive motion of deleting and confirming the delete for about 60 applications.

Then I watched an episode of Lost and an episode of Law & Order on it while on my sofa. And barely touched my laptop all night.

Aaron told me to tell him when I stopped carrying around my laptop. I should have said, “right away,” because I don’t carry around my laptop. But, pre-iPad, I was glued to it when I was at home – I always had it with me while I watch TV or read or write in my journal (which is handwritten), often while I learned new covers of songs or attempted (important operative word here) to play piano off sheet music from IMSLP.

But last night, with the iPad, I found I didn’t really need my laptop for things that didn’t require a lot of typing. With my butt firmly planted on my couch, I’m able to browse the web, look up that really cute actress from the L Word (which is a recent, and long overdue addiction) on IMDB, Facebook, search for song lyrics, read the news, answer emails (the quick, non-serious ones I can take care of while mildly distracted), even flip through a few digital pages of Winnie the Pooh (the free book that came with the iBook application). And the iPad itself fits nicely on my music stand and downloads and displays sheet music.

I was a bit disturbed that the iPad might prove my original prejudices wrong (in that, I was convinced it would never replace my laptop). But I started thinking back to those times before college (for me) when we didn’t have our own computers. We had a family computer that sat in a very visible and common place, and the only times I would go on the computer was if I had to write a paper or chat with friends. Given the iPad’s unconventional keyboard, lack of a good word processor, and inability to multi-task (ie: have multiple applications running at once), I still find my laptop indispensable. (we can go on forever making McLuhanesque arguments about the naturalization process of a new media or technology, but let’s spare me the work of typing it out now that I have to be up very early tomorrow to have Mother’s Day brunch with my mum)

It’s almost as if I have reverted back to that time when I was not in front of the computer screen unless I had work or chatting or major emailing to do. And the other stuff, the time I would have previously spent away from the computer, is now consolidated on a thin electronic slab of digital beauty. As much as I don’t want to play into the hype of the iPad or rave about how it’s changing the technology of media, Aaron was right when he said there is something very intimate about using an iPad. And if I have to get up and charge it every 10 hours or so, well, I can live with that.

It’s fitting that I’ve been watching Angel, since I’ll be moving back to LA in the fall.

In Season 2, there’s an episode called “Reprise,” in which Angel steals a ring that allows him to travel across dimensions. At the end of the episode, he asks to be taken to the “Home Office,” a thinly-veiled metaphor for Hell. Here’s the scene. Holland Manners was a lawyer who was killed off earlier in the season, and comes back:

Holland is standing in the open doors of the elevator slowly clapping his hands.
Angel walks slowly closer.
Holland: “Congratulations. Great victory.”
Angel: “You’re…”
Holland: “Holland Manners.”
Angel: “…not alive.”
Holland: “Oh, no. I’m quite dead. Unfortunately my contract with Wolfram and Hart extends well beyond that. (Gives Angel a big smile, then motions his head) Hop on in. You certainly earned it.”
Angel slowly steps in, looking at Holland, who laughs.
Holland: “No. Not a ghost here. No, it’s just me. Dead me. (Pulls the collar of his shirt aside to show Angel Darla’s bite marks, then reaches for the elevator buttons) See? – Home office, wasn’t it? I should mention the trip is one way.”
Angel stands in the elevator looking out, not saying anything.
We see a homeless person pushing a loaded down shopping cart across the plaza in front of the elevator.
Holland: “Well, if there are no objections, I suggest we get going. It is rather a long ride.”
Holland pushes the ‘down’ button. The doors close and we see the elevator descending down the elevator shaft.
Angel and Holland are standing side by side in the elevator as the lights from the floors it is passing flash by and typically annoying elevator music plays in the background.
Holland: “Well, this is exciting, isn’t it? (Smiles) Going straight to the source. – So, what’s the big plan, Angel? Destroy the Senior Partners, smash Wolfram and Hart once and for all?”
Angel: “Something like that.”
Holland: “Hm-mm, now tell me just what do you think that would accomplish? In the end, I mean.”
Angel: “It’ll be – the end.”
Holland: “Well, the end of you, certainly. But I meant in the larger sense.”
Angel: “In the larger sense I really don’t give a crap.”
Holland: “Now I don’t think that’s true. – Be honest. – You got the tiniest bit of ‘give a crap’ left. Otherwise you wouldn’t be going on this Kamikaze mission. Now let me see, there was something – in a sacred prophecy, some oblique reference to you. Something you’re supposed to prevent. Now what was that?”
Angel: “The apocalypse.”
Holland: “Yes, the apocalypse, of course. – Another one of those. Well, it’s true. We do have one scheduled. And I imagine if you were to prevent it you would save a great many people. Well, you should do that then. Absolutely. I wasn’t thinking. – Of course all those people you save from that apocalypse would then have the next one to look forward to, but, hey, it’s always something, isn’t it?”
The elevator shaft and cable dissolve as the elevator continues to plummet into a hellish red glow.
Angel: “You’re not gonna win.”
Holland: “Well – *no*. Of course we aren’t. We have no intention of doing anything so prosaic as ‘winning.'”
Holland laughs and for the first time Angel turns his head to glance in Holland’s general direction.
Angel: “Then why?”
Holland: “Hmm? I’m sorry? Why what?”
Angel: “Why fight?”
Holland: “That’s really the question you should be asking yourself, isn’t it? See, for us, there is no fight. Which is why winning doesn’t enter into it. We – go on – no matter what. Our firm has always been here. In one form or another. The Inquisition. The Khmer Rouge. We were there when the very first cave man clubbed his neighbor. See, we’re in the hearts and minds of every single living being. And *that* – friend – is what’s making things so difficult for you. – See, the world doesn’t work in spite of evil, Angel. – It works with us. – It works because of us.”
And with that the elevator comes to a screeching halt.
The doors open and Angel looks out to see a homeless person pushing a loaded shopping cart across the plaza in front of the Wolfram and Hart Office building in LA.
Holland: “Welcome to the home office.”
Angel: “This isn’t…”
Holland: “Well, you know it is. – You know *that* better than anyone. Things you’ve seen. Things you’ve, well – done. You see, if there wasn’t evil in every single one of them out there (Angel watches as some people in the plaza start yelling at each other) why, they wouldn’t be people. – They’d all be angels.”
The glove drops from Angel’s right to land on the floor of the elevator and Angel slowly shuffles out of it.
Holland calling after him as the doors close: “Have a nice day.”

What strikes me about this scene is how heartbreakingly poignant its message is. We’re brought up to believe in good and evil, with good always seeking to do away with evil, but the fact of the matter is, like everything in life, good can’t exist without evil. Absolutes must co-exist. If they don’t, they are rendered meaningless. We can’t have good without evil, freedom without repression, right without wrong.

Of course, the definition of absolutes is problematic as well. Maybe it’s just all on a spectrum, and trying to define the extremes simply complicates everything.

Also hits close to home for me, as they’re saying LA is hell here. Of course it is.

“Anyone who practices the art of cultural criticism must endure being asked, What is the solution to the problems you describe? Critics almost never appreciate this question, since, in most cases, they are entirely satisfied with themselves for having posed the problems and, in any event, are rarely skilled in formulating practical suggestions about anything. This is why they became cultural critics.