Please stop abusing adverbs.
Adverbs modify adjectives or verbs. Once you learn what they are, I think your writing becomes worse because they're an easy shortcut to telling somebody something. Your villain needs to be cruel? Just say "he smiled cruelly" or some garbage like that. Why bother having your villain do things that only the truly heartless would do, when you can just tell the reader that this guy's seriously not a nice person?
Try this: every time you want to use an adverb, put the one that means the opposite in its place. Read the passage. If the opposite meaning is also coherent, you need to do a rewrite because there's not enough character there. You're making that poor adverb do all the work for you.
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
Friday, May 25, 2012
An unintended lesson
The easiest game in the world to play is probably chutes and ladders. There isn't any strategy. You can't be "really good" at this game. Hours of practice aren't going to make you dramatically better than you were before. The game is incredibly simple because the rules are this:
You spin a spinner, which moves you forward a random number of spaces. Sometimes you get lucky and get to move forward even more spaces. Sometimes you get unlucky and have to move back a number of spaces. Repeat until someone wins.
The only thing you have any semblance of control over is the spinner. And you don't even control that. If you try and flick it the barest amount to get it to move a mere centimeter onto a "good" number people will say that doesn't count and make you flick the little plastic pointer as hard as you can. It's random. It's like spinning that big wheel on The Price is Right, only with even less thought involved. You have no say in what happens, you just have to be present at the appointed time to spin the spinner; to try and get lucky.
The one good thing is that it's easy to beat your parents at this game. In virtually every other contest they're going to defeat you handily, but in the land of chutes and ladders the playing field is level. Hi Ho Cherry O operates on a similar principle, except you have to be able to count to ten. Forgetting how much "ten" is, is the only thing you can get wrong.
But there is an even easier game: Candy Land. The rules are very similar.
You draw a card, which moves you forward a random number of spaces. Sometimes you get lucky and get to move forward even more spaces. Sometimes you get unlucky and have to move back a number of spaces. Sometimes you have to stay where you are until you draw the "right" card. Repeat until someone wins.
The only thing you have any control over is... nothing. You draw a card when it is your turn, and drawing cards is something its hard to be "good at" beyond having fine motor skills.
Candy Land and Chutes and Ladders aren't really games as much as they are lessons about how to play games. You're teaching concepts about the basics of gameplay, like how "taking turns" works. It's the most fun way to teach a child about waiting. It's about how abstract concepts like player controlled pieces, movement randomizers, win conditions, and bonuses/penalties work. These are the building blocks for more complex games. Expecting your 3 year old to 'get' Settlers of Catan is just ridiculous.
But I think beyond this, there's a separate lesson that comes up: the lesson that this universe is one where there are lots of things out of your control, and that really wanting something doesn't mean it's going to happen. In Candy Land, there's nothing you can do that would change what card you draw because you have to take whatever card is next. Once the deck is shuffled, the game is set. You're basically sitting around waiting to see what fate has decided. Chutes and Ladders is only marginally better because the "winner" isn't pre-determined as soon as the pieces are set up; it's more like waiting around to see what happens.
The broader lesson is how to be gracious in defeat. The first time you lose, you get mad, you throw things because it's SO UNFAIR that you lost, and so you are sent to your room. It doesn't take long to learn that that attitude ain't gonna fly. In the land of candy, there's nothing you could have done to emerge victorious. Everyone has the exact same amount of say in who will win, which is no say at all. It's perfectly fair because it's entirely unfair: the winner is going to be whomever the cards say it will be. Even if you deserve it more, even if you've lost every game and your brother has won every game and you feel miserable, if the cards say he wins this game too then tough luck kid.
These games are such a low-stakes way to get into the realm of metaphysical injustice at an early age. Hey kids! Let's learn about disappointment! doesn't quite have the same ring to it as Hey! Let's play Candy Land!
You spin a spinner, which moves you forward a random number of spaces. Sometimes you get lucky and get to move forward even more spaces. Sometimes you get unlucky and have to move back a number of spaces. Repeat until someone wins.
The only thing you have any semblance of control over is the spinner. And you don't even control that. If you try and flick it the barest amount to get it to move a mere centimeter onto a "good" number people will say that doesn't count and make you flick the little plastic pointer as hard as you can. It's random. It's like spinning that big wheel on The Price is Right, only with even less thought involved. You have no say in what happens, you just have to be present at the appointed time to spin the spinner; to try and get lucky.
The one good thing is that it's easy to beat your parents at this game. In virtually every other contest they're going to defeat you handily, but in the land of chutes and ladders the playing field is level. Hi Ho Cherry O operates on a similar principle, except you have to be able to count to ten. Forgetting how much "ten" is, is the only thing you can get wrong.
But there is an even easier game: Candy Land. The rules are very similar.
You draw a card, which moves you forward a random number of spaces. Sometimes you get lucky and get to move forward even more spaces. Sometimes you get unlucky and have to move back a number of spaces. Sometimes you have to stay where you are until you draw the "right" card. Repeat until someone wins.
The only thing you have any control over is... nothing. You draw a card when it is your turn, and drawing cards is something its hard to be "good at" beyond having fine motor skills.
Candy Land and Chutes and Ladders aren't really games as much as they are lessons about how to play games. You're teaching concepts about the basics of gameplay, like how "taking turns" works. It's the most fun way to teach a child about waiting. It's about how abstract concepts like player controlled pieces, movement randomizers, win conditions, and bonuses/penalties work. These are the building blocks for more complex games. Expecting your 3 year old to 'get' Settlers of Catan is just ridiculous.
But I think beyond this, there's a separate lesson that comes up: the lesson that this universe is one where there are lots of things out of your control, and that really wanting something doesn't mean it's going to happen. In Candy Land, there's nothing you can do that would change what card you draw because you have to take whatever card is next. Once the deck is shuffled, the game is set. You're basically sitting around waiting to see what fate has decided. Chutes and Ladders is only marginally better because the "winner" isn't pre-determined as soon as the pieces are set up; it's more like waiting around to see what happens.
The broader lesson is how to be gracious in defeat. The first time you lose, you get mad, you throw things because it's SO UNFAIR that you lost, and so you are sent to your room. It doesn't take long to learn that that attitude ain't gonna fly. In the land of candy, there's nothing you could have done to emerge victorious. Everyone has the exact same amount of say in who will win, which is no say at all. It's perfectly fair because it's entirely unfair: the winner is going to be whomever the cards say it will be. Even if you deserve it more, even if you've lost every game and your brother has won every game and you feel miserable, if the cards say he wins this game too then tough luck kid.
These games are such a low-stakes way to get into the realm of metaphysical injustice at an early age. Hey kids! Let's learn about disappointment! doesn't quite have the same ring to it as Hey! Let's play Candy Land!
Sunday, May 13, 2012
Ow everything is painful
I've got a migraine right now and it reminded me of something, which is the only reason I'm writing instead of zonking out on the couch like a normal person would. Needless to say, this will be a short entry.
I didn't realize that I was getting migraines until just before my 21st birthday. Before then, I thought that this was just what a bad headache was like, and that I was just a wimp. And that's the problem with pain. I can communicate with you about how much it hurts, maybe put it a number out of 10 scale. But that communication, even if you "get" what I'm saying, is not the same as feeling the pain.
"I feel your pain" No you don't; you envision a pain that you think is like my pain. We've got so many words available to us, but those most basic things are the ones that are hardest to talk about in a meaningful way okay that is all I am done sweet sweet excedrin make pain go bye bye.
I didn't realize that I was getting migraines until just before my 21st birthday. Before then, I thought that this was just what a bad headache was like, and that I was just a wimp. And that's the problem with pain. I can communicate with you about how much it hurts, maybe put it a number out of 10 scale. But that communication, even if you "get" what I'm saying, is not the same as feeling the pain.
"I feel your pain" No you don't; you envision a pain that you think is like my pain. We've got so many words available to us, but those most basic things are the ones that are hardest to talk about in a meaningful way okay that is all I am done sweet sweet excedrin make pain go bye bye.
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
And now, the news
According to this article from the BBC, PETA is pushing forth a case to argue that whales have a constitutional right to be free from enslavement.
To put this another way, there are apparently multiple people in the world who were told some variation of the following: please give us a lot of money, we're trying to put together an ironclad case to get whales their long-denied constitutional right of freedom.
These same people heard this notion and thought some variation of "this is the best shot we've ever had of getting whales (and hopefully then all animals) recognized as being just like people. I'm totally convinced this is not a waste of my money."
And for all of our whale readers:
beeeeeeyooooo. beeeeeyyyyyyyy. beeeerrrrmmmmmmmmm. drooooooo. drooooooobeeeeeee. beeeeeemmammammammmammamm.
To put this another way, there are apparently multiple people in the world who were told some variation of the following: please give us a lot of money, we're trying to put together an ironclad case to get whales their long-denied constitutional right of freedom.
These same people heard this notion and thought some variation of "this is the best shot we've ever had of getting whales (and hopefully then all animals) recognized as being just like people. I'm totally convinced this is not a waste of my money."
And for all of our whale readers:
beeeeeeyooooo. beeeeeyyyyyyyy. beeeerrrrmmmmmmmmm. drooooooo. drooooooobeeeeeee. beeeeeemmammammammmammamm.
Sunday, February 5, 2012
Oh Lord, won't you buy me a Mercedes-Benz
I'm a car guy. At least, I think I am. See, ever since I was able to walk I've loved cars. All kinds of cars. Supercars made of lust itself all the way down to the ignominy so perfectly embodied in late 70s toyota corollas. So I've got the fascination and focus part down, but not that last and most critical step: possession. And that's 9/10ths of the law. Am I only 1/10th of a car guy?
Yes, I own a car. But you can really only describe it as "a car". A car-shaped thing on car-like wheels that moves very carishly. Perfectly adequate in all respects. It's a 10 year old Jetta and I haven't done anything to make it go faster. It doesn't give me great joy to drive. When I'm cruising around town in it, nobody gives it a second glance, and if it were beige, I would actually be invisible.
And that bothers me. I always hear from older adults who in their teens and 20s had all sorts of cool or generally impractical cars. People buy cars like mine because of boring virtues like reliability (hah) or safety. Mine is the sort of car bought by people whose most clear common denominator is that they need a car. And I like to think of myself as having a little more identity than "consumer of goods". Why didn't I, a person who actually cared about cars, own something with a little more panache?
So I investigated. I searched the internet for cars I could find fascinating. Cars I could see myself driving. Cars that grabbed my attention. Not that I'm jaded, but it takes a lot to pique my interest in a car. It can be old, but it has to be a certain kind of old, has to be made by a certain company in certain countries... the list of acceptable cars has more exceptions, and exceptions-to-those-exceptions than law school.
And that leads me to the parking lot of a Vons at high noon. I stared in awe at the car I hoped would be mine: a 1967 Mercedes 250se in light blue. Not the fastest, nor the most badass but it is a car with a certain amount of presence. When it shows up, you take notice without it having to make a scene. It draws attention to itself in a very refined manner. At least this is how I played it out in my mind. I would appear in the car and heads would turn. Not a spectacle, but something that the adoring public was viewing because deep down, they wanted to see who was arriving in such a classy yet accessible to the masses car. The car that would make people regret not buying a car like mine.
This was of course a fantasy, and I had to deal with the all-too-literal nuts and bolts of the matter. I was obligated to investigate the car further before I decided whether I wanted to buy. For context, I bought my Jetta on accident, sight unseen. Even a cursory glance before money exchanged hands is a step up from that, but car ownership is a serious responsibility. I wanted to be sure, to know in my heart of hearts that this was the one.
My desire to thoroughly scope out the car met the problem that it's not as though I actually knew how to investigate a car. It looked like the photos from online, it had the correct number of wheels and seats, and the owner drove it here under its own power. In the back of my mind, inspection over, get on with the driving. But I circled the car slowly, checking things, poking buttons and going 'hmmm'. I cranked the windows down and back up again. I adjusted the seats a little bit. I poked a button on the dash, which might have been the sunroof. I stared at the trunk. "You know, a lot of people have checked under the carpet for rust." he said. Ooh, that's a good idea. I'll do that too. It was metal; always a good thing to have a car made out of.
From the photos, I knew it wasn't going to be a perfect car, but... boy was it not perfect. Rips in the seat bottom, a crack on the dash, a trunk full of spare parts -- a gesture which is at once thoughtful and terrifying. It's like showing up to a campground where they give you your own bear trap "just in case." It was a 45 year old car that looked like a 45 year old car.
But there was a strange attraction to it. The interior smelt of rich though sadly non-corinthian leather. I stared down the long hood, down to that famous three pointed star that seemed to be acres away, the way a king looks out from his balcony over all the lands he owns. I know now why dictators love these cars so much. It's not a large car, but you feel like you're somehow so far removed from the outside world. The accident would happen somewhere far off in the distance, and you would remain unaffected.
But I had to drive the car too. I stared down at the gear-OH MY GOD WHAT IS THAT THING? There was a P, some numbers, an R... none of this in any logical fashion. I was told it was an automatic transmission, but I had no idea that one could look like that. The owner offered to drive me around first because there was a... small trick to driving the car.
Oh dear.
The car would not idle properly, and gas had to be maintained to drive away from stoplights, stop signs... any time the car would come to a complete halt. Coming to a complete halt will happen literally hundreds of times on any of LA's numerous freeways, so this was the reddest of red flags. But maybe it wasn't as bad as I'd imagined. If I could ride a unicycle, I was certain I could also learn this little trick.
The journey started with a magnificent, Wagnerian BRUMMMM. This was a lump of 1960s Teutonic iron, and it was not ashamed to sing loudly. Wind in my hair, being ferried around in the sort of car I wanted to be seen in, I was having the time of my life. The conversation turned to some of the issues with the car, the transmission's recent redo firing off another warning light in my head. The more we talked, the more I saw that dream slip away. Parts bills, the high cost of gas, and safety are all things that I should think about, albeit begrudgingly.
"would you like to try driving it?"
Would I ever. This was the moment I'd been waiting for. Maybe the ride would be as effortless as I'd hoped, and that driving the car, even with its little quirk would win me over. Maybe deep down this was a driver's car, the joy to drive that I'd imagined existed in the world.I slipped behind the wheel, and slammed the door shut. Dammit, if this was going to be my car, I was going to enjoy it.
The steering wheel was a thin hard rim, and as I turned it, I felt... nothing. It had as much connection to the road as the steering wheel on a cozy coupe. There was what I would call a dangerous amount of play in the wheel. The gas was very sensitive, and a minute twitch of the foot would send the engine racing. Thankfully, I did all this experimenting with the car safely in park. I tried to keep the revs up, the gauges difficult to read and therefore functionally useless. I looked behind me, checking for cars. The mirror was the size of a canary and had a reddish splotch that tinted the teensy sliver of the world behind me. Come on, Nick. Drive the damn thing. Get out there and live the experience you've always wanted to.
Try as I might to muster up the courage and be that classy rogue I somehow fancied myself, I could not drive the car. I could not even bring myself to venture out into the essentially empty road. That was the final nail in the coffin, my dream of owning such a car now legally deceased and buried under a shady tree somewhere.
It did not need to be said that I did not want to go through with the purchase. I said it anyways, I needed to say something to validate that this was, at least to someone out there a desirable vehicle. Not for me. The harsh reality was sitting before me in the parking lot. This was not the car I had hoped for.
I can take some comfort in knowing that owning this car wasn't going to be another "what if". I had thought sweet dreams of parking it proudly; of a photo of me on the hood of the car, aviator shades on, looking like someone far cooler than me; of getting nods of appreciation from men driving mercedes of a similar vintage. These were the pleasant, but impossible dreams, and not the painful dreams that would remain as such because of my own failing to follow through on things I had felt strongly about.
But as he drove away, an elegant body mated to the V6 burble - a figure as open and shameless as lady godiva compared to the din of the lesser cars, I couldn't help thinking "You know... that could've been me"
Yes, I own a car. But you can really only describe it as "a car". A car-shaped thing on car-like wheels that moves very carishly. Perfectly adequate in all respects. It's a 10 year old Jetta and I haven't done anything to make it go faster. It doesn't give me great joy to drive. When I'm cruising around town in it, nobody gives it a second glance, and if it were beige, I would actually be invisible.
And that bothers me. I always hear from older adults who in their teens and 20s had all sorts of cool or generally impractical cars. People buy cars like mine because of boring virtues like reliability (hah) or safety. Mine is the sort of car bought by people whose most clear common denominator is that they need a car. And I like to think of myself as having a little more identity than "consumer of goods". Why didn't I, a person who actually cared about cars, own something with a little more panache?
So I investigated. I searched the internet for cars I could find fascinating. Cars I could see myself driving. Cars that grabbed my attention. Not that I'm jaded, but it takes a lot to pique my interest in a car. It can be old, but it has to be a certain kind of old, has to be made by a certain company in certain countries... the list of acceptable cars has more exceptions, and exceptions-to-those-exceptions than law school.
And that leads me to the parking lot of a Vons at high noon. I stared in awe at the car I hoped would be mine: a 1967 Mercedes 250se in light blue. Not the fastest, nor the most badass but it is a car with a certain amount of presence. When it shows up, you take notice without it having to make a scene. It draws attention to itself in a very refined manner. At least this is how I played it out in my mind. I would appear in the car and heads would turn. Not a spectacle, but something that the adoring public was viewing because deep down, they wanted to see who was arriving in such a classy yet accessible to the masses car. The car that would make people regret not buying a car like mine.
This was of course a fantasy, and I had to deal with the all-too-literal nuts and bolts of the matter. I was obligated to investigate the car further before I decided whether I wanted to buy. For context, I bought my Jetta on accident, sight unseen. Even a cursory glance before money exchanged hands is a step up from that, but car ownership is a serious responsibility. I wanted to be sure, to know in my heart of hearts that this was the one.
My desire to thoroughly scope out the car met the problem that it's not as though I actually knew how to investigate a car. It looked like the photos from online, it had the correct number of wheels and seats, and the owner drove it here under its own power. In the back of my mind, inspection over, get on with the driving. But I circled the car slowly, checking things, poking buttons and going 'hmmm'. I cranked the windows down and back up again. I adjusted the seats a little bit. I poked a button on the dash, which might have been the sunroof. I stared at the trunk. "You know, a lot of people have checked under the carpet for rust." he said. Ooh, that's a good idea. I'll do that too. It was metal; always a good thing to have a car made out of.
From the photos, I knew it wasn't going to be a perfect car, but... boy was it not perfect. Rips in the seat bottom, a crack on the dash, a trunk full of spare parts -- a gesture which is at once thoughtful and terrifying. It's like showing up to a campground where they give you your own bear trap "just in case." It was a 45 year old car that looked like a 45 year old car.
But there was a strange attraction to it. The interior smelt of rich though sadly non-corinthian leather. I stared down the long hood, down to that famous three pointed star that seemed to be acres away, the way a king looks out from his balcony over all the lands he owns. I know now why dictators love these cars so much. It's not a large car, but you feel like you're somehow so far removed from the outside world. The accident would happen somewhere far off in the distance, and you would remain unaffected.
But I had to drive the car too. I stared down at the gear-OH MY GOD WHAT IS THAT THING? There was a P, some numbers, an R... none of this in any logical fashion. I was told it was an automatic transmission, but I had no idea that one could look like that. The owner offered to drive me around first because there was a... small trick to driving the car.
Oh dear.
The car would not idle properly, and gas had to be maintained to drive away from stoplights, stop signs... any time the car would come to a complete halt. Coming to a complete halt will happen literally hundreds of times on any of LA's numerous freeways, so this was the reddest of red flags. But maybe it wasn't as bad as I'd imagined. If I could ride a unicycle, I was certain I could also learn this little trick.
The journey started with a magnificent, Wagnerian BRUMMMM. This was a lump of 1960s Teutonic iron, and it was not ashamed to sing loudly. Wind in my hair, being ferried around in the sort of car I wanted to be seen in, I was having the time of my life. The conversation turned to some of the issues with the car, the transmission's recent redo firing off another warning light in my head. The more we talked, the more I saw that dream slip away. Parts bills, the high cost of gas, and safety are all things that I should think about, albeit begrudgingly.
"would you like to try driving it?"
Would I ever. This was the moment I'd been waiting for. Maybe the ride would be as effortless as I'd hoped, and that driving the car, even with its little quirk would win me over. Maybe deep down this was a driver's car, the joy to drive that I'd imagined existed in the world.I slipped behind the wheel, and slammed the door shut. Dammit, if this was going to be my car, I was going to enjoy it.
The steering wheel was a thin hard rim, and as I turned it, I felt... nothing. It had as much connection to the road as the steering wheel on a cozy coupe. There was what I would call a dangerous amount of play in the wheel. The gas was very sensitive, and a minute twitch of the foot would send the engine racing. Thankfully, I did all this experimenting with the car safely in park. I tried to keep the revs up, the gauges difficult to read and therefore functionally useless. I looked behind me, checking for cars. The mirror was the size of a canary and had a reddish splotch that tinted the teensy sliver of the world behind me. Come on, Nick. Drive the damn thing. Get out there and live the experience you've always wanted to.
Try as I might to muster up the courage and be that classy rogue I somehow fancied myself, I could not drive the car. I could not even bring myself to venture out into the essentially empty road. That was the final nail in the coffin, my dream of owning such a car now legally deceased and buried under a shady tree somewhere.
It did not need to be said that I did not want to go through with the purchase. I said it anyways, I needed to say something to validate that this was, at least to someone out there a desirable vehicle. Not for me. The harsh reality was sitting before me in the parking lot. This was not the car I had hoped for.
I can take some comfort in knowing that owning this car wasn't going to be another "what if". I had thought sweet dreams of parking it proudly; of a photo of me on the hood of the car, aviator shades on, looking like someone far cooler than me; of getting nods of appreciation from men driving mercedes of a similar vintage. These were the pleasant, but impossible dreams, and not the painful dreams that would remain as such because of my own failing to follow through on things I had felt strongly about.
But as he drove away, an elegant body mated to the V6 burble - a figure as open and shameless as lady godiva compared to the din of the lesser cars, I couldn't help thinking "You know... that could've been me"
Friday, February 3, 2012
Allegedly Snoop Dogg's favorite drink
So my friend Bill works at a recording studio, doing bitchwork for whoever shows up that day. This being Hollywood, some big names drop in from time to time, and the D-O-Double G is no exception.
After some time in the studio breakroom, or wherever Snoop was offered snacks, Bill noticed the following items had been consumed: Apple juice and Patrón. Could it be that Gin and Juice just isn't good enough? Is this a combination that actually tastes good? Well, I was determined to find out and so with my friend Bill in tow, a-shopping I did go. Whereupon I learned that Patron is expensive and I'm unwilling to part with that much money in the name of tequila science.
Cheaper stuff in hand, we decided on the following ratio: 1 shot tequila, rest of the glass apple juice. It didn't fizz or turn funny colors or give off any weird odors, so that's the scary part over. Only one thing left to do; find a suitable Snoop Dogg lyric to turn into a toast and down the hatch it goes.
It's surprising that this combination works, and it works damn well. No real overpowering tequila hit, just a cinnamon, spicy kick right near the end that adulterates the drink and makes everything juuust fine.
Of course, you can never order this drink at a bar. People will look at you like you're crazy. I don't even know if bars have apple juice. I mean, I get stares for tequila and tonic, and that's something GQ told me to order if I want to be classy. So you will always be my guilty pleasure, tequila and apple juice. You don't roll off the tongue quite as well as gin and juice, but gin tastes like you're drinking trees and I don't like that.
After some time in the studio breakroom, or wherever Snoop was offered snacks, Bill noticed the following items had been consumed: Apple juice and Patrón. Could it be that Gin and Juice just isn't good enough? Is this a combination that actually tastes good? Well, I was determined to find out and so with my friend Bill in tow, a-shopping I did go. Whereupon I learned that Patron is expensive and I'm unwilling to part with that much money in the name of tequila science.
Cheaper stuff in hand, we decided on the following ratio: 1 shot tequila, rest of the glass apple juice. It didn't fizz or turn funny colors or give off any weird odors, so that's the scary part over. Only one thing left to do; find a suitable Snoop Dogg lyric to turn into a toast and down the hatch it goes.
It's surprising that this combination works, and it works damn well. No real overpowering tequila hit, just a cinnamon, spicy kick right near the end that adulterates the drink and makes everything juuust fine.
Of course, you can never order this drink at a bar. People will look at you like you're crazy. I don't even know if bars have apple juice. I mean, I get stares for tequila and tonic, and that's something GQ told me to order if I want to be classy. So you will always be my guilty pleasure, tequila and apple juice. You don't roll off the tongue quite as well as gin and juice, but gin tastes like you're drinking trees and I don't like that.
Sunday, January 15, 2012
My rules for music piracy
When is it okay to download a song illegally?
People say that downloading illegally isn't the same as stealing. And sometimes, that's true. You're not taking a thing like a car or a baby from somebody. You're just making more copies of the same thing. That's not stealing, it's... well it's a bit like counterfeiting, but I'll let that slide because you aren't going to weaken the currency markets by downloading Ke$ha.
But here's the catch: if you're going to download a song and not pay for it, you have to offset the karma balance somehow. Maybe send a check for $0.11 to the artist, because honestly that's about all the record company would give them. Or you could go to their show and buy merch from them. That's a much better way of showing your support.
Here are my personal rules for downloading without paying.
1. Are the majority of the members of the band dead?
If they're dead, go for it. My money won't help you any if you're dead. And I don't care about your children. If they want money they can create their own damn music.
2. If not dead, is the band obscure and defunct?
This is a kind of refined version of question one. If the band existed a while back, never really took off, and legitimate copies of their work are hard to come by, then I see procuring online copies as a way of spreading the word.
In the vast sea of information that is the internet, it's easy to stumble across hundreds of thousands of bands that never gained popularity. For some, the fact that they never did gain that popularity was what prevented them from going further. And among some of those millions of songs, a few are going to be gems.
Discovery leads to exposure, exposure leads to buzz, buzz leads to people with clout spreading the word even further, and suddenly a band gets their fair due, something they would not have gotten had it not been for file-sharing.
On the internet, you can overcome the fact that your band never played in big or important venues. You can overcome the fact that your music was too far ahead of its time. You can get a fair shake and a second chance. Or third. Or whatever large number it takes until that niche finds you.
People say that downloading illegally isn't the same as stealing. And sometimes, that's true. You're not taking a thing like a car or a baby from somebody. You're just making more copies of the same thing. That's not stealing, it's... well it's a bit like counterfeiting, but I'll let that slide because you aren't going to weaken the currency markets by downloading Ke$ha.
But here's the catch: if you're going to download a song and not pay for it, you have to offset the karma balance somehow. Maybe send a check for $0.11 to the artist, because honestly that's about all the record company would give them. Or you could go to their show and buy merch from them. That's a much better way of showing your support.
Here are my personal rules for downloading without paying.
1. Are the majority of the members of the band dead?
If they're dead, go for it. My money won't help you any if you're dead. And I don't care about your children. If they want money they can create their own damn music.
2. If not dead, is the band obscure and defunct?
This is a kind of refined version of question one. If the band existed a while back, never really took off, and legitimate copies of their work are hard to come by, then I see procuring online copies as a way of spreading the word.
In the vast sea of information that is the internet, it's easy to stumble across hundreds of thousands of bands that never gained popularity. For some, the fact that they never did gain that popularity was what prevented them from going further. And among some of those millions of songs, a few are going to be gems.
Discovery leads to exposure, exposure leads to buzz, buzz leads to people with clout spreading the word even further, and suddenly a band gets their fair due, something they would not have gotten had it not been for file-sharing.
On the internet, you can overcome the fact that your band never played in big or important venues. You can overcome the fact that your music was too far ahead of its time. You can get a fair shake and a second chance. Or third. Or whatever large number it takes until that niche finds you.
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