Archive for the ‘Meta’ category

Subzero

15 Mar 2014

Reader A (shivering): Qué frío tengo yo. Ay, qué frío.

Reader B: What? Is that Spanish?

Reader A: …

Reader B: Why are you speaking Spanish?

Reader A: I don’t know. It just seemed like a good idea. It’s kind of boring out here now that Hornblower isn’t around anymore.

Reader B: Yeah, I know what you mean. I’m kind of bitter about the whole thing. I mean, he just abandoned us.

Reader A: I guess he must have his reasons, though, I figure. I mean, I guess he must.

Reader B: Do you think so, though? It seems like he doesn’t really care anymore, like it’s not worth the effort for him. Which is bullshit, by the way, bec–

Hornblower: BULLSHIT, READER B?

Readers A & B (Reader B just slightly behind, like half a beat. Classic dumbass Reader B move.): Hornblower!

Hornblower: It’s true I have returned from my long silence, and shoulder now the mantle once again. Too long have readers suffered such misfortune as rightly ought be borne by baser men.

Reader A: Well, I’m awfully glad you’re ba–

Hornblower:

They splash’d and sputter’d daily at their toil, in hopes of tasting some slight succor soon, yet every evening they return’d still sickly, and clicked and double-clicked until the moon …

Reader B (hushed, to Reader A): What’s going on here? What’s he talking about?

Reader A: Shh, I think he’s talking about his absence. Listen.

Hornblower: … rose slow but certain, witness to the hope that loyal readers still maintained, despite the ever-growing doubt, and fear, and dread. They clicked and double-clicked until the light.

Where once new posts appeared as sure as spring
returns lost luster to long-barren lands;
where years ago great mirth and subtle wit
elevated tales of dope new bands.

Reader B: Is that iambic pentameter? It sounds like iambic pentameter.

Reader A: Well that last line was only nine syllables, but yeah I think for the —

Hornblower:

Now page views dropped, and readers fell to sadness,
for sadness is a natural response
when what was once a fortress falls to ruin —
and blankness sits where thrived exquisite taunts.

Reader A: What’s next for Tin Speaker, Hornblower? What do you have left up the old sleeves in the old sleeve pockets?

Hornblower: Expect a lot of poop jokes and ostrich GIFs.

Reader A: Poop … and ostriches?

Hornblower: My SEO guy says that’s the only way to make this thing profitable. Apparently thousand-word concert reviews with no accompanying pictures don’t drive traffic the way they used to do.

Reader B: Did they ever, though, really?

Hornblower: GODDAMNIT, READER B! EVERY GODDAMN TIME I TRY TO BE NICE TO YOU, YOU SHIT ALL OVER ME!

Reader A: Seriously, Reader B. Get a grip on your life and your dignity.

Hornblower: You’re like a weirder John Travolta, minus the money and the Breitling watch. And minus Saturday Night Fever and Pulp Fiction, cos I liked those.

Reader A: Phenomenon was pretty good, too!

Hornblower: Are you fucking kidding me, Reader A.

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Time to party, internet.

26 Oct 2010

You and me

15 Dec 2009

Let’s discuss this, now. You’ve been hurting these past months. While I’ve been gallivanting about Europe and Africa, spending and making money, breaking and mending hearts, purchasing and consuming foodstuffs, you’ve been at home, shivering under a blanket you stole from Southwest Airlines the one time you ever flew in an airplane. The blanket doesn’t even cover your feet, so you have to wear your socks to bed — your holey, ratty socks. And by “to bed” I mean “as you lie curled up on the floor like a mangled Slinky” (even though you’re curled up, the blanket still doesn’t cover your feet — that’s awful).

I was surprised to see that my hits have actually gone up, but then I realized the pattern — your anxiety has grown to the point where you now do nothing but refresh Tinspeaker.com all day, mindless, automatic, subhuman. You’ve been reduced to the status of automaton, and for that I am sorry. Do know that my advertising revenue has increased dramatically, and for that I am grateful (this is actually false; I don’t even know how to put up Google ads on the site).

So what now? Does this post signal the return of the king? We’ll see. In the meantime, as always, the back catalogue remains open for business. Get at it.

Bet you though that link was going to be Lord of the Rings, didn’t you? Idiot.

A Yellow Friend

23 Sep 2009

What up, chumps. There’s no question mark because that’s not a question, it’s a greeting. As if I would care to know anything about your miserable lives. Listen. I’m thinking of turning Tin Speaker into a cooking blog, maybe calling it Tin Whisk or Tin Springform Pan or Tin Fondue Pot or something. Ever since I’ve been in Madrid, also known as The City That Indie Music Forgot, I’ve been spending all my time reading foodnetwork.com and cooking, as opposed to reading Brooklyn Vegan and going to concerts. While this is perhaps a more practical use of my time (though slightly less sociable (very slightly less)), it is not without its unfortunate consequences. For instance, although I have finally learned how to cook rice like a motherfucker, I have made no friends (and in fact, several enemies — several powerful enough that I have feared for my life and the safety of my family) in the past few weeks. Also, my Spanish abilities have actually declined, with the notable exception of my spice-related vocabulary (tomillo, estragón, albahaca, &c). There is also the not-insignificant matter of the seven kilograms (metric strong! (no, not you, Emily Haines. Your band’s overrated, and you’re not even that hot.) I have gained in two weeks. This has been a factor in the friend-making department, as I have taken to wearing enormous tee shirts to hide my new girth.

Ha, ha! Had you fooled. The seven kilograms are actually entirely muscle. I’ve been training for my return to the concert-going sphere. The first thing I’m going to do when I land in New York is go to the Market Hotel and sock an N.Y.U. freshman right in the forehead. Whatup, class of 2013! Getting punched in the forehead in front of Todd P and all your new, wack friends is what! Holla! Ouch! Hurt my hand! Shouldn’t have gone for the forehead! Awfully hard, the forehead! Hope I can get someone to help me carry my luggage! No! No one wants to help the violent dude with eighty pounds of bags! Uh oh! Going to have to rely on my wits! And excessive use of the exclamation mark! Call my friends! All of them have company tonight! Cousins from out of town! What a coincidence! $100 cab ride to Grand Central! Overdrew my ATM card! Looks like I’m working Christmas this year! Again!

Also, I was just kidding about not having any friends. I’m great friends with the lady who works at the pastelería near my crib. I say hola to her four times a day — once every time I come in and buy a milhojas.

To touch upon another subject, has anyone heard the new Flaming Lips album? It’s outrageous.

What girls say to each other about me when I eat alone in the cafeteria of my university

17 Sep 2009

This one is just what the title says. Actual transcript, edited for length and clarity by Hornblower.

Girl 1: Who is that guy over their eating by himself? Look at him brood. He’s probably really intellectual.

Girl 2: I don’t know who he is, but I think I want to sleep with him.

Girl 1: Is he doing the crossword puzzle? I heard Tuesday’s crossword is really hard. He doesn’t even look like he’s having any trouble.

Girl 2: I heard guys who do crossword puzzles have big wieners.

Girl 1: I heard that, too. It’s like the same gene or something.

Girl 2: Look at all those plates around him; he must eat a lot. It looks like he got one of everything. That’s really impressive.

Girl 1: He must be so good at eating.

Girl 2: I think I want to sleep with him.

Girl 1: Look, he’s wearing a tie.

Girl 2: Wow, he probably has a bunch of money. He probably does really cool expensive things all the time.

Girl 1: I’ve never seen him before at any parties around campus. He must be too busy going to exclusive rooftop parties with the Knicks and also with models.

Girl 2: Girl models.

Girl 1: Uh, yeah.

Girl 2: …

Girl 1: I wonder if he’s single.

Girl 2: I don’t care. I will murder to be with him.

Girl 1: I think that’s a little extreme.

Girl 2: No. I will murder you.

Girl 1: I don’t think that would help you in any way.

Girl 2: You quiet down, Girl 1. You just quiet your damn self down.

Girl 1: …

Girl 2: …

Girl 1: Look, he’s getting up. I think he finished the crossword puzzle. Wow, look at his shirt. He spilled sauce all over it.

Girl 2: He probably did it on purpose. As part of an art project.

Girl 1: Yeah, maybe. He looks really arty. Look how tight his pants are.

Girl 2: Awfully tight.

Girl 1: Awfully tight.

Girl 2: He’s getting more food? Uhhh…

Girl 1: Hmm.

Girl 2: Look how long his hair is. Some people would say that he looks like a greasy, dirty cur, but I think it just makes him look European.

Girl 1: He looks like a European footballer. He looks like he plays for the Spanish national team and makes a hundred million Euro a year.

Girl 2: …

Girl 1: You know what, I bet he only eats once a day, that’s why he’s eating so much.

Girl 2: Wow. That’s pretty hip. I think I’ll start doing that.

Girl 1: I bet you won’t, ‘cause you’re fat as hell.

Girl 2: I have told you before that I am prepared to murder you.

Girl 1: Listen, Girl 2. I will fight you in the streets for the right to this man’s heart. I will fight you in the streets, and I will fight you in the gutter.

Girl 2: Let us adjourn, then, to a place of true reckoning, wherein we may this dispute settle. And all our yesterdays have only wrought what we have dreamt to be so, until now the end time of our suffering and our dreams. As it must be, it shall. As created, so destroyed; as forgotten, so recalled.

Girl 1: Damn you, mystery man, man of deepest mystery. The fire of your brooding, solitary mystery touches souls all ‘round you, and there is naught to be done for succor.

Yeah, it’s been a while. What are you going to do, complain like a little tiny four-year-old?

11 Sep 2009

You and your puppy-dog eyes have no effect on me. I empathize not with your pleas and insistent cries. Be grateful for what you have had at your disposal these past few weeks: a back catalogue of exceptional beauty and wit. These are posts to savor, posts to revisit. If you have not done, you have deprived yourself of a priceless treasure: the treasure of rediscovering greatness. Remedy yourself, reader. Return to these past months, return and relive once more the glories of the past. For there is naught else to do when barren times take hold and helplessness looms like a terrible pronouncement of dread. Arise now, and know the succor of the archive. The healing power and the cleansing wash. We wake and breathe and eat and pray, and this our lowly present will yet be a tired past.

Rejoice now in your lowly present, for sustenance is night. Tin Speaker is back.

Evaluate yourself

07 Aug 2009

There comes a time in every Hornblower’s life when he (there are no female Hornblowers) must examine his life, and his reasons for Web logging. I do believe that my purpose with this Web log is to convince my self that I’m really cool, while at the same time (and this is crucial) making people think to themselves, “Hey, this Hornblower guy is actually really not cool. All he does is write this damn inconsequential Web log. Doesn’t he have a job, or friends — besides the made-up readers of his Web log, anyway? And he usually ends up killing those guys, anyway. And the way he talks to them — it’s like he doesn’t know what human interactions are supposed to be like. It’s pretty disturbing. If I met this man, I would flee for the highlands. I hope he finds help, or the Lord, or help in the Lord. We are all in danger.”