uncommon ambience

Want some visual ambience? Well — "Buckle your seatbelt, Dorothy, 'cause Kansas is going bye-bye." And we're back in the movie world for this visual ambience. The 1999 sci fi/ neo noir classic the Matrix. BTW — has there been another actor so tormented by **** lines in movies like Joe Pantoliano? ("You're gonna' be retired soon like Michael Jordan!!" — that was Matrix right?)
Digital rain made in after effects, The digital green Matrix text melted a lot of graphic designer brains in the 90s... So if you know a Gen X designer — that person has at least attempted the Matrix text effect several times.
This is my seventh iteration of the “Matrix text” (made entirely in after effects with no weird filters or presets, ty).

Vintage vacuum drift — bright, faster-paced, optimistic, with occasional doubt (and some coffee breaks).
I was thinking of a busy morning cleaning hotel rooms. The folks — or can I say? — usually women. Always friendly, always moving about the hall with a giant cart and a few cute tchotchkes. I can count on one finger the number of times I’ve seen a gentleman cleaner. I want to be as specific as possible because these ladies (and the gentleman) rarely get the appreciation they deserve.
Do you remember those dreaded Saturday morning chores, when a parent handed you a broom and just pointed? How aggrieved did we feel about making the bed? (Had to make mine with the hospital tuck — it absolutely sucked).
And housekeeping does it everyday — everyday is Saturday chores. So tip housekeeping before checkout, folks.
I don't know what else to say. It's tough out there right now. And hopefully ambience provides a small distraction.
Also, good news! I’ve been working on an upcoming episode featuring a 90 year old baseball broadcast. The broadcast will play as if in a bar from history (it's a parking lot now). The aim is to release near Opening Day.
Until then, turn off the commercial news. Celebrate the small wins and go O's.

Overnight snow storm composite — my a.m. recording of the massive ⁠January 23–27 storm⁠ with some notes and late 70s radio blizzard coverage.
Speaking of storms of yore, do y’all remember the email storm? They’re the Mona Lisa of human/ tech pratfalls. An email storm, or replyallcalypse, is when a surge of emails is exchanged as users continually “reply all” to the original message.
Modern inboxes have safeguards to prevent email storms — which is a shame, as I'm positive humans are still willing to ensnare themselves.
I witnessed an impressive email storm in the mid-aughts while working for Newscorp. So, twenty years ago — second Bush administration — think Wii Bowling and High School Musical. I was at a Fox owned-and-operated station in Philadelphia… it was Newscorp (boo, amirite), but also one of the favorite places I’ve worked (colleagues were cool, and it was a paid TV gig in an actually awesome city, Jim's was within lunchtime walking distance). But seriously — commercial television news: don’t watch it. You don’t need it.
Look — picture the aughts, the golden age of the mobile phone. A cellphone store felt like sticking your face into the 2005 movie Robots. Different sizes, colors, shapes, personalities. They flipped, had tactile keyboards, and looked fab in a holster. My cellphone was a Nokia N-Gage QD (so sick).
I worked the morning show (4 a.m. start), graphics. So, on the Fox Email Storm morning, I wandered by Independence Hall and fragments of Benjamin Franklin’s former home. I buzzed into the lobby and was immediately intercepted by a PA.
“Do not respond to the email.”
And I was like, “What?”
“There are emails. Delete them and don’t respond.”
“Which email? What?”
“You’ll know,” she said, already rushing to the next person. “Do not respond to the email.”
The IT guy caught me getting off the elevator on the second floor. “Do not reply to the email or you will be ******* fired.” And he smiled to soften the threat, but I was sure he wasn’t kidding.
Ooph — intrusive memory. That was the same elevator where I once felt alone enough to stop fighting a fart… and then a ringed hand reached in to stop the door from shutting. In walked the traffic reporter, dressed like an adult. And I was wearing a comic book t-shirt in a cloud of my own gas. Bluh. Never assume your elevator journey will be solitary just because you got on alone.
Where was I — email storm, Fox News. So some Detroit station intern sent a very late-night email to all. Everybody got it. Brit Hume, Sheppard Smith, Hannity, Colmes, the pride of Bethlehem High School, Megyn Kelly, corporate leadership, Geraldo, me and everybody else.
Not only did some intern obtain an email address that pinged company-wide, the dude emailed that address. Praising the president and scooping on some vanilla jingoism. I was like, this is the dangerous email? You’re from Detroit, man — at least invoke Oliver Hazard Perry.
Whatever — my inbox was flooded with assenting voices — cheering it on, remixing the messaging from Detroit. I searched through the wreckage for any specialty graphic orders and then dumped the day's emails. Went to grab some coffee.
I returned to another pile with more popping in. Notification chimes, “12 new emails,” it was astounding.
The messages were transitioning now to “Unsubscribe.” I heard running in the hallways. A new larger wave of emails asked to be removed from the list. People were shouting in all caps. I started to imagine these voices were yelling at me — “TAKE ME THE **** OFF THIS LIST!” Senders that brandished titles like “Head of This” and “Department Lead” in their email signatures. 
A new wave of earlier assenters began desperately rescinding their messages by sending even more messages. One user feebly wrote [[UNSEND]].
It went on a bit longer before finally petering out — great day at work. I think I even splurged on an extra slice at Gianfranco.

We’re back in the old movie house for a vintage alt-Valentines romcom. Arrive early for the trailers — what I would play at some alt-Valentines film festival. Plus, decades-old Valentines‑flavored messaging it's going to be grand.

Look, my daughter asked if I was doing a special episode for the upcoming "holiday," and I was like, "What holiday?"

"Valentines, did you get mom something."

“I am now,” Valentine’s… aka **** Halloween. Another holiday to unleash sugar onto our loved ones and watch them climb the ceiling...

Our feature film is His Girl Friday, which stars Cary Grant as ruthless newspaper editor Walter Burns. You are already familiar with Grant's character as the “Get Out” meme.

Rosalind Russell, the pride of Waterbury, CT, plays Hildy Johnson, star journalist. And I need to pause for a second — the movie is based on the play The Front Page, which has two male leads. In His Girl Friday Russell plays that lead and walks out of production for defining the cinematic accomplished female journalist (think Margot Kidder as Lois Lane).

So if Russell is not the pride of Waterbury, CT, she should be.

And for heaven’s sake, don’t try to figure out what the deal is with the giant cross marking the eastern side of the Brass City skyline (do you imagine a knee-high ghost town might creep you out)?

From Waterbury, let’s take I‑84 west and then north on the Thruway (or the Taconic Parkway if you’re in the mood for beauty and can drive 55) to Albany, the pride of New York. Heh — I’m still a 518-er by heart. Long live Fish Fry spots and Altamont Fair.

Any movie where Albany, NY, figures prominently is my kind of movie. In His Girl Friday, Albany winds up being the destination all along. Walter Burns’ motivations in the movie are to rescue Hildy Johnson from a languished life in Albany, NY. And after winning Hildy back, Walter immediately takes her to Albany for their honeymoon. The film is fast-paced and even breaks the fourth wall a few times. Good stuff — two Ironweeds up.

In the spirit of tough ladies (but unfortunately not Albany-centric), we have our first trailer for Some Kind of Wonderful: “…this is 1987. Did you know that a girl can be whatever she wants to be?” Mary Stuart Masterson’s character asks, as she deals with some doofus named Ray. Gawd, I had such a crush on that character growing up — Stoltz, you idiot.

And as mentioned at the top, a slew of other trailers I would consider alt-love stuff (in one case, explicitly because of the soundtrack). And, of course, I’m alt-signaling. I loathe Valentine’s Day. Besides selling chocolate and flowers, the holiday seems designed to exasperate loneliness and force wide one’s wallet.

I don’t know about y’all, but I’m still wrestling with the debt of the trinity of expensive American holidays just last year. Did that giant turkey dinner or flat screen under a gayly lit fake tree not say, "I love you?"

PS: Hamilton needs more Albany — Alexander married in with the Schuylers. The Burr “Dangerous Man” letter that boiled over the Burr feud was printed in the Albany Register — a ****** Van Rensselaer is mentioned in that letter. You couldn't get more Albany without a beaver and Henry Hudson.

Bleh — Albany should steal the logo of Alexander Hamilton doing the “Oh, oh, oh, what a feeling” Toyota jump off the top of the Hamilton star. Put it on the welcome to Albany sign with: "actually we killed Alexander Hamilton."

Bomb cyclone over North Carolina… Ambience. This week’s episode covers the major coastal storm as heard from the coastal plains Carolina (i.e., my twin’s house). Her recording (thank you!) captured wind, snow, and birds sheltering nearby. I also filled out the recording with added notes and sounds (I’m really into ambience with non-music motifs).
And as everyone who has followed this podcast should know, I am a fan of fans. (We’re starting with fans?) One distant summer night in Myrtle Beach, I sat bolt upright fast enough to catch the sound of an explosion in its negative phase. Light-headed and feeling each beat of my heart pulsating through my eyes and ears, my brain trying to re-engage consciousness.  
I looked around in the dark. Ghostly echoes of thunder washed over me. The wind picked up and lashed raindrops into the window. A flash of light ignited the room, and I was staring into the pale visage of a little girl’s face, wide-eyed.
I screamed.
This was the thunderstorm that ruined me for thunderstorms. I experienced the eye of Hurricane Hugo (Kershaw County, not Charleston), and my memories aren’t as vivid of that hurricane as they are of that brief, terrifying Myrtle storm. I can remember everything from the moment I was ripped from my dreams to my father plugging in a large box fan next to my bed.
After recovering from the face-flashing jumpscare, it was my twin staring at me—we summoned the courage to wander down the hall of the efficiency motel room to where my parents slept. We ripped them out of their sleep and beckoned them to look out the windows. 
The sheer unsettlement of the night sky—Do something.
A blinding flash enveloped us in white. And just before the collection of sounds that make up thunder hit my ear, I swear I heard a sizzle rip by first. Sparks fell across the street from a power line. I backed away from the windows, reeling—the room’s oven flashed and sparked with small tendrils of electricity.
I shouted, “The oven’s on fire,” because I had no idea how to describe what I was seeing.
“The oven is not on fire,” my mother said, furious. And I can understand why; if she were writing this podcast description about the experience, it would be: waking to children screaming, a massive white light filling the room, a shattering thunderclap, and her son shouting “fire!”
“Sometimes lightning can sneak in through the wires,” my father explained after sorting out what I had seen. And I was like, “Wait—it can get inside?!” urgently gesticulating toward the windows and the flashing forks of electric death.
This is why I sleep with noise at night—preferably rushing wind, whether electric or naturally created. To drown out the possibility of hearing thunder.
Essentially, all of what I have written so far can be boiled down to my trying to conjure a title for this week’s episode. I wanted to offer howling winds as anxiety relief. And my beloved wife interjected that I should offer calm winds for anxiety, as people might not feel calmed by rushing wind. And I was like, “CALM WINDS DON’T CALM ME!”
The argument eventually ended with accusations that I never do the dishes. Happy Valentine’s Day! (Oh no wait that’s next week)