The Legend of Zelda Breath of the Wild Part 18 Live Stream! | Nintendo S...

New Blog Post!

Head to my official website using the link to check it out!
http://kevinscrimauniverse.com/first-official-blog-post-on-this-website/

I haven’t posted any blogs in a while, but I will be using my website to post my blogs now.

Response to David Byrne's, of the Talking Heads, Argument Against Music-Streaming Services

Hey guys! Decided to post a response argument to a prompt in my Music Culture & Technology class for your enjoyment! :)

1.               Read this discussion of music streaming from David Byrne, formerly of the Talking Heads: http://www.theguardian.com/music/2013/oct/11/david-byrne-internet-content-world. Framing your argument around the points raised in the Hagen and Swanson articles, do you think Byrne has a plausible argument and legitimate gripe? Show your knowledge of the Hagen and Swanson articles in answering this question.

Indeed, Byrne has a plausible argument about music-streaming services not serving the needs of the artists. However, before I continue, I would tell all of them, if they do not like that they are not earning much from a music-streaming service like Spotify, then they all should go and find a real job! Artists do not make the rules; however, they do have to overcome them. Yes, it is very upsetting to read that someone’s song was played one million times on Pandora and the artist only made $16.89. That is awful. Byrne has a legitimate gripe—I think the record labels should give a sum of the money they earn from music-streaming services to the artists, or the music-streaming services themselves should give the artist a better payout; even a combination of the two would work. Byrne concedes: “I can understand how having a place where people can listen to your work when they are told or read about it is helpful, but surely a lot of places already do that?” Indeed, a lot of other places do that, like Amazon and YouTube.

    I bring a unique perspective to this issue since I am a self-published author and a YouTuber. I am intrinsically motivated and do what I do because I have a passion for writing and video-making. Each month, I probably make enough money from Amazon to buy myself a few cheap meals (an estimated average of $10, if that). Do I feel that my novel priced at $2.99 (of which Amazon takes a portion of that cut) is justified? No—but since I am at the level I am at, in terms of platform, I have to take what I can get. As a growing YouTuber, I have 261 subscribers on one channel and 187 on another, with over 130,000 views. With the monetized videos, I probably earned over $12 over a five-month period. See? I totally understand where the music artists are coming from. I had to demonetize my videos and focus on growing my subscriber-base before choosing to monetize in the future. I also run free-promotion periods for my books on Amazon. In short, I am giving away all of this for free, in exchange of the hope that I can build my platform. Like being an intern, I am giving away free labor, and sites like Amazon, YouTube, and their advertisers are the ones who are making the true profit off of us artists; but without them, we don’t exist (but keep in mind, without us, they don’t exist, either). It seems that we have reached deadlock. Until I can grow my platform, I will not make money. In the end, though, I still have my passions and the ability to share my creations with the world. I continue to do this while working part-time and being a student full-time, and in the future, I will do it while working full-time. Artists need to use the system to win. Our complaints—like excuses—will get us nowhere.

   When I read Byrne’s article, all I could hear was “ME! ME! ME!” Byrne was wrong when he titled the article, “The internet will suck all creative content out of the world.” He should have titled it, “The internet is going to make all creative content (nearly) free for everyone!” For instance, Byrne admits: “Writers, for example, can't rely on making money from live performances – what are they supposed to do? Write ad copy?” Essentially, writers will have to write a ton! They will have to self-publish book-after-book without stopping, and using sites like YouTube to build their followers. Right now, I am listening to a YouTuber who remixes video game music, and yes, he makes nothing and does it for free, and he’s amazing at it.

   But Byrne’s tone makes it seem as if we artists are above other kinds of work. I understand we spend a ton of time perfecting our craft, and that we give people nearly free-content, but we have to do other labor to do what we love. Nevertheless, I am all for artists receiving better support in any way, especially emotionally, socially, and financially.

   Hagen writes that when it comes to music-streaming services that the owner becomes the renter. With sites like Pandora and Spotify, we are renting the music by listening to ads or agreeing to pay a monthly-fee. Despite consumers choosing either of these methods, artists still do not make enough, which Swanson highlights that artists agree music-streaming services are good for discovering but not for getting paid. At one point, Swanson cites a musician who uses it for discovery, and doesn’t focus on the service as a monetization tool: “[Music-streaming is a] crucial value add to the music discovery process simply because the catalog is so vast and access is so unrestricted” (213). The same could be said for sites like Amazon and YouTube. Swanson also cites Silverman who admits: “97 percent of the world never buys music—not even Adele.” Furthermore, Swanson also understands that musicians’ financial problems went further back than just from today’s music-streaming services: “Problems in making a living as an artist stem much further back than streaming. Traditional income models yield slim returns, and in a depressed digital economy, people are buying less” (212). If the average-person does not purchase music, and not even the artists—which is kind of hypocritical (even we writers buy other author’s books to become better writers)—then at least music-streaming services help supplement an artist’s income. As noted, Swanson cites thirteen other revenue streams that artists use to make money. If artists target those revenue-streams, they should support themselves better financially.

   Truly, Byrne’s article makes it seem that artists rely on only one revenue-stream (besides playing live or selling t-shirts), when that is not the case at all. Swanson does recommend, however, that music-streaming services like Spotify should become more artist-focused and also give artists a higher-royalty payout. Similarly, Hagen cites that subscription-models are hurting music sales: “[We are living in] a consumption era where access is valued over ownership (Mulligan). Subscription models are cannibalizing sales of music: in Norway music downloads fell by 21% and physical sales fell by 29% from 2012 to 2013 (Dredge)” (4). It seems that consumers do not care about owning the music; instead, they favor having more control and would rather consume the music as they please by “renting” it. Consumers have more power than ever by being able to like or dislike a song, add it to the playlist, etc., which, in a way, makes it “their music.” For example, Spotify has a tab titled, “Your Music,” which is a list of organized songs that the listener favorited so he can listen to it whenever he wants. In other words, listeners are favoring a dynamic approach to their music, one in which they can order their music however they want through likes, favorites, follows, skips, etc. Users also like these music-streaming services because of their “technology’s immediacy and fluidity.” (19) In short, Swanson’s and Hagen’s articles indirectly, if not directly, argue that the consumer has the power when it comes to consuming music. Artists, on the other hand, are at the mercy of their music-streaming providers and consumers. Like Swanson noted, musicians’ financial problems go way back and that it’s not just caused by music-streaming services. Swanson admits: “[I]f I would have streamed their tunes rather than purchase them, the artists would have already yielded substantially more income… digital music sales will decline. But by the time sales are declining, streaming royalties should become enough of a substantial revenue source to make up for the difference” (221). In short, Swanson’s argument makes it appear that artists like Byrne will eventually earn enough streaming royalties to make up the difference of declining music sales.

   Still, perhaps Byrne is correct (like Swanson argued) that artists should be supported in a better way. He wrote that music saved his life. I would argue that writing and video-making has saved my life, along with music as well. Artists do what they do because they love their craft—and also because they do not want to work a crappy job, since they’d rather make music. In a sense, we are saying, “Give us more money so we can do what we love, instead of us having to work one of those crappy jobs!” But of course, we are also saying, "Let me make people's lives better with my artistry--be it music, writing, videography, whatever--because that's what I was born here to do!" I understand they probably did their share of crappy jobs, too, while trying to make their passion a full-time job. But until it becomes a full-time job, then they might have to work a crappy job to support what they want to do, and until the music-streaming services will be fairer in their favor. 

Modern Vision Quest: Past, Present, and Future : Continued, Part 2.

Connor and Aiyanna sat on a rolled out blue and green, yellow striped fabric. Connor folded his legs indian-style to follow Aiyanna’s lead.

    Aiyanna placed her folded hands on her lap as she closed her eyes. As the wind flowed against her bangs and swayed her braids, Connor stared at her. She looked so beautiful, at peace, calm, relaxed.

   Meditating, right, Connor thought. He folded his hands on his legs and, after admiring her beauty for a while, closed his own eyes.

   Connor had had meditated a few times in his life, when he felt his life was off-balance and needed time to center himself to get back in focus on who he really was. It stopped the world. Nothing could ruin the moment. It was all his. The constant nagging of technology, the notifications of his turned off cell phone could not stop it. He no longer felt the compulsive need to browse the internet, watch t.v., or play video games: All he needed was himself. The constant attempts of life and everything in it clamoring for his attention—advertisements trying to convince him to buy their products; news stories informing him about every single bit of important information for that day; social media feeds, of people writing about their lives and companies and magazines trying to get his attention for their products and articles so he will share, like, and comment as if his one voice actually mattered and as if everyone actually cared about what he’d comment, all of it scrolling through his brightly lit screen; emails filling up his inbox desperately wanting read; his emotions signaling him how alone he is; his needing to go to the gym to get muscular so the women will become more attracted to him by loving his bod; his boss wanting him to take an extra shift because someone called off when he never called off; his YouTube fans begging for more videos or that one who complains how he messed his video up; his school homework and tests marking his wrongness eternally onto paper, letting him know how wrong he was and how much more right he could have been; his father telling him he was never good enough; his brother begging him to play with him; the rushing of traffic and cars hostilely cutting him off in a hurry; his ambitions burning at him to become a better and more famous YouTuber, never having enough likes, comments, views, or subscribers, and feeling the need to record parts of his life so life wouldn’t forget about him when he was dead like it did so many of the other billions of animals and humans; his feeling the intense, imperative need of improving his overall life, like climbing up the social ladder, acquiring more money so he could buy nicer things, earning that college degree certifying that he passed all of the necessary but arbitrary requirements, living up to the impossibly lofty but contradictory expectations of women; his knowing that he will never, ever be good enough for life and everything in it—all of it fell away and disappeared.

   Poof.

   Like magic.

   Best magic trick ever, he thought. Thank god, it feels nice. He felt his body relax instantly, his trapezius muscles and upperback loosening. Connor breathed in deeply, for one, two, three, four, five, six seconds, and then breathed out deeply, for one, two, three, four, five, six seconds—just as how he was taught by a mediating app on his smartphone. And he smiled. He didn’t mean to. But he did.

   Connor felt the weight of his body, scanning it from head to toe, becoming aware of it, becoming aware of how he felt, becoming aware of his breathing, becoming aware of his thoughts, becoming aware that he was in control of everything, becoming his own God.

   Man, he forgot how much he missed meditating. He liked to think that he was rewiring the brain the way he wanted, instead of life and everything in it taking control of his brain, as if he were an animal—specifically, a monkey—in a science experiment, scientists testing how they could get him to act a certain way, or seeing how he’d act under particular situations, or how they could achieve the desired outcome with the procedures they put him through.

    I’m no fucking monkey, he thought to himself. I’m an intelligent human-fucking being.

   Man, that really hit a nerve.

   Crap, Connor thought, unaware that his thoughts were already pulling at him. He brought himself back and cleared his mind. And he enjoyed silence.

   Then if a thought came, he let the mind think if it wanted to think. He thought if Aiyanna liked him or not. What a stupid thought, he thought to himself. Was he really going to let an intelligent human being like himself succumb to these stupid, petty human desires? he wondered. But he is human after all. There’s nothing he can do if he likes a girl or not. Because he is a human, he knew that emotions were his brain’s way of trying to tell him something. But because his brain felt it, because it triggered that emotion, does it mean it’s right? Would it be wrong to override it? Can he even override it? Emotions ruined his thinking. He hated that. But he knew they had a role in the intellect too.

   Stop, he thought, I’m thinking too much. He pulled his thoughts back once again, clearing his mind.

   And then he thought again, about going through life, it being like prey versus predator. And life having no rules—only power. Power represented the correct rule. Which meant he had little power, because rules pulled him this way and that each day.

   Grr, Connor thought in frustration, pulling himself back to peace and focusing on silence. His mind really liked to think.

   He took a frustrated breath and opened his eyes, and saw Aiyanna’s face composed, representing complete peace and beauty. It put him in a trance, and calmed him down. He stared at her a while longer. Gosh, he thought, he could stare at her all day. He smiled, and closed his eyes.

   I wonder what she’s been thinking the whole time, he thought, or not thinking.

   Aiyanna was happy to lead the meditation, noticing that Connor followed suit without word or complaint. She peeked at him by opening her eyes slightly, and saw him staring at her. She kept her face composed despite this. She peeked again later and saw his eyes closed.

    Good, she thought. At least he wouldn’t be staring at her the whole time while she meditated.

  

   

The Black Death and The Vegetable of Life

 Kevin M. Scrima

Ethnic Fiction—Professor Murabito

4/2/15

A story I am writing for my ethnic fiction class. Enjoy!

The Black Death and The Vegetable of Life

   The town of Cork in Ireland was mostly comprised of poor farmers and low-class workers who were illiterate and went starving half of the time.  

    It was April, and the sun was shining brightly. Cullen put on his brown leather shoes and stepped outside in the warm, Summer-like air. The morning birds chirped in the nearby trees, and one flew over the potato field that Cullen was walking toward. He kneeled and inspected one of the potatoes. His hand cupped what appeared to be a black potato. When he held it up, it crumbled into black mush. “Huh?” Cullen exclaimed as the black mush crumpled out of his hand. “I’ve never seen that before…” he said as he stooped to look at another nearby potato. “This one is black, too,” he observed, picking it up. He gave a gentle squeeze, and it turned into a wet, black mush. “Is this like a disease? There’s no way these are edible without getting sick.” He dropped the mush and wiped what remained on his hand against his worn pants.

   Cullen stood up and walked around quickly, observing as many potatoes as he could. He felt a sudden sense of urgency. The next potato he saw was black. And another one. And another one. He was counting, then estimating. There were still groups of brown potatoes, not tainted by the black. But there were more black then brown. “Oh no…” he muttered, feeling shock go throughout his body. “This isn’t good. Pa is gonna be upset. We are gonna go hungry by the looks of it.”

   Cullen ran back to the mud cabin. Outside, a basket-shaped orifice acted as a chimney. The window had broken panes stuffed with a wisp of straw. And there were rags that were filthy and nasty around the unfitting door and acted as outside walls. He opened the wooden door which had a hole at the bottom. The pig must have broken it. Inside, the walls were tottering, crumbling mud. He saw a chicken on top of his Pa who was sleeping on tattered rags. When Cullen neared the chicken it fluttered its wings and jumped off. He kneeled and shook Pa. “Pa, wake up!”

   His Pa grunted and grumbled. “Cullen, what is it?” he asked.

   “The potatoes,” Cullen said. “Something happened to our potatoes!”

   Pa sat up and opened his green eyes. “What? That can’t be…” he tried standing up then grunted.

   “Pa, let me help,” Cullen said, placing his Pa’s arm over his shoulder as his Pa stood. “Your ankle is still swollen from falling.”

   “Show me,” Pa said.

   Cullen led Pa out the door as he limped along. “They are black,” Cullen said. “And mushy. Look.” He reached down and grabbed a pile of black mush and showed him.

   “My…” Pa said. “I’ve never seen anything like it. This is unheard of.” He took a piece of the black mush from Cullen and rubbed his fingers against it. Then he looked around their potato patch. “They aren’t even potatoes anymore… they’re just… mush.” He dropped the mush and as he started to tilt over, Cullen supported him by placing his shoulder under his arm again. “It’s like an… evil plague befell upon the potatoes.”

   “It would appear so, Pa,” Cullen said.

   Pa said, “It reminds me of the old stories about the Black Death. Except it’s the potatoes and not the humans this time.”

   “Yes, they are black and dead,” Cullen said. “I wonder if this has happened to other people’s potatoes or just ours?”

   “Go find out for us, Cullen. I am in no condition for travel. I will stay and attend to things here once I wake up more and salvage any potatoes I can.”

   Cullen led Pa back to the mud cabin. “Yes, rest a bit.”

  Pa sat down on the dirty rags. The chicken fluttered toward the doorway but Cullen gently kicked it. The chicken bawked as it retreated back inside.

   “Just be careful,” Pa said. “I don’t know if what plagues the potatoes can harm us too. Wash your hands in the river and don’t touch your face.”

   “I will, Pa,” Cullen said. “Be back soon,” he said as he shut the wooden door. He ran to the dirt path toward the river up ahead. What is going on? Cullen wondered.  

   When he got to the river, Cullen kneeled, placing his black hands in the cold water, and began rubbing his hands together, getting rid of all the black dirt and mush. He then washed his face. What if the water is tainted too? he wondered. Would it be safe to drink? Are other foods or crops affected? There were so many questions popping up in his head.

   Cullen stood and jogged toward the Clachans, the small communal cluster. He admired the rolling green hills of the countryside as he made his way toward one of the well-known farms in the community.

   

Sucked into Organizations and Activities

I'm thinking about my past, since I'm about to graduate college. I can't say I have any memorable college experiences. It was just college. I don't even know if it was the right place for me. Or if it's the right place for me at all. Tonight, it's made me depressed. It sucks the life out of me.

I'm thinking about how life,  or an organization, tries to suck you into anything it can. Schools suck students into their schools. Sport teams suck them into their teams. Colleges suck eager students into their campuses. Religious organizations suck people into their own religion. Many are sucked into their first job. What im getting at is, I wonder at times, when did I--ME--actually make the decision to do these things? It's like your best friend sucks you into an activity you dont want to do, and then you dont know why youre there. Was it his choice, or was it the friend's choice that influenced him?

The thought makes me depressed.

Does Education (or essays) Stifle Innovation, Creativity, and Entrepreneurship?

Sometimes when I am assigned an essay--I'm loathing of the idea of doing it--I wonder if it is stifling my creativity, motivation, innovation, and entrepreneurship.

You could probably tell even in this blog post, my writing doesn't have that much substance. It's empty, tired. Maybe even afraid.

As a high schooler and in the beginning of college, I used to be able to write long, epic prose pieces. Now, it's difficult. It's as if I'm drained, unable to do it. I almost forgot what it's like to write for fun.

Writing countless essays prove nothing. How many have I written? The number would be scary, I'm sure. You can only demonstrate your complex thought processes so many times before going insane. You do it because you have to. Not because you want to. Sometimes, yes, I do actually enjoy writing the essay and really get into it. But my grades prove nothing. They aren't going to help me make any money. They are just like one of the passes or tickets to get into a club.

Even now, I am procrastinating writing my essay by writing something else.

My classes prove nothing. My homework being completed proves nothing. Being able to prove that you can repeat completing classes and assignments over and over prove nothing. I don't know who they're fooling.

I could be learning something new instead of continually writing essays, like making a song, learning a program, making YouTube videos, creating a website. School can have assignments that involve creating a BRAND and PLATFORM for myself, instead of this useless crap.

It's a joke. And it's not a funny one.