First, it’s not my relationship.

Then, it is.

Then, it’s what I want it to be.

Then it isn’t.

Then it leaves you utterly confused, like any relationship would. And it doesn’t feel good, but I keep pressing play. Which is probably what this couple does, too.

It’s also way more effective than the original.

Artist.Album.Song.
Band Of Horses.Cease To Begin.No One’s Gonna Love You.

I have been in this position twice, dim lit gymnasium and all: once at probably 16, and then definitely again at 17. Same dude. Two different homewrecking chicks. Which makes him the hoe. Not me. And that makes me feel better. Like Robyn, I, too, stared creepily from a corner, but unlike the Swede, I didn’t redeem myself, my cool points, or my “Independent Woman”-hood with aggressiveness cleverly disguised as dance moves – you know, so as not to give up my poker face or appear completely pathetic in front of my entire senior class. Nope, not me.

I get goosebumps at the 2:42 mark every time I watch this, but I don’t get the urge to drive past his house anymore. (Which, yes, I did once you left with her. And yes, I saw your bedroom light on. And yes, I know your dad was home. Which means you probably only got something PG. Lame.)

Thanks to Robyn for turning drama into disco.

If you need me to provide some sort of hint as to what kind of writing to expect here at OneInfinite, take this post – my grand (that’s right) return back to blogging after a two-and-a-half month hiatus – as an inclination.

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The style bloggers from BleachBlack just came out with a new nail polish color; this comes after their acclaimed “Dickweed” hue. It’s a glossy, pearlescent, milky-white joy called “Jizz.”

Yup. Jizz.

Whores, no need to work as hard (pun intended) as you once used to. Feel right at home, all day/everyday, with a simple base coat-top coat-repeat. Only difference is, in this instance, sticky fingers would only occur if you don’t know what you’re doing.

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So folks, that’s the type of pomp and class you’ll find here.

Come again.

Literally.

Ha!

I’ve never had an iPhone, but at one time, before it was stolen, I had an iPod Touch, and it allowed me to pretty much do anything I wanted except hold it up to my ear and talk into it (which was fine because it hasn’t yet been disproven that cellphone usage causes brain, mouth, or ear cancer.) So, I get it. I get the Apple obsession. I understand the shock and awe that comes with every unbelievable, but widely available application; the ones that make you go, “Why didn’t I think of that first?” *slap to the forehead*

Hey Steve Jobs, you’re telling me I can actually download a “Sex Position Of The Day” app? Have it at my dirty (not literally) little fingertips? Learn the “G-Spot Jiggy” on my way to work? Practice the “Rock-A-Bye Booty” before I call it a night? Genius! It just makes sense.

But this, this new application, not so much.

Swedish mobile software firm The Astonishing Tribe, who I’m begging stay far away from me and my American phone, is taking information overload to the next level. Popsci called this level “logical,” I call it dumb or just “really, really, scary.” And they’ve labeled it “augmented identity,” which is just a concise and severely veiled way of saying “Stalking Made Easy.”

Dubbed the – wait for it – Recognizr, the app essentially works like this: the user points the camera at a person across the room (like at a party, filled with strangers, who your mother always told you not to accept candy from. Or inappropriate advances. Whatever, at this point, they’re one and the same.)

The face recognition software creates a 3-D model of the person’s features and sends it across a server where it’s matched with an identity. A “cloud server” conducts the facial recognition and sends back the subject’s name.

Wait, what? Now, a guy who I’ve never met knows me by name – government, no alias. He can beckon me from across a room and, because of my terrible eyesight, I’ll oblige and won’t realize that I do not know this psycho until I’m about a foot away. And by that time, it’ll be too late; horror movies have proven this.

And not only does the Recognizr provide a name, but it sends the requester links to any social networking sites the person is a member of. So, I can get a friend request, hit, message, invite, phone call, thorough itinerary of how said stalker plans to hurt me, etc. on a daily basis? When did that become okay?

I get the obsession to be alert and aware, too; to connect and make contacts. Believe me, I do. I’ve rudely trackballed and text mid-conversation with important people many times. But, the Astonishing Tribe, with all it’s drive to be cutting edge and innovative, may be on the brink of a serious backlash.

On Monday, Chris Brown issued the long-awaited, yet completely anti-climactic, apology to ex-girlfriend Rihanna. The two-minute video did nothing if not prove that a mock neck looks good on no one but a man of God (Coincidence? I think not!) and that the boy can read from a cue-card like no other singer-turned-actor. In lieu of his botched attempt at exuding sincerity and regret, GIANT gives you the guide to Celebrities and the Art of the Public Apology.

Rule No. 1: Sing a Song
Like Akon. In April 2007, during a performance in Trinidad, Akon told the audience that he was going to have a dance off, and the winning young woman would receive a trip to Africa. The problem? “Africa” is the pet name for his junk, and the recipient of all the simulated sex (see: dry-humping) was a 14-year-old.

So, he did what any self-respecting singer would do. He released a song entitled “Blame It On Me,” but instead, pointed the finger at everyone else.

“Just a little young girl trying to have fun / Her daddy should never let her out that young / I’m sorry for Club Zen getting shut down / I hope they manage better next time around / How was I to know she was underage / In a 21 and older club they say”

Rule No. 2: Recruit Back-Up
In November 2006, during a performance at the Laugh Factory in West Hollywood, comedian Michael Richards (better known as Kramer from Seinfeld) addressed a pair of hecklers by stopping his act, alienating them in front of the audience, and subsequently calling them “niggers” repeatedly, amidst some references to lynching.

He then appeared on the Late Show with David Letterman, with Jerry Seinfeld acting as a buffer (and serving up some grade-A playground support: “Don’t laugh! It’s not funny!”) and delivered an apology full of awkward silences. Or was that comedic timing?

2a. In this case: Ironically use a questionably racist term while apologizing for unquestionably racist behavior. “Afro-Americans?”

Rule No. 3: Always Call Al Sharpton
Michael Richards did! Well, actually, an apology was demanded out of him, but still, not even Mexican Presidents are immune from confronting Al Sharpton. He’s like the People’s Choice, but involuntarily. In April 2007, while discussing the NCAA Women’s Basketball Championship, radio personality Don Imus referred to the Rutgers University team as “some nappy-headed ho’s.” He then appeared on Al Sharpton’s syndicated radio talk show to express his regret, to which the host asked that he be fired. Less then two weeks later, Imus’ show was cancelled. Bad news initially, yes, but when it comes to Sharpton, it can be expected that in the forthcoming months, he will use every media outlet necessary to broadcast his take on the subject at hand. So much so that the real culprit fades into the background.

3a. If Sharpton’s outta town, there’s always Jesse Jackson.

Rule No. 4: Throw Your Friends Under the Bus
Take note of celebrity pseudo-friendships. When Justin Timberlake and Janet Jackson performed together during the Super Bowl XXXVIII halftime show in February 2004, he tore open her top, exposing her right breast (and her affinity for odd nipple jewelry). Though the two claimed it to be a “wardrobe malfunction,” no one could ignore the fact that it was done while Timberlake sang the lyric, “Gonna have you naked by the end of this song.” As a result, CBS would only allow Jackson and Timberlake to appear during the 46th Grammy Awards ceremony if they each made a public apology to the network. Though Jackson refused, Timberlake obliged and went on to win two awards that night. Jackson stayed home and her boyfriend Jermaine Dupri resigned from his position on the Grammy Awards committee.

When Jennifer Lopez caught flack for her not-so-tasteful language in the 2001 remix of “I’m Real,” in which she sang: “People be screamin’ ‘What’s the deal with you and so-and-so?’ / I tell them niggas mind their biz but they don’t hear me, though,” she deflected the attention (and blame) off of her and onto rapper Ja Rule, claiming he had written all the lyrics.

Rule No. 5: Diagnose Yourself
In 2001, Mariah Carey invaded MTV’s TRL, pushing an ice cream cart, wearing high heels and a pajama shirt, and looking all sorts of cracky. Immediately after, the press was all over her, questioning the odd behavior. What did she claim to be the reason? Exhaustion. The same excuse Lindsay Lohan used after being admitted to the hospital while filming Georgia Rule - a movie set she often failed to arrive to on time (or at all). And it served as the same creative response Amy Winehouse’s PR people gave us when canceling her performances mid-tour, but only after the surfacing of a few of her slurred-singing videos, a severe weight loss, and a sudden collapse. That’s right, folks. As a last resort, cite severe, crippling (convenient) exhaustion for all your immoral, inexcusable actions.

Peeing my pants.

I had no idea Vampire Weekend (mentioned them before) was releasing “Giving Up The Gun.” Lucky Friday I’m having, I guess. My lucky Friday’s usually just consist of failed attempts at debauchery, so this, this is grand. And takes no effort of my own! So, make that a Lazy Friday, too. Hm. That sounds like the name of an alcoholic beverage. *stares off into distance* Aaand we’re back to square one (i.e. five sentences ago).

Anyway, imagine my surprise when I took a slight mini teensy-weensy detour from doing actual work at my job today and discovered that my favorite feel-good song on their “Contra” album (nope, “Cousins” didn’t do it for me) had some visuals to go along with it.

And those visuals consisted of RZA (all up in the video acting like the “Tao of Wu” advisor he thinks he is in real life), Lil’ Jon (paying his dues back to the band for mentioning his name in their breakout single “Oxford Comma”), Jake Gyllenhaal and a Jonas Brother. Seems like the type of hallucination you’d see after having one too many Lazy Friday’s. *full circle*

Lead singer Ezra Koenig felt the need to explain himself – “‘Giving Up the Gun’ just means turning your back on aggression and selfishness. The heroine of the video isn’t an amazing tennis player, but she has heart. She stays calm despite the unfairness of it all.” – which now just makes the song seem a bit too Kumbaya.

After all, you probably could’ve picked that vibe up from the lyrics:

Your sword’s grown old and rusty / Burnt beneath the rising sun. / It’s locked up like a trophy / Forgetting all the things it’s done. / And though it’s been a long time / You’re right back where you started from / I see it in your eyes / That now you’re giving up the gun.

Dessa’s video for “Dixon’s Girl” is equal parts intriguing and uncomfortable. Like, I cringed when, 40 seconds in, she suddenly began to speed up her singing, therefore – oh no – turning it into rap…? Is that what this is? I just wasn’t ready.

And then I became disturbed with all the masks and pig heads, but I think that’s because the images reference classic(?) movies I have yet to see – “Clockwork Orange” and “Donnie Darko” – so I don’t get the creative genius behind it.

After I shrugged all that off though, then I became intrigued. But you can’t explain cross-genre music unless, of course, you call it just that. (As a writer, I hoped I’d be more adept with words but, turns out, I isn’t.) So, I Googled her because Bing will never catch on, and found out

1) she’s a spoken-word artist (which makes me feel better! because it explains the flow)

2) she was/is the leader of the a cappella group Boy Sopranos (no boys, one soprano – hah! means she’s ironic; ‘nother thumbs up)

and 3) she’s the sole female member of Doomtree, the Minneapolis hip-hop collective that sets out “to create some of the most forward-thinking beats and rhymes this side of 1987″ (and I was born in 1986! So that means I’m just in time. Or something).

I’ve never asked to hear spoken word over 30′s jazz, but the result was pleasing. And now, I can’t stop listening.

Originator, none greater, is that you?

#imjustsayin.

it’s still fire though.

Rihanna thinks she soooo cool with her trendsetting self, but yet she went and chose the safest peices of the bunch from Viktor & Rolf’s Spring/Summer 2010 collection. So boring, RiRi.

Take it from a pro and listen: When I walk down the street, I want people to immediately assume my clothes have been attacked by termites. Maybe a woodpecker. And definitely a hack saw.

You, though? Fashion fail. If you’re trying to get on anybody’s radar this year – anybody that matters – you’re gonna have to step it up. Seriously. I don’t think we saw enough of you in 2009.

*sigh* Amazing. I definitely need to start taking some sort of hallucinogen.