Professor Gordon Tamlin is not well regarded these days. He spent a small part of his career charting the mathematical aspects of music, eventually proving that only one type of prodigy exists; and despite his empirical data, most people chose not to believe the professor.  His monograph, The Mathematics of Mozart, demonstrated, some would say
incontrovertibly, that music is just a variation of math.  Precision, notes, technique, tempo, melody, rhythm, all came down to mathematics.  Though prodigies in music didn’t realize it, they were simply performing calculations without
conscious awareness of their implication.  In other words, musicians were the poets of mathematics.  He even cited the emergence of math as a subgenre of various musical forms, particularly rock’n’roll.  Nothing he said was considered particularly new, however, Gordon Tamlin was the first person to produce a theorem, alongside neurological evidence, that supported his hypothesis.  Yet, it did little to interrupt the progress of music.  Not until the International Digital
Database came online.
 
Started in 2017 as a good will project -- the world united to share knowledge -- the International Digital Database was meant to be a repository of all the digitized information currently available.  It would serve as a free library storing and providing access to every scrap of recorded, created, and collected data humanity had to offer. For many, the I.D.D. sounded like a public works project, more of a show of effort to solve the economic crisis than a real solution.  Thousands of workers would be tasked with gathering, digitizing, cataloguing, and maintaining all the material stored in the I.D.D.  Providing jobs was its key component, and with another recessive dip looming, many clamored for its creation -- better something than nothing. So the I.D.D. began.

Its employees amassed a spectacular amount of information in the first few months.  I.D.D. director Anton Sarpino had the wherewithal to make his primary goal the accumulation of entertainment media:  movies, television shows, radio programs, photographs, and music.  The plan was to generate public interest in the I.D.D. by providing easy access to amusement.  Then efforts could be directed towards more educational fields. 
 
Thanks to a strict digital rights management program -- the brainchild of several Hollywood pocketed politicians -- information could be accessed but not downloaded from the I.D.D.  People could watch, read, and listen, but not own.  Yet, all this did was increase steadily the amount of regular I.D.D. visitors.  
 
Enter Malcolm Weston, a graduate student at M.I.T. intrigued by Professor Tamlin’s paper.  He agreed with the professor’s conclusions, however, it made him wonder about certain applications.  Tamlin’s paper provided a means by which one could see the mathematical principles at work in music, thereby allowing its mathematical categorization -- i.e.
calculus, logic, geometry, music.  What Malcom Weston did was apply that lens to music on the whole, using Tamlin’s equations as a way to track musical similarity.  As such, Weston was able to discover the same utilized methodologies in
several, sometimes seemingly disparate, forms of music.  
  
For a laugh, Weston used Tamlin’s paper to craft a computer program.  It acted as a filter isolating similarities found in various songs.  Using it, Weston tracked and verified likeness in The Toys “Lover’s Concerto” and Bach’s “Minuet in G.” ; The Beatles and Bobby Parker; Radiohead’s “Creep” and The Hollies “The Air That I Breathe”;John Williams’ Jaws theme and Dvorak’s “Symphony No. 9”; Metallica’s“Welcome Home (Sanitarium)” and Bleak House’s “Rainbow Warrior”;  the connective tissues tying together groups like Iron Maiden to Jimi Hendrix as well as Andrew Lloyd Weber with Pink Floyd and Mendelsohn; pop music’s incestuous nature making seemingly dramatic breaks such as Madonna’s
“Justify My Love” mirroring Public Enemy’s “Security of the First World”… Weston began making connections. 
  
Initially he only meant to track instances where similar devices were used to create music; to see how frequently certain chords and scales were used.  What he discovered was a means to instantly discover songs which were exactly the same. 
Thanks to the I.D.D., Weston’s program had access to an unprecedented amount of musical information.  By simply entering the I.D.D. and running his program, Weston was able to collect every instance of a song mirroring another.  He had inadvertently created the definitive tool for proving acts of musical plagiarism.  
 
At first, the discovery went unnoticed.  Not until a lawsuit involving the band Glacial Upheaval and Skrexxx.  Glacial Upheaval, an indie rock group, alleged that Skrexxx, a dubstep producer, had used riffs from the G.U. album Sunnyside Slit Wrist, primarily the song “My Coffee is Sweeter Without Flavor”.  However, lawyers for Glacial Upheaval were having a hard time demonstrating the similarities between the high speed guitars featured in Skrexxx songs like “Dick Shitting Nipples” and “Break up w/a Broken Face”, and Glacial Upheaval’s low fi “My Coffee…”  That is until a paralegal happened to mention an interesting website he’d found called Classical Ripoff, a site where people could freely utilize Malcolm Weston’s program.
 
Weston never intended for the tool his program became. He just found it interesting -- all the repeated guitar chords, beats, and rhythms, especially those passed off as seemingly the first of their kind.  For instance, his program mapped the similarities between turntables and Tom Morello’s guitar style.  And while he did notice the vast amount of songs which mirrored one another quite closely, he didn’t see a real world application for such knowledge.  So he put the program online for people to have fun with, and perhaps realize, as the homepage stated, “content isn’t as important as how one
plays.”  
 
But the fact his site provided G.U.’s lawyers with the howitzer necessary to obliterate Skrexxx changed the nature of music forever.  
 
The ability to prove emphatically when one song mirrored another reshaped the nature of litigating musical plagiarism. 
Once the similarities had been demonstrated by Weston’s program (Malcolm Weston, having more wherewithal at the sight of potential profits, earning a hefty commission for each use), court cases became a matter of proving whether
or not a particular group/composer had ever heard a particular song.  However, this left many defendants having to admit there might have been an unintentional “borrowing” of material.  Essentially, intent was impossible to prove. 
Most cases came down to arguments regarding probabilities:  if two bands lived in the same city and actively performed during the same time frame, or a song was featured on the radio, however briefly, when a defendant might have heard it, or was available in an area the musician(s) occupied, etc. then the likelihood of plagiarism existed; and if the likelihood
existed… cases typically ended in settlements.  

Bands and pop singers sued each other regularly. Typically for spite and attention.  For a few years the backdoor to fame seemed to be suing a more successful band.  Any group that emerged out of Chicago, L.A., New York, or Etcetera was almost immediately sued by whatever ambitious band hadn’t been signed while playing across the street… or in their
basement.  This led, initially, to the period in rock known as The Nomad Years, where performers traveled constantly to avoid being allied with a single era, thereby reducing the likelihood of being sued by one’s neighboring musicians. 
But still, many, some might say unscrupulous,individuals continued along the litigious road to success.  
  
Then, in 2029, Representative George R. Ennis proposed legislation to end the chronic accusations of plagiarism.  (Many purport this had more to do with hefty campaign contributions from major record labels rather than any genuine feeling on the issue.)  H.B. 7832 eliminated the concept of plagiarism in relation to musical creations.  All music was classified as too similar and the amount of potential variations too finite to permit anything other than mirroring, intentional or otherwise.  In simplest terms, nothing musical could ever be alleged as stolen.  

As a result, a new style emerged.  Incapable of infringing on copyright, musicians discovered they could utilize any preexisting song to their own benefit.  Only the lyrics really needed to be changed to prevent a lawsuit.  Consequently, 127,864 songs featuring instrumental aspects (particularly the guitars) of “Sweet Home Alabama” emerged in early 2030.  Bands like the Copycats, Admiral Rensdale, Isla Vahina, and the Biz Marquees, soon dominated the landscape playing seemingly recognizable classics.  Believing an opening riff familiar, audiences would listen longer and typically resign themselves to a song, even after realizing it wasn’t what they expected. A few articles were written on the Pavlovian correlation between an already beloved song and its lyrically retooled “cousin”; that the former inspired a debatably higher appreciation of the latter.  However, not many people read those articles.  
  
For the last eight years Mirror Music, as it’s come to be known, has been the prevailing “style”.  The movement claims it’s taking music back from corporations.  Critics suggest the simplicity of the genre makes it easily accessible -- the terrain is always familiar; musically, the concept of being a hack or rip off artist no longer exists.  Now anyone can strive for greatness using preexisting blocks.  
 
When asked about his contribution to contemporary music, Malcolm Weston took the advice of his P.R. rep and used (what could be called) the Vietna-Nurenberg defense.  He pointed up the ladder at Professor Gordon Tamlin, saying, “If it wasn’t for him, none of this would be possible.”  There is some truth to that.  Yet, Professor Tamlin has never profited nor sought royalties from Weston’s program.  The only thing he’s earned is the rebuke of music critics worldwide, who insist without him Mirroring wouldn’t exist.  (Professor Tamlin has commented on being the catalyst for the Mirror
genre just once.  He said, "Perhaps it was a folly of youth.  I tried to prove what I loved was all that is and therefore all that mattered.")  Still, debate persists.  Who is responsible for our musical environment -- Tamlin, Weston, the musicians who embraced/embrace Mirroring, the public who purchases it… all of the above? 
 
Though perhaps the more pertinent question is:  what does the nature of our art say about our lives?

It isn't always best to make decisions when you're alone and drinking.  The leading cause of foolishness and What-The-Fuck-Just-Happened is often the combination of loneliness and alcohol.  Loneliness alone is responsible for almost 85% of bad decisions -- "I've never microwaved a box of firecrackers before.... OH DEAR GOD!" -- but combining it with alcohol results in any variety of the plethora of myriad ways in which a drunk lonely person can screw him/herself over.  

For instance, all drunken hookups stemming from booty calls begin with boozy isolation.  Even standing in a crowd, knowing all too well the seemingly infinite empty that awaits you at home, can result in the misperceived good idea: 
"I should call {whoever} just to say hi... Hey.  S'up.  What are you doin' right now?"  From there it's only a matter of impending sobriety till an awkward goodbye the next day leads to I-Can't-Wash-The-Fucking-Shame-Off.  Because, let's face it, no matter how good the sex, a booty call is never with the person you want to be fucking.  It's just a set of genitals you've got on speed dial connected to someone without enough self respect to say, "Fuck off," at three in the morning.  
 
In another example, pets suddenly become the subject of phone videos and pictures. Often just trying to sleep, cats get assailed by camera clicking owners, drunk on beer, wine, and the awful nothing in their lives; dogs find themselves wearing shameful (though occasionally cute) costumes; and always the blatant attempts to elicit cutesy meows, woofs, and all manner of animal noises by jabbering drunkenly at a critter... whose eyes slowly fill with the dawning realization, "You don't need thumbs to kill yourself."  The overall point being:  pets may mitigate loneliness, but they then suffer from lonely owners.  And the effect of animal related drunk-lonely decision making is mobile.  Once the brain is sufficiently saturated with alcohol even leaving the center of one's isolation is no safe guard against bad choices.  I once had to save a roommate at the zoo, explaining the whole time, "The polar bear is not waving at you.  It's plotting to kill you."  
 
The reason for all these errors in judgment is a direct result of the fact loneliness often leads to boredom, boredom to depression, and depression to drinking.  Any one of these alone is sufficient cause to stop thinking as you won't make a right call the rest of the evening.  However, the witch's brew these concoct together has long been the cause of many
disturbing self revealing acts.  From the booty call to its awkward cousin, Experimental Masturbation, drunk'n'lonely is the glaring eye of self discovery many avoid but few can hide from.  
 
Such considerations then begging the obvious:  perhaps we should all experience our own extended drunk'n'lonely
moment.  The acerbic inner view might be of some benefit.  
 
With that in mind, I advise everyone to get an excess of your favorite booze, clear some time in your calendar then sit down, start drinking, and stare at the walls.  It won't be long before you're making decisions which will cause you to ponder, "Is this who I am?"   

{coming soon: How I Spent My Drunk'N'Lonely Evening}   

“Wherever I see some mystique, be it virtue or family, faith or fatherland, there I must commit some indecent
act.”                                     
                     - Witold Gombrowicz,  Pamieutnik z okresu dojrzewania (Memoirs of Immaturity, 1933)
 
The old girl just lays on the patio wondering when to whimper.  I guess we should put her down.  I mean, she can’t be of much use to anyone anymore.  Not the way she is.  Come to think of it:  she can’t even roll her ass off the patio, probably been lying there for days now.  Well, that being the case, might as well dust off Grandpa’s shotgun.  I figure he’d want me to use it, since I’ll be shooting his wife and all.  Poor old lady.  Lying there on the cold cement.  If she’d said something I would have done this sooner.  Prideful woman -- probably planned to get up any day; probably still
thinking that.  I’ll make it quick.  Say goodbye then get her when she ain’t looking.  
 
…I want tacos.  ‘ll get some afterwards...  

Goodnight Rose.  We’ll try to miss you.  Obviously you’re not much on our minds.  I mean, we did leave you on the patio for three solid days.  And it rained yesterday.  Hard.  I think the hail dented my car.  Poor General Malaise.  I’ll try buffing the dings out tomorrow, first thing.  
 
I know how this sounds, but I do wish there was like a service I could call instead of having to handle this myself.  Like you can take a pet to a place where they’ll put it to sleep for you.  Hell, even animal control is around for rowdy critters. 
This would be so easy for them.  Like taking care of a stray, sick ol’bear.  Fuck, a shovel is all you’d need.  
 
But Gramps’ll haunt the shower again if we don’t take care of our own.  It’s a sad reality:  some blood isn’t worth saving.  That is to say:  not every pint needs to get bagged and put in the fridge… suppose that makes sense, though I should really stop watching vampire movies when I’m stoned -- aspects tend to creep into my thoughts without request; and truth be told, though it often isn't, I guess I just don't want to have to do this.  Anyhow, Grandma’s my responsibility.  I could ask my brother to do it, but that would be imposing on him.  Once a man’s been blown up cooking your turkey, you can’t ask him for much.  (No euphemisms, by the by.  He was making Thanksgiving… but I digress.)  And Sis, well, I owe her, so I‘ll take care of this one.

Besides, I made a promise the night Grandpa wandered into the woods.  He said to me, “I’m dying.  Doctor said I’ve got twenty more years, but it’s a countdown, no matter how you look at it.  I know you’re only eleven, but fuck you boy.”  I
promised him, as he disappeared into the night, I would do whatever it took to make him proud.  A promise I soon
forgot -- the “lifelong”ambitions of youngsters are often short lived. How many preteen dreams come to fruition?  Honestly, not many.  And the ones that do are often the result of some kind of mental debilitation… like OCD or something.  Kids can have all kinds of problem which turn out to be for their benefit.  But I digress.  

Grandma.  Old bitch. I remember my cousin’s wedding, back in October.  The old lady had the nerve to say a conga line was a form of Fascism (and she did make a solid point later in the evening, but Tammy-Lynn‘s wedding was not the occasion to make that valid argument).  Then there was Christmas ‘08:  the night we stopped the Creationist god and started evolution.  Still not sure if that was the right move, but Grandma kept trying to take all the credit.  Fuck that. 
We were all there, and each did their share.  In fact, if it comes down to it, Grandma did the least.  There!  I said it. And that’s what it all comes down to: she has no tact and no humility.  
 
… which is probably why everyone’s been ignoring her the last couple of days.  For one thing, we had just got Grandpa to stop haunting the shower (We tried to get him back a few years ago, but he‘d drunk himself to death in Minnesota. Didn‘t know it at the time, so the voodoo spell we picked up on the Southside of Chicago didn‘t work
exactly as it might have on a living person.  Though I can‘t say for certain.  Voodoo is a fascinating thing, but not
really my point of expertise.  In any event, Grandpa‘s ghost haunted the shower in our house for a bit, and when we did figure out how to get rid of him (he had a habit of mocking people‘s genitals with cruel wit and honesty) he threatened to return if we mistreated anyone else in the family.  His concern makes sense:  people change a lot when they die.  So, from time to time, his ghost reappears, mocking our junk, and then we have to do this whole elaborate ceremony with a rooster and blind snakes; and I‘d really rather not get into the whole thing right now.) when Grandma right away starts in on my
Uncle Craig.  “Craig,” she says, “You’re getting fat.  Ergo, I’ve hired a man to hunt you.  You have three minutes before he comes screaming through that window.  I suggest you run cuz your fat ass ain‘t takin‘ him one on one.  He‘s a marine.  Really sexy too.”  So Craig takes off, and two days later Gramps has repossessed the shower.  
 
My Sis saw Grandma laid out on the patio about three days ago.  She just walked past.  Sis is big on cold shoulders.  My
brother rolled by in his wheelchair, asked her if she wanted a beer.  He said she just went, “Nuhhh,” so he left her alone. 
Wouldn’t be the first time G-ma hit the pipe too hard, so he left there.  Myself?  I saw her there, but having to rustle up a blind snake (the snake has to be born blind -- you can‘t blind it yourself.) kept me outta the house for a few days.  By the time I got back, which is about here and now, I assumed, for the first five hours, coincidence; I’d left and returned to find Grandma in roughly the same situation:  stoned out of her gourd and sleeping it off on the patio.  We tell her not to slug grain alcohol after bong hits, but she’s been reading Gogol lately, and you know Russian literature.  However, turns out we were all pretty wrong across the board.
 
Grandma wasn’t passed out in some existential crisis born of weed, white lightning, and phantasmagoric cynicism.  She was flat on her ass due to a burst blood vessel -- one of the pipes in her brain just went pop alluva sudden.  These things
happen.  And yeah, I’m still pissed about Grandpa, since it was her fault, and Grandma and I have had our differences (she stopped me from sniping Madonna.  Said, “She‘s already dead inside; why risk going to jail for nothing?”  I still think it would have been worth it, but I don‘t want to digress too much more.), but we’re family.  In the end, that’s more
than some people have.
 
So I’ll do the right thing:  get Grandpa’s shotgun outta the basement and put Grandma down.  I owe her that much for raising me…  
 
…Right.

Jake watched her step to the platform.  Luggage crowded her limbs making her move awkward.  Thousand yard stares all around paid no mind, jostling her as she tried to leave the train -- the crowd expected her to know better.  Make way.  
 
Her face reminded him of the past:  a harried look, a hybrid of anxious- and eagerness; she still believed in the possibilities daydreams suggest.  Maybe he'd had less trouble leaving the El, his broad build carving a path, but they used to look the same, a reflection a decade apart.  
 
Jake kicked his suitcase and picked it up.  As the nameless lady departed, he slipped into the flow of the crowd.  It carried him onto the train.  Boarding to leave, Jake said a silent prayer, "Hope it works for her."  But spared himself personal pity.  Not everyone is meant to be the future, though anyone can be a cliché.