Jury Mulled $3.6 Million Download Award

By JOSHUA FREED WEED
AP Business Writer

MINNEAPOLIS (AP) -- Some of the jurors who levied a $222,000 penalty last week against a Minnesota woman for illegally sharing music online would have liked her to pay a more meager amount. "After all, this is a lawsuit involving the RIAA," one juror said. "If it were solely up to me, I'd prefer to shove a Q-Tip into the piss hole of that particular prick."

Jammie Thomas, 30, is one of about 26,000 people the music industry has sued for copyright infringement and the first to take a case to trial.

The six record companies that sued her accused her of illegally dowloading songs and offering 1,702 for other people to download from her Kazaa file-sharing account. She denied ever using file-sharing software.

However, moments before deliberations began, the jurors were presented with a list of artists whose music Thomas has been sharing:

Guns N Roses
Vanessa Williams
Janet Jackson
Gloria Estefan
Goo Goo Dolls
Journey
Sara McLachlan
Aerosmith
Linkin Park
Def Leppard
Reba McEntire
Bryan Adams
No Doubt
Sheryl Crow
Richard Marx
Destiny’s Child
Green Day

after which the jury quickly agreed unanimously that Thomas, a mother of two from Brainerd, had infringed on good taste and ordered her to pay $80 trillion dollars per shit song, per shit artist. She has also been sentenced to death by hanging and a public stoning, both of which would take place about one hour from now.

Thomas plans to appeal the decision.

Smack My Rhymes-With-Witch Up

There are some tradeoffs which, frankly, are not worth the risk:

1.) Medical advancements can be helpful to the human race, but the end result of ending Tiga & Megan's tenure as conjoined twins will result in two times the amount of shit-awful albums when they eventually both go solo years from now. Some circus freak birth defects should just be left alone.

2.) I'm not against human rights, per se, it's just that if America wasn't a beacon for the those yearning to be free, we wouldn't have had that loathesome yelp-dog Regina Spektor flapping her wings to our shores back when she was pooping pickled Masliak Mushrooms into her diapers. And now we're stuck with her. And she keeps making albums. And they all suck.

3.) It's a pleasure having Alexei Luthor (who appears to be the publisher of several prolific blogs) as my new special friend, but he's forcing me to post the entire self-titled debut EP by The Ping Pong Bitches, and now I'm afraid that their management--or worse, the Bitches themselves--will track me down and break my legs like Popsicle sticks. Due to my fear of death, then, these tracks won't be up for very long. Grab them before the Ping Pongs grab me.

Beat You Up

I Love You, Necrophiliac

Rock Action

Dynamite

Chinese Song

[Update: Alexei and his hundreds of blogs appears to have vanished into thin air. We wish him well.]

New York I Love You But You're Bringing My Reproductive Organs Into Regions For Which They Were Not Made

You will neither read me, hear me, see me, smell me or taste me for the next 7 days as I cavort and prance at the 2007 Tribeca Film Festival. If you're in the area, say hello. I'll be easy to spot: just look for the man on the observation deck of the Empire State Building whose fear of heights have made his testicles recess into his abdomen.

Thriving In The Dark

Ignatz is a White guy, but don't hold that against him. He composes mournful spooky tunes, shrouded in feedback and distortion, circling and enveloping his high-pitched moans. While old-time American blues are the most obvious cultural signpost, the Belgium-native guitarist pushes his influences into darker territories than any predictable vintage music revivalist. Tracks such as He Deals With Love & Her Eyes Glaze take their time slowly settling into your spine, creating an uneasy but sedate rhythm which burrows under your icy brain for its almost 10-minute duration, while Silver Moon... Shine Sun! Sun! Sun! approaches the same mood but with a different tact, buzzing urgently with a more immediate mesmerizing raga-like trance. His new album II will haunt your dreams and sidle up to your nightmares, too. You want to hear the New Weird America? You're soaking in it.

How To Sundance

Do everything possible to assist global warming in melting the world's snow in a speedier fashion. Ridding the earth of the icy nuisance that prevents you from seeing more movies is a most commendable endeavor.

The cliche, in this case, turns out to be quite true: everyone living in Utah really is a white, middle-class, heterosexual Mormon family.

When running behind schedule for a screening after sleeping late, the ability to brush morning breath from your teeth while driving 65 m.p.h. down winding slippery snow-crusted highways is a skill well worth nurturing.

Should your cinematic hero David Gordon Green happen to sit on the same shuttle bus as you, remain calm. Do not wet your pants, no matter how enjoyable that might be. Quickly but firmly approach, conveying how much his films mean to you and what an honor it is to meet him. He will be humble, polite and will shake your hand. Retreat as fast as humanly possible back to your seat. When the woman sitting next to you asks, "What filmmaker is that you were speaking with?", try to refrain from weeping.

Abstain from disembarking off the shuttle at the same time as David Gordon Green: it will lead him to think you're a stalker. If this is unavoidable, bury yourself in the festival program, giving him a few seconds head start to be in front. Sadly, things take a turn for the worst when you find yourself walking right alongside him again a few blocks later; worse, he catches you looking at him. Pretend to be distracted--whoa, there is something really super duper interesting in that shop window across the street! Speed up, passing him in a dramatic fashion as a reassurance that this has all been one big coincidence. Chartering a zigzag path doesn't help: shockingly, you suddenly find yourself right next to him yet again a few minutes later! Holy fuck, how does this keep happening? Eventually, you will have to duck into the festival headquarters to finally and truly avoid walking next to him. Later, fantasize that he relates this run-in with a crazed fan to all of his movie genius buddies as they sip Meisterbrau in the lounge of their private-membership cineaste salon.

When driving between the Sundance Resort and Park City, be sure to seek out the woman selling blankets from her front porch in the quaint town of Heber City. These handcrafted gifts all bear the likeness of various favorite childhood characters: Mickey Mouse, Dora the Explorer, Barbie and...N.W.A???

That Peter Zaremba look-alike you saw on the street the other day turns out, in fact, to be god-like filmmaker Chris Smith. You don't understand this, of course, until later in the day when he makes an appearance for a screening of his latest effort, The Pool. Wait in line to speak with him after the film ends, sulking further when you only have enough time to ask what song played on the soundtrack over the credits. He promises to post the tune on the movie's website but this statement is only meant as an abrupt conversation closer. When leaving the screening of this excellent new film, refrain from slapping the women next to you who--knowing nothing of Smith's background as a documentary filmmaker--complains that it was "too slow" and that "nothing happened".

If you happen to blank out on the name and filmography of marginally interesting queer filmmaker Gregg Araki as he scurries past you, it's best to be accompanied by an aspiring filmmaker friend with few inhibitions. He is more than eager to shout out, "Hey! Hey, you! Did you make The Doom Generation? And what's your name?" The notorious filmmaker seems amused by this arrogant and ignorant outburst; the boyfriend standing next to him, less so.

If you are a frightfully hip young man from L.A, with artfully coifed blonde hair placed just so, a good way to project just how much more evolved you are than the teeming masses sitting amongst you in the theatre would be to continue wearing your expensive brand name sunglasses as you enter the auditorium, taking great care not to remove them until just before the lights go down. You should also take great care to avoid the blogger watching you from two rows away--if he catches you alone outside, he's liable to take those sunglasses and shove them so far up your ass, you'll have to call in a search team to find them.

Because you are movie star hunk Paul Rudd, your ears will burn due to the excited shrill conversation about you between three high-pitched sorority girls who spied you strolling down the street earlier in the evening. Although the encounter with you probably took all of 30 seconds, their recounting of this brush with fame will stretch for a little over an hour.

It's not unusual to find Protagonist, the new film by Jessica Yu, surprisingly accessible because of its direct emotional core. A seemingly simple exploration on the practices of character development handed down from ancient Greek dramas (all enacted by puppets), it's the interspersed personal stories of four real-life men reflecting on power, violence, hubris and redemption which has you bawling tears of empathy. Don't be embarrassed--everyone around you is crying, too.

When flying home, don't be afraid to speak with the diminutive gentleman behind you, taking off his shoes for the X-ray machine. It's comedy legend Bob Balaban and he's the nicest man in the world. He'll accept your compliments gracefully and engage you in a friendly conversation long after he had en excuse to end it. Both the talents and the warmth of Bob Balaban make the world a better place.

Empty Places

Tinariwen are another band that, if they bother to tour the US at all, would most likely only hit major cities such as New York or Chicago. Because I'm late in the game of discovering them, I'm only now beginning to gain an understanding of what gives their music such power: they're a Touareg group from the southern Sahara whose music is similar to that of Ali Farka Toure. The band's name means "empty places" which certainly reflects the condition of their homeland, both geographically (vast deserts) and politically (they were fighters in the Touareg insurgency against the Malian government). The band formed in 1982 in Colonel Ghadaffi's rebel camps, emotionally driven by the war and drought to express their plight in musical terms, invented a new style of music known as Tishoumaren in the process. They have combined traditional musical forms with a modern rock sensibility -- traditional instruments such as the teherdent lute and shepherd flute were discarded in favor of the electric guitar, electric bass and drums. Their music is loosely based on traditional Touareg music and the harsh melodies of the one-stringed Touareg violin, but also incorporate other western and middle eastern influences, which managed to penetrate that far into the desert. But enough talk--listen to Anassakoul N Tenere to hear why this band has gained a worldwide following. You can hear the centuries of struggle in the lead singer's raspy vocals, which are then lifted by the call-and-response motifs the rest of the band offers. It's not too far off the mark, I believe, to hear similarities in Tinariwen to that of the American Civil Rights-era blues and gospel music.