You are perfect goddess in my heart forever! 什么意思
You are perfect goddess in my heart forever!你永远是在我的心中的完美女神!「perfect」的翻译 形容词 完善 perfect, complete, consummate 完美 perfect, ideal 健全 sound, perfect, robust, strong, regular 完备 complete, perfect 绝妙 excellent, …
spiff and Hercules 中文叫 史比夫和赫克里斯
找不到下载地址,不过这里有在线观看 可以安一个酷驴,然后在国际资源里搜一下 http://video.google.fr/videosearch?q=Pif+Et+Hercule&emb=0&aq=f#
should it matter歌词什么意思?
I look at you 我凝视著你 Please don’t walk away 请别急著离去 I see you’re about to 看到你急欲离去的神情 There is just something I’d really like to say 有些事情我想让…
说女生dolled up什么意思 我爱英语文章
dolled up adj. dressed in fancy or formal clothing; dressed(p), dressed-up, dressed to the nines(p), dressed to kill(p), spruced up, spiffed up, togged up被渲染的.被弄得活泼的.打扮好的.穿着齐整的.
You are my the goddess in my heart forever 是什么意思?
你是我心中永远的女神~~
200分 求《spiff and Hercules》的下载
恩 是《Spiff And Hercules》. 图片地址: http://www.mrbensons.co.uk/sl/l/3/S_V0031778.jpg 但是现在基本上很难找到全部的下载 这里有一部分 http://downthisvideo.com/?url=http%3A%2F%2F www.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3D2ZttqDa6cP8 右键点下面那个“FLV”图片选用迅雷下载就可以了. 最好直接右键选另存,下下来后把后缀名加上 ＂.flv＂
beautifu 中文同音词beautifu1,pretty,handsome(美丽的)
bonnie good-looking presentable trig posh well-favoured well-favored dink personable swish beaut tippy niftic swellish spandy spiffing pretty saucy smart beautiful handsome brilliant remarkable splendid 有些是人,有些是景
求文章(英文版):foreign teenagers一天的生活/介绍foreign teenagers的activities
Jonathan Coulton sat in Gorilla Coffee in Brooklyn, his Apple
PowerBook open before him, and began slogging through the day’s
e-mail. Coulton is 16 and shaggily handsome. In September 2005, he
quit his job as a computer programmer and, with his wife’s guarded
blessing, became a full-time singer and songwriter. He set a quixotic
goal for himself: for the next year, he would write and record a song
each week, posting each one to his blog. “It was a sort of
forced-march approach to creativity,” he admitted to me over the sound
of the cafe’s cappuccino frothers. He’d always wanted to be a
full-time musician, and he figured the only way to prove to himself he
could do it was with a drastic challenge. “I learned that it is
possible to squeeze a song out of just about anything,” he said. “But
it’s not always an easy or pleasant process.” Given the self-imposed
time constraints, the “Thing a Week” songs are remarkably good.
Coulton tends toward geeky, witty pop tunes: one song, “Tom Cruise
Crazy,” is a sympathetic ode to the fame-addled star, while “Code
Monkey” is a rocking anthem about dead-end programming jobs. By the
middle of last year, his project had attracted a sizable audience.
More than 3,000 people, on average, were visiting his site every day,
and his most popular songs were being downloaded as many as 500,000
times; he was making what he described as “a reasonable middle-class
living” — between $3,000 and $5,000 a month — by selling CDs and
digital downloads of his work on iTunes and on his own site.
Skip to next paragraph
Jennifer Karady for The New York Times
Getting the Word Out Jonathan Coulton at Gorilla Coffee in Brooklyn.
Corresponding with fans is time-consuming, he says, but essential.
Multimedia
Decoding ‘Code Monkey’Video
Decoding ‘Code Monkey’
Related
Jonathan Coulton on YouTube
“Code Monkey”: A YouTube Video by Mike Spiff Booth
Another “Code Monkey” Fan’s Take on the Song
An Animated Version of Jonathan Coulton’s “My Monkey” by “The Rainbow Coalition”
An Animated Version of Jonathan Coulton’s “re: Your Brains” by Mike Spiff Booth
Along the way, he discovered a fact that many small-scale recording
artists are coming to terms with these days: his fans do not want
merely to buy his music. They want to be his friend. And that means
they want to interact with him all day long online. They pore over his
blog entries, commenting with sympathy and support every time he
recounts the difficulty of writing a song. They send e-mail messages,
dozens a day, ranging from simple mash notes of the “you rock!”
variety to starkly emotional letters, including one by a man who
described singing one of Coulton’s love songs to his 6-month-old
infant during her heart surgery. Coulton responds to every letter,
though as the e-mail volume has grown to as many as 100 messages a
day, his replies have grown more and more terse, to the point where
he’s now feeling guilty about being rude.
Coulton welcomes his fans’ avid attention; indeed, he relies on his
fans in an almost symbiotic way. When he couldn’t perform a guitar
solo for “Shop Vac,” a glittery pop tune he had written about suburban
angst — on his blog, he cursed his “useless sausage fingers” — Coulton
asked listeners to record their own attempts, then held an online vote
and pasted the winning riff into his tune. Other followers have
volunteered hours of their time to help further his career: a
professional graphic artist in Cleveland has drawn an illustration for
each of the weekly songs, free. Another fan recently reformatted
Coulton’s tunes so they’d be usable on karaoke machines. On his online
discussion board last June, when Coulton asked for advice on how to
make more money with his music, dozens of people chimed in with tips
on touring and managing the media and even opinions about what kind of
songs he ought to write.
Coulton’s fans are also his promotion department, an army of thousands
who proselytize for his work worldwide. More than 50 fans have created
music videos using his music and posted them on YouTube; at a recent
gig, half of the audience members I spoke to had originally come
across his music via one of these fan-made videos. When he performs,
he upends the traditional logic of touring. Normally, a new
Brooklyn-based artist like him would trek around the Northeast in grim
circles, visiting and revisiting cities like Boston and New York and
Chicago in order to slowly build an audience — playing for 3 people
the first time, then 10, then (if he got lucky) 50. But Coulton
realized he could simply poll his existing online audience members,
find out where they lived and stage a tactical strike on any town with
more than 100 fans, the point at which he’d be likely to make $1,000
for a concert. It is a flash-mob approach to touring: he parachutes
into out-of-the-way towns like Ardmore, Pa., where he recently played
to a sold-out club of 140.
His fans need him; he needs them. Which is why, every day, Coulton
wakes up, gets coffee, cracks open his PowerBook and hunkers down for
up to six hours of nonstop and frequently exhausting communion with
his virtual crowd. The day I met him, he was examining a music video
that a woman who identified herself as a “blithering fan” had made for
his song “Someone Is Crazy.” It was a collection of scenes from anime
cartoons, expertly spliced together and offered on YouTube.
“She spent hours working on this,” Coulton marveled. “And now her
friends are watching that video, and fans of that anime cartoon are
watching this video. And that’s how people are finding me. It’s a
crucial part of the picture. And so I have to watch this video; I have
to respond to her.” He bashed out a hasty thank-you note and then
forwarded the link to another supporter — this one in Britain — who
runs “The Jonathan Coulton Project,” a Web site that exists
specifically to archive his fan-made music videos.
He sipped his coffee. “People always think that when you’re a musician
you’re sitting around strumming your guitar, and that’s your job,” he
said. “But this” — he clicked his keyboard theatrically — “this is my
job.”
In the past — way back in the mid-’90s, say — artists had only
occasional contact with their fans. If a musician was feeling
friendly, he might greet a few audience members at the bar after a
show. Then the Internet swept in. Now fans think nothing of sending an
e-mail message to their favorite singer — and they actually expect a
personal reply. This is not merely an illusion of intimacy. Performing
artists these days, particularly new or struggling musicians, are
increasingly eager, even desperate, to master the new social rules of
Internet fame. They know many young fans aren’t hearing about bands
from MTV or magazines anymore; fame can come instead through viral
word-of-mouth, when a friend forwards a Web-site address, swaps an
MP3, e-mails a link to a fan blog or posts a cellphone concert video
on YouTube.
So musicians dive into the fray — posting confessional notes on their
blogs, reading their fans’ comments and carefully replying. They check
their personal pages on MySpace, that virtual metropolis where unknown
bands and comedians and writers can achieve global renown in a matter
of days, if not hours, carried along by rolling cascades of
popularity. Band members often post a daily MySpace “bulletin” — a
memo to their audience explaining what they’re doing right at that
moment — and then spend hours more approving “friend requests” from
teenagers who want to be put on the artist’s sprawling list of online
colleagues. (Indeed, the arms race for “friends” is so intense that
some artists illicitly employ software robots that generate hundreds
of fake online comrades, artificially boosting their numbers.) The pop
group Barenaked Ladies held a video contest, asking fans to play air
guitar along to the song “Wind It Up”; the best ones were spliced
together as the song’s official music video. Even artists who haven’t
got a clue about the Internet are swept along: Arctic Monkeys, a
British band, didn’t know what MySpace was, but when fans created a
page for them in 2005 — which currently boasts over 65,000 “friends” —
it propelled their first single, “I Bet You Look Good on the
Dancefloor,” to No. 1 on the British charts.
This trend isn’t limited to musicians; virtually every genre of
artistic endeavor is slowly becoming affected, too. Filmmakers like
Kevin Smith (“Clerks”) and Rian Johnson (“Brick”) post dispatches
about the movies they’re shooting and politely listen to fans’
suggestions; the comedian Dane Cook cultivated such a huge fan base
through his Web site that his 2005 CD “Retaliation” became the first
comedy album to reach the Billboard Top 5 since 1978. But musicians
are at the vanguard of the change. Their product, the three-minute
song, was the first piece of pop culture to be fully revolutionized by
the Internet. And their second revenue source — touring — makes them
highly motivated to connect with far-flung fans.
This confluence of forces has produced a curious inflection point: for
rock musicians, being a bit of a nerd now helps you become successful.
When I spoke with Damian Kulash, the lead singer for the band OK Go,
he discoursed like a professor on the six-degrees-of-separation
theory, talking at one point about “rhizomatic networks.” (You can
Google it.) Kulash has put his networking expertise to good use: last
year, OK Go displayed a canny understanding of online dynamics when it
posted on YouTube a low-budget homemade video that showed the band
members dancing on treadmills to their song “Here It Goes Again.” The
video quickly became one of the site’s all-time biggest hits. It led
to the band’s live treadmill performance at the MTV Video Music
Awards, which in turn led to a Grammy Award for best video.
This is not a trend that affects A-list stars. The most famous
corporate acts — Justin Timberlake, Fergie, Beyoncé — are still
creatures of mass marketing, carpet-bombed into popularity by
expensive ad campaigns and radio airplay. They do not need the online
world to find listeners, and indeed, their audiences are too vast for
any artist to even pretend intimacy with. No, this is a trend that is
catalyzing the B-list, the new, under-the-radar acts that have always
built their success fan by fan. Across the country, the CD business is
in a spectacular free fall; sales are down 20 percent this year alone.
People are increasingly getting their music online (whether or not
they’re paying for it), and it seems likely that the artists who forge
direct access to their fans have the best chance of figuring out what
the new economics of the music business will be.
The universe of musicians making their way online includes many bands
that function in a traditional way — signing up with a label — while
using the Internet primarily as a means of promotion, the way OK Go
has done. Two-thirds of OK Go’s album sales are still in the physical
world: actual CDs sold through traditional CD stores. But the B-list
increasingly includes a newer and more curious life-form: performers
like Coulton, who construct their entire business model online.
Without the Internet, their musical careers might not exist at all.
Coulton has forgone a record-label contract; instead, he uses a
growing array of online tools to sell music directly to fans. He
contracts with a virtual fulfillment house called CD Baby, which
warehouses his CDs, processes the credit-card payment for each sale
and ships it out, while pocketing only $4 of the album’s price, a much
smaller cut than a traditional label would take. CD Baby also places
his music on the major digital-music stores like iTunes, Rhapsody and
Napster. Most lucratively, Coulton sells MP3s from his own personal
Web sites, where there’s no middleman at all.
In total, 41 percent of Coulton’s income is from digital-music sales,
three-quarters of which are sold directly off his own Web site.
Another 29 percent of his income is from CD sales; 18 percent is from
ticket sales for his live shows. The final 11 percent comes from
T-shirts, often bought online.
Indeed, running a Web store has allowed Coulton and other artists to
experiment with intriguing innovations in flexible pricing.
Remarkably, Coulton offers most of his music free on his site; when
fans buy his songs, it is because they want to give him money. The
Canadian folk-pop singer Jane Siberry has an even more clever system:
she has a “pay what you can” policy with her downloadable songs, so
fans can download them free — but her site also shows the average
price her customers have paid for each track. This subtly creates a
community standard, a generalized awareness of how much people think
each track is really worth. The result? The average price is as much
as $1.30 a track, more than her fans would pay at iTunes.
Yet this phenomenon isn’t merely about money and business models. In
many ways, the Internet’s biggest impact on artists is emotional. When
you have thousands of fans interacting with you electronically, it can
feel as if you’re on stage 24 hours a day.
“I vacillate so much on this,” Tad Kubler told me one evening in
March. “I’m like, I want to keep some privacy, some sense of mystery.
But I also want to have this intimacy with our fans. And I’m not sure
you can have both.” Kubler is the guitarist for the Brooklyn-based
rock band the Hold Steady, and I met up with him at a Japanese bar in
Pittsburgh, where the band was performing on its latest national tour.
An exuberant but thoughtful blond-surfer type, Kubler drank a Sapporo
beer and explained how radically the Internet had changed his life on
the road. His previous band existed before the Web became ubiquitous,
and each town it visited was a mystery: Would 20 people come out?
Would two? When the Hold Steady formed four years ago, Kubler
immediately signed up for a MySpace page, later adding a discussion
board, and curious fans were drawn in like iron filings to a magnet.
Now the band’s board teems with fans asking technical questions about
Kubler’s guitars, swapping bootlegged MP3 recordings of live gigs with
each other, organizing carpool drives to see the band. Some send
e-mail messages to Kubler from cities where the band will be
performing in a couple of weeks, offering to design, print and
distribute concert posters free. As the band’s appointed geek, Kubler
handles the majority of its online audience relations; fans at gigs
chant his online screen-name, “Koob.”
“It’s like night and day, man,” Kubler said, comparing his current
situation with his pre-Internet musical career. “It’s awesome now.”
Kubler regards fan interaction as an obligation that is cultural,
almost ethical. He remembers what it was like to be a young fan
himself, enraptured by the members of Led Zeppelin. “That’s all I
wanted when I was a fan, right?” he said. “To have some small contact
with these guys you really dug. I think I’m still that way. I’ll be,
like, devastated if I never meet Jimmy Page before I die.” Indeed, for
a guitarist whose arms are bedecked in tattoos and who maintains an
aggressive schedule of drinking, Kubler seems genuinely touched by the
shy queries he gets from teenagers.
“If some kid is going to take 10 minutes out of his day to figure out
what he wants to say in an e-mail, and then write it and send it, for
me to not take the 5 minutes to say, dude, thanks so much — for me to
ignore that?” He shrugged. “I can’t.”
Yet Kubler sometimes has second thoughts about the intimacy. Part of
the allure of rock, when he was a kid, was the shadowy glamour that
surrounded his favorite stars. He’d parse their lyrics to try to
figure out what they were like in person. Now he wonders: Are today’s
online artists ruining their own aura by blogging? Can you still
idolize someone when you know what they had for breakfast this
morning? “It takes a little bit of the mystery out of rock ‘n’ roll,”
he said.
that’s ok.never mind和you’re welcome分别在什么情况下回答对方
That’s all right 别人道歉时回答 相当于没关系That’s right 用于你同意别人观点时That’s OK 别人道谢时回答 = you are welcome不用谢 you’re right 你是对的,你是正确的 all right相当于OK never mind 别在意,通常是在别人有过失时让别人不要在意,是种安慰性的话
给了九寸想十寸得寸进尺打一生肖
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