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Celebrating your small wins will help you stay motivated through your journey. Plus, celebrating is always super fun. Maybe you break your goal down to 10 small-sized goals with tasks that get you on track to achieve them. For each of the 10 goals you can add a small celebration. Maybe a glass of champagne for one or a dessert with a sparkler on top for another.

This goes back to the positive environment point: You need to be around with others who are just ambitious as you. These motivational quotes are just the first step of your journey into becoming more motivated. Bookmark this page to keep you motivated on days where you need an extra kick to keep you going. The most important thing to remember is that the greatest source of motivation will come from you. Post Contents What Is Motivation?

How to Motivate Yourself: 3 Simple Tricks 1. But when she labels Certain people "beboppers" based on their clothing or speech, the term seems to be couching casual racism. Meanwhile I assure myself that I don't listen to as much hip-hop as I used to or should, despite knowing how tremendous it often is, because Certain lyrical subjects cargo-cultish materialism and constant brand-name fetishizing don't appeal to my abstractly liberal Adbusters -y aspirations.

But what was my excuse with metal? Though the musicianship's fantastic, some of the subject matter and circumscribed imagery orcs straddling mystic funereal abysses, et cetera struck me as cartoonish, even if the mostly dudes singing were as serious as Voldemort. I vacillated about whether the elastically would-be-Latinate song, cycle, and album titles were linguistically innovative or turbo-goofy. Maybe, out of insecurity, I needed to feel that I'd evolved since my 80s tween transition from pop-metal fandom into speed and thrash before going predictably "alternative" in the 90s.

Over the years, I read the right metal articles, columns, and books, skimmed the occasional skull-bedazzled forums, and downloaded and listened as I was told. In my homework-y way, I knew the history and all, but just wasn't feeling it, nor was I able to discern many differences in "quality" or modes of approach. About a couple of years ago, though, I was standing at a southeastern airport gate waiting to board a long flight to Portland, Oregon when I saw a well-inked person who was holding an instrument case covered in band stickers and sporting a newish Joy Division tee.

I rubbed my vintage Bowie tee and whispered to it, "Please let me sit beside her on this flight, and not who I usually end up beside, some rotund snorer whose copy of What Would Seabiscuit Do keeps migrating over the armrest and into my lap. Beezlebowie must have been listening, because we ended up rowmates.

Turned out she was Stevie Floyd of the band Dark Castle, and over many hours, drinks, and passings of her iPod, she graciously provided me with a sort of all-inclusive tutorial.

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We discussed the plenitude of philosophical approaches to black metal, some empowering, some power-mongering, and her Burzum apologetics even convinced me that bobbing my head approvingly to "Glemselens Elv" made me neither Hitler nor Satan. She explained to my dense self that so many of the genre striations resulted not just from varying tempos, duh, but from technical distinctions mix levels, drum patterns, vox delivery, whether there were solos, and so forth.

I told Stevie about my unfun times trying to attend metal shows. Even though I'm sure most metal people are civil and groovy, they certainly didn't want my aging-hipster-clown costume commingling with their nether-drag and annihiluniforms: One show left me with a claw-shaped bruise on my arm where a dude grabbed me and threw me to the back of the room. Another allowed me to almost see my glasses get stomped after they were ripped from my face.

And most spookily, I pranced home from one to discover cigarette burns and V-shaped puncture marks all over the back of my pleather jacket. Some of metal's subject matter and circumscribed imagery orcs straddling mystic funereal abysses struck me as cartoonish, even if the dudes singing were as serious as Voldemort. That was the only aspect of my exposure to her during that flight that didn't seem totally free and cool, the possibility which she and her ilk might find completely satisfying that being a metal-scene lifer can be a sort of straightjacket in terms of one's presentation style and taste in music.

Some commentariat fundamentalists even judged his soul and found it lacking. Inevitably, there have been less-than-transcendent challenges to duke it out with him. What I hear in a lot of the Liturgy hate is purists, who've dedicated their adult lives and epidermises to embodying some "true" metal ethos, resenting soapy pluralists such as myself and other fickle mp3-tourists zooming through every genre nation with blogs as our guidebooks, our passports stamped plentifully and according to fashion.

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I hear colonial Salemites resenting those who work and travel along the Ipswich Road. I hear tribalism, rigidity, and conservatism, a rejection of others' tolerance and capacity for diversity and hybridity. To any straw black metal lifers who accidentally clicked on this article in your search for demonic pitchforks at bargain prices: A few of us dilettantes overestimating Liturgy, and then maybe checking out some other black metal bands' releases and shows, isn't "doing" anything to your precious "true" black metal.

No one's taking your awesome tattoos away. Due to a recessive trait, I can't even grow eyebrows, much less long hair and a beard.

Let Hunt-Hendrix be loopy and grandiose. That he's not your appointed ambassador to a larger outside populace you don't seem to want visiting your realm is plenty evident enough, so stop being pissed that we straw hipsters have granted him diplomatic immunity.

Have you noticed how arbitrarily and instantaneously we tend to revoke that shit? Some of you sound like Mitt Romney sounds in this quote about people using contraceptives: "Think what that does to people in faiths that do not share those views. And if you're secure in your beliefs and choices, and the limits they impose on you, then you wouldn't worry so much about those of others.

Let Romney happily torture himself with Mormon underwear, and let Santorum fear same-sex couch-sitting, while their neighbors should be free to reap the pleasures of being sluts. Similarly, you happily torture yourself practicing lifelong monogamy to the "true" black-metal strictures, and let Hunt-Hendrix write any oracular PowerPoint exegesis he wants to, while others of us whore out our iPod space to whatever comes along and seems halfway interesting.

As I drove all over Florida feeding antifreeze to my thirsty Lethal-Weapon-2 -South-African-diplomat-themed Mercedes, I was full of questions: What kinds of crowds would show up? What would they be wearing as an expression of the music and drugs they preferred to consume? Should I have said something defensive when my cynical stoner neighbor said it "sounds like a Pitchfork Warped Tour"? Would the audiences be giddy syncretists, down for whatever?

Would the bands themselves feud, like when a member of Magnolia Electric Co. Would people stop being agog at the "unlikeliness" of the lineup, and process that Diplo remixed Sleigh Bells, that Sleigh Bells' Derek E. Miller and Diplo both worked with M. During the run of shows I attended, there occurred an "SNL" perfect storm: After the internet-wide slamming of Lana Del Rey's performance on the show, and just as soon as I'd had the thought "Liturgy is the Lana Del Rey of metal," the episode featuring the Grammy-pooh-poohing-but-ultimately-winning Bon Iver aired, with a comic segment defending Lana Del Rey, and a Bon Iver horn player donning a Liturgy tee.

Anon, this singularity is! When this tour was announced, a sentiment emerged from those in somewhat sexier markets: Why ten shows in Florida? A lot of tours skip the whole peninsula for various reasons, hence the existence of a last.

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My poor adopted state takes so much guff. Some people cling to an "idea of Florida," that our sidewalks are split between befuddled senior citizens and topless Spring Breakers, that we all wake in the morn, do body shots off each other, feed a tourist to our pet alligators, swing by the painkiller clinic to pick up our groceries, and then ride the public airboat system to our jobs in the thong district. Why tour Florida?

A pepper-sprayed Darth Vader and a mom saved via pizza-slap were barely the highlights of its national news stories of the week. I kept a laptop in the passenger seat playing TV shows and podcasts throughout this "Paradise Lost" trek; I got to hear Marc Maron and Michael Ian Black deign Florida worthy of hate, "The Daily Show" mock our governor's cruelty and hypocrisy, and "30 Rock" list it as ranking among the chief cultural contributions of the idiot class.

The second tour stop, Tampa, was the subject of a derisive yarn spun by David Cross, called "the worst" by Jimmy Kimmel, and its county served as the location for the most pathetic segments of "Cops". No kidding, y'all, I heard a guy in designer flip-flops try to start a feud with a girl in flared jeans by saying, "Why don't you go to Wal-Mart and get some conditioner?

Why play Tampa? It's the home of this year's Republican Convention. It's the location of our perfect military's Central Command. But why play Tampa's Ybor City? The Hold Steady mythos legacy? The face-recognition technology that used to watch over it?


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As I sashayed from my hotel to the show, past a skate and fancy-shoe shop, I thought: "Things must have improved here if entrepreneurs feel safe with just those huge panes of glass separating their pricey merch from the urchins. The short, roster-specific answer to "Why tour Florida"? Diplo's from here, and even went to UCF for a spell. Sleigh Bells' Miller is from here too, and famously played in Poison the Well.

It's probably a good low-stakes warm-up test-market for new material. And the boys in Liturgy are clearly masochists. The cover art of Sleigh Bells' forthcoming Reign of Terror-- with its bloodstained Keds prompted by either a cocaine nosebleed or a busted lip-- served as the poster for this tour, and proved prescient, as blood was shed right outside each show I attended. At the Gainesville kickoff show, for example, an eager dude jumped out of his car and smashed his head on the entry-stanchions.

I watched another group of patrons steer each other around his stains by saying, charitably, "Careful where you step, somebody got their period. Pusher grabbed his friend and grumbled, "Girl Talk's not some DJ. He ' s a mastermind.

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The booing began soon after. When the first piece was over, not enough time had passed to think, "you dipped your hegemony in my monoculture," before someone yelled, "You suck! I assure you, Liturgy did not suck.