Music: Muse - Falling Away From You - Absolution
Mood: Impassive
I gather up
Each sound
You left behind
And stretch them
On our bed
Each night
I breathe you
And become high.
Mood: Impassive
I gather up
Each sound
You left behind
And stretch them
On our bed
Each night
I breathe you
And become high.
Music: Foo Fighters - Miracle - In Your Honor (Disc 2)
Mood: Hot
It is 120 degrees outside. The date is August 29th. It should not be this severe, nor this painful at such a time in the year, but I suppose this is the universe's way of balancing out the hurricane in New Orleans.
I have more standardized testing to practice before October 1st, and I pray that I can raise my score a whopping 10 points, aka 12-15 questions. In the immortal words of Jay-Z "Difficult takes a day, impossible takes a week". If only Jigga took the LSAT.
The MTV VMA's were so depressing yesterday, given that Green Day won the sympathy vote 8 Times. Ok, I don't mind that people are back to caring for Pop-Punk Rock. But c'mon, are we really going to allow them this much shine? Someone needs to let Kurt Loder pick the winners. I have a feeling that ifsofacto, The Pixies would be winning far too often.
My brother and I were enjoying making a mockery of the intro monolouge where they list off somewhere in the vicinity of every celebrity within a 12-block distance of the VMA's. He came up with the idea of throwing obscure band names into the dialouge, something like: "Gwen Stefani, 50 Cent, Green Day, The Killers, Motorhead, Kelly Clarkson...". I really wish that would happen one year.
Where were the good performances? All that I heard about was a bunch of shamless Hip Hop tributes and some beef between 50 and a fellow by the name of Fat Joe(seph). Where have all the cowboys gone? Or what about letting someone like CCR up there for a rousing rendition of Run Thru the Jungle?
I don't know. Mass display's of music just make me sick. I'd much rather stay true to the artists that matter, instead of selling my soul to watch TI and Ludacris sodomize women while Diddy gives his Rolex to greedy fans.
Mood: Hot
It is 120 degrees outside. The date is August 29th. It should not be this severe, nor this painful at such a time in the year, but I suppose this is the universe's way of balancing out the hurricane in New Orleans.
I have more standardized testing to practice before October 1st, and I pray that I can raise my score a whopping 10 points, aka 12-15 questions. In the immortal words of Jay-Z "Difficult takes a day, impossible takes a week". If only Jigga took the LSAT.
The MTV VMA's were so depressing yesterday, given that Green Day won the sympathy vote 8 Times. Ok, I don't mind that people are back to caring for Pop-Punk Rock. But c'mon, are we really going to allow them this much shine? Someone needs to let Kurt Loder pick the winners. I have a feeling that ifsofacto, The Pixies would be winning far too often.
My brother and I were enjoying making a mockery of the intro monolouge where they list off somewhere in the vicinity of every celebrity within a 12-block distance of the VMA's. He came up with the idea of throwing obscure band names into the dialouge, something like: "Gwen Stefani, 50 Cent, Green Day, The Killers, Motorhead, Kelly Clarkson...". I really wish that would happen one year.
Where were the good performances? All that I heard about was a bunch of shamless Hip Hop tributes and some beef between 50 and a fellow by the name of Fat Joe(seph). Where have all the cowboys gone? Or what about letting someone like CCR up there for a rousing rendition of Run Thru the Jungle?
I don't know. Mass display's of music just make me sick. I'd much rather stay true to the artists that matter, instead of selling my soul to watch TI and Ludacris sodomize women while Diddy gives his Rolex to greedy fans.
Music: Kanye West - Drive Slow - Late Registration
Mood: Immersed
As I break away for a moments reprieve from practice tests, logical reasoning conundrums, and the likeness of nails hammered into the side of my brain, I can think of nothing better to do than to add to the world wide clutter with yet another blog post.
It seems as though both wit and sarcasm have reached all-time lows. Today, while walking the parking lot outside Sahil's dorm, a few freshman tried to make polite conversation with me. Now, I guess I just happen to fit the mold of an incoming student, so everyone that caught my glimpse had to go out of their way to shake my hand give me the rundown. But these two guys ambushed the car while I was organizing boxes and had to air out their very pathetic humor and 'skills'. One of them, named Drake, asked me where I was from, and before I could even get out a breath, he had an answer and a one-liner ready which I can't even begin to recall as it was nothing special and very un-cool. But his buddy seemed to eat that shit up with grace and pleasure, as the two sort-of bounced jokes off of each other. I guess I gave the impression that I was somewhat perturbed with their looming over my shoulder so after a while they left me to put the CoffeeMaker box on top of the TV.
But it got me thinking on the way home; what happened to the genuine practice of sarcasm? I can vividly recall days when it was employed in the appropriate context, or if stretched, at least therein was a sentiment of irony loosely attached to invoke a minimal guffaw or chuckle. But now it seems like everyone has a line practiced, or is really trying hard to be the Next Seth Cohen. I don't recognize this trend among girls, because at the end of the day, girls are not obligated to do anything that does not require ill-fitting clothes and trend-setting. But guys older and younger than me are making a mockery of the time-honored tradition of meaningful sarcastic banter. These two fools are not the only demonstration of the decline among my generation of understanding the significance of witty one-liners and the occasional pop-culture reference dropped ever-so-delicately into the framework of a conversation. Mainstream media outlets have fashioned a perception of sarcasm as the sure-fire way to seduce the caliente chica that you go to school with, so long as you're 24 but playing a 17 year-old overgrown high school student. Moreover, kids are finding a level of comfort with being known as the 'funny guy' on campus or at work.
But here's the kicker: they're not being funny, or humorous, or even mildly amusing. In the end, these men are just making complete asses of themselves by trying to conform to what they perceive as the socially acceptable personality type that both genders will find amicable. Parents will smile, girls will coo with bright smiles, and guys will laugh their heads off. This is what those two ass-clowns wanted to show me, that they were cool because they're conforming to a standard of idiocy that has yet to be explicitly defined. There's a level of political correctness that goes along with the acknowledgment of any power/responsibility, and clearly these kids didn't give a shit. They just wanted to make sure that they were seen acting the role of the sarcastic bastard, rather than be heard for their shameless lines and pathetic ploys for attention.
I despise those people, and want nothing more than to rewind the clock two years.
Mood: Immersed
As I break away for a moments reprieve from practice tests, logical reasoning conundrums, and the likeness of nails hammered into the side of my brain, I can think of nothing better to do than to add to the world wide clutter with yet another blog post.
It seems as though both wit and sarcasm have reached all-time lows. Today, while walking the parking lot outside Sahil's dorm, a few freshman tried to make polite conversation with me. Now, I guess I just happen to fit the mold of an incoming student, so everyone that caught my glimpse had to go out of their way to shake my hand give me the rundown. But these two guys ambushed the car while I was organizing boxes and had to air out their very pathetic humor and 'skills'. One of them, named Drake, asked me where I was from, and before I could even get out a breath, he had an answer and a one-liner ready which I can't even begin to recall as it was nothing special and very un-cool. But his buddy seemed to eat that shit up with grace and pleasure, as the two sort-of bounced jokes off of each other. I guess I gave the impression that I was somewhat perturbed with their looming over my shoulder so after a while they left me to put the CoffeeMaker box on top of the TV.
But it got me thinking on the way home; what happened to the genuine practice of sarcasm? I can vividly recall days when it was employed in the appropriate context, or if stretched, at least therein was a sentiment of irony loosely attached to invoke a minimal guffaw or chuckle. But now it seems like everyone has a line practiced, or is really trying hard to be the Next Seth Cohen. I don't recognize this trend among girls, because at the end of the day, girls are not obligated to do anything that does not require ill-fitting clothes and trend-setting. But guys older and younger than me are making a mockery of the time-honored tradition of meaningful sarcastic banter. These two fools are not the only demonstration of the decline among my generation of understanding the significance of witty one-liners and the occasional pop-culture reference dropped ever-so-delicately into the framework of a conversation. Mainstream media outlets have fashioned a perception of sarcasm as the sure-fire way to seduce the caliente chica that you go to school with, so long as you're 24 but playing a 17 year-old overgrown high school student. Moreover, kids are finding a level of comfort with being known as the 'funny guy' on campus or at work.
But here's the kicker: they're not being funny, or humorous, or even mildly amusing. In the end, these men are just making complete asses of themselves by trying to conform to what they perceive as the socially acceptable personality type that both genders will find amicable. Parents will smile, girls will coo with bright smiles, and guys will laugh their heads off. This is what those two ass-clowns wanted to show me, that they were cool because they're conforming to a standard of idiocy that has yet to be explicitly defined. There's a level of political correctness that goes along with the acknowledgment of any power/responsibility, and clearly these kids didn't give a shit. They just wanted to make sure that they were seen acting the role of the sarcastic bastard, rather than be heard for their shameless lines and pathetic ploys for attention.
I despise those people, and want nothing more than to rewind the clock two years.
Music: Death Cab For Cutie - What Sarah Said - Plans
Mood: Pensive
Ours is not what you would consider normal. We don't abide by generic convention; instead we exhaust days by silently staring into the abyss, fearful of taking another step together, or alone. What we need and want are one and the same. Separation, without representation, strings-attached metaphors so we can tell all our friends that we're taken once again. It's been like this forever. Before we met, fate would have that our time would be divided among the smiles and frowns that punctuate hours like bullets shattering tenement glass. Still, we sit motionless searching for that missing moment, that intangible fractal of an emotion that will liberate this visage of grey permanently- so that tonight we lie down together, breathing in unison.
She may tire of me, as our December sun is setting. I don't pass judgement, because I'm not who I used to be. No longer easy on the eyes, but these wrinkles masterfully disguise the youthful boy below. She turned away and saw something she wasn't looking for; both a beginning and an end. Now I live inside someone I do not recognize when catching glimpes of reflections on accident. On the back of a motorbike, with her arms outstretched trying to take flight, leaving everything behind. But even at our swiftest speed, we couldn't break from the concrete, sliding down the streets in the city where we still reside. So now we say goodnight, from our separate sides, like brothers on a hotel bed.
A season of imperfections for two melancholy souls.
Mood: Pensive
Ours is not what you would consider normal. We don't abide by generic convention; instead we exhaust days by silently staring into the abyss, fearful of taking another step together, or alone. What we need and want are one and the same. Separation, without representation, strings-attached metaphors so we can tell all our friends that we're taken once again. It's been like this forever. Before we met, fate would have that our time would be divided among the smiles and frowns that punctuate hours like bullets shattering tenement glass. Still, we sit motionless searching for that missing moment, that intangible fractal of an emotion that will liberate this visage of grey permanently- so that tonight we lie down together, breathing in unison.
She may tire of me, as our December sun is setting. I don't pass judgement, because I'm not who I used to be. No longer easy on the eyes, but these wrinkles masterfully disguise the youthful boy below. She turned away and saw something she wasn't looking for; both a beginning and an end. Now I live inside someone I do not recognize when catching glimpes of reflections on accident. On the back of a motorbike, with her arms outstretched trying to take flight, leaving everything behind. But even at our swiftest speed, we couldn't break from the concrete, sliding down the streets in the city where we still reside. So now we say goodnight, from our separate sides, like brothers on a hotel bed.
A season of imperfections for two melancholy souls.
Music: M. Ward - Poor Boy, Minor Key - Transfiguration of Vincent
Mood: Hungry
http://emosong.ytmnd.com/
Pure comedy.
Mood: Hungry
http://emosong.ytmnd.com/
Pure comedy.
Music: Incubus - The Warmth (Acoustic) - Live at MTV Acoustic
Mood: Headachin'
I do and I don't enjoy the process of applying for admission to law schools next fall. I do enjoy the notion that perhaps next year at this time I will be packing to travel to some city in the US for another three years of academia. I do not enjoy the preparation, the applications, the deadlines, the essays (actually these are quite fun). Considering that my first foray into college applications was applying to one single school and I happened to get in, this is quite the change for me. I've never applied with so much uncertainty in my life for anything.
The competiton is intense. The top schools are improbable to achieve. Only the supreme applicants are selected for the most competitive seats, and still its no guarantee. A 4.0 with a 170 LSAT score or above is not promised admission to Harvards and Yales. I took two practice tests this weekend and was dissapointed with my performace. Let's just say I have a long way to go before the October 1st test (I want a 170!). I am trying to find something in the format of work experience this winter in London. Anybody that's familiar with a Law Firm out there and willing to hook a brother up, leave a comment.
But otherwise, things are suprisingly well.
I have so much things to say, but for now you will all have to wait.
Mood: Headachin'
I do and I don't enjoy the process of applying for admission to law schools next fall. I do enjoy the notion that perhaps next year at this time I will be packing to travel to some city in the US for another three years of academia. I do not enjoy the preparation, the applications, the deadlines, the essays (actually these are quite fun). Considering that my first foray into college applications was applying to one single school and I happened to get in, this is quite the change for me. I've never applied with so much uncertainty in my life for anything.
The competiton is intense. The top schools are improbable to achieve. Only the supreme applicants are selected for the most competitive seats, and still its no guarantee. A 4.0 with a 170 LSAT score or above is not promised admission to Harvards and Yales. I took two practice tests this weekend and was dissapointed with my performace. Let's just say I have a long way to go before the October 1st test (I want a 170!). I am trying to find something in the format of work experience this winter in London. Anybody that's familiar with a Law Firm out there and willing to hook a brother up, leave a comment.
But otherwise, things are suprisingly well.
I have so much things to say, but for now you will all have to wait.
Music: Interpol - Take You On A Cruise
Mood: Alright
I like to consider myself a seasoned traveler. I don' 'fear' the concept of getting on a plane and going to some exotic or frigid destination. Typically, I find my seat, hope that the person next to me is decent enough to entertain a mild albeit worthless conversation, whilst I try and grab some winks before arrival. Most airline movies are dull and listless, so I don't waste much time there, instead I opt for the nouveau-traditional iPod approach.
(It's funny how having an iPod nowadays makes you seem so normal, whereas six years ago it was totally not cool for me to use my MiniDisc player on a trans-atlantic flight, and the flight attendents couldn't fathom the notion of recording your own music into a compliation 'disc').
Now, I don't think of myself as chatty when it comes to divulging information to complete strangers, but, I think it is fun to fabricate a life on the fly. Considering that the person next to you a.) knows nothing about you, b.) doesn't care enough to put stock in anything you say, c.) really wanted the window seat in the exit row that you have, it's all moot once the flight touches down.
Turbulence is interesting. Most people flip out and grasp the side of their chairs and start the profuse-sweating on cue. Some guys that think they're really badass and do the 'I gotta hit the head now or else' routine by making a very visible scene of their maneuvering to the lavatories. But then there are the few stragglers who are too much into their own thoughts to even notice that the plane is at a 60 degree angle and headed for the hills.
Usually these are the people that actually share worthwhile information. If you're sitting next to Jane Doe and she's working on a manuscript while the seat-belt light flashes, you've got yourself a winner. But if Pablo is praying to la Virgin de Guadeloupe and smelling like too much Aqua Velva, its a lost cause.
When it comes to putting luggage in the overhead bins, its always an intersting fight to see who gets what section. I don't travel heavy, so at the most I have a backpack and a jacket. But there's always the family of six kids that all have strollers and Pokemon Travel-PacZ, which must be placed in the space above because Doug and Tim and Lindsay and Frank and Mia all got too. This is something I hate. Don't get me wrong, kids are cool, so long as they don't invade my space or cause me undue stress. I like to look at the situation from a legal perspective: they are fine so long as they cause me direct or indirect burden's and/or harm.
I don't mind when I get to sit next to an 11-year-old boy or girl. They're usuallly too afraid to talk to a complete stranger with a 5 o'clock shadow at 8:15 in the morning. But every so often there's the one kid that's just so interested in why you chose to wear a black shirt instead of blue, why you listen to Interpol, why you go to a school on the east coast, and why you don't comb your hair. I try and be polite, at least until the parents come by to check-up on little Jimmy. Usually I perform my not-so-subtle "your kid is killin' me over here" routine. It's a very basic technique.
A Parent stops by, asks how everything is, here is what you do: when the question of "How are you" is posed, to very slowly lift your head upward, and make a wry forehead wrinkle as though you are deep into thought, BUT, at the same time, you feign a hint of exhaustion. You take a few extra seconds to respond, and then you say "I'm sorry, what was that you said" punctuated by a deep breath at the end. That typically solves the problem stat, and before you know it, you've got Grandpa Joe for the next four hours snoring in your right ear. Pick your poision I guess.
Flight attendents amuse me for unknown reasons. They're happy, but beyond a comprehensible level. They're frighteningly jubilant at every turn. You want peanuts, or a Sprite? You can have it, with a wide-grin and an shrieking "Here y'all go now" to boot. Male flight attendents, Mattendents as I call them, are a so depressing its terrific in a weird way. These are individuals that would much rather serve you small cups of booze and plastic meals and travel to not so exotic locals as Boston and Topeka instead of get a legitimate job at a normal place. Moreover, they're either straight and single or gay and engaged. But you never really know.
It's always 50/50 in the world of an airline carrier.
Mood: Alright
I like to consider myself a seasoned traveler. I don' 'fear' the concept of getting on a plane and going to some exotic or frigid destination. Typically, I find my seat, hope that the person next to me is decent enough to entertain a mild albeit worthless conversation, whilst I try and grab some winks before arrival. Most airline movies are dull and listless, so I don't waste much time there, instead I opt for the nouveau-traditional iPod approach.
(It's funny how having an iPod nowadays makes you seem so normal, whereas six years ago it was totally not cool for me to use my MiniDisc player on a trans-atlantic flight, and the flight attendents couldn't fathom the notion of recording your own music into a compliation 'disc').
Now, I don't think of myself as chatty when it comes to divulging information to complete strangers, but, I think it is fun to fabricate a life on the fly. Considering that the person next to you a.) knows nothing about you, b.) doesn't care enough to put stock in anything you say, c.) really wanted the window seat in the exit row that you have, it's all moot once the flight touches down.
Turbulence is interesting. Most people flip out and grasp the side of their chairs and start the profuse-sweating on cue. Some guys that think they're really badass and do the 'I gotta hit the head now or else' routine by making a very visible scene of their maneuvering to the lavatories. But then there are the few stragglers who are too much into their own thoughts to even notice that the plane is at a 60 degree angle and headed for the hills.
Usually these are the people that actually share worthwhile information. If you're sitting next to Jane Doe and she's working on a manuscript while the seat-belt light flashes, you've got yourself a winner. But if Pablo is praying to la Virgin de Guadeloupe and smelling like too much Aqua Velva, its a lost cause.
When it comes to putting luggage in the overhead bins, its always an intersting fight to see who gets what section. I don't travel heavy, so at the most I have a backpack and a jacket. But there's always the family of six kids that all have strollers and Pokemon Travel-PacZ, which must be placed in the space above because Doug and Tim and Lindsay and Frank and Mia all got too. This is something I hate. Don't get me wrong, kids are cool, so long as they don't invade my space or cause me undue stress. I like to look at the situation from a legal perspective: they are fine so long as they cause me direct or indirect burden's and/or harm.
I don't mind when I get to sit next to an 11-year-old boy or girl. They're usuallly too afraid to talk to a complete stranger with a 5 o'clock shadow at 8:15 in the morning. But every so often there's the one kid that's just so interested in why you chose to wear a black shirt instead of blue, why you listen to Interpol, why you go to a school on the east coast, and why you don't comb your hair. I try and be polite, at least until the parents come by to check-up on little Jimmy. Usually I perform my not-so-subtle "your kid is killin' me over here" routine. It's a very basic technique.
A Parent stops by, asks how everything is, here is what you do: when the question of "How are you" is posed, to very slowly lift your head upward, and make a wry forehead wrinkle as though you are deep into thought, BUT, at the same time, you feign a hint of exhaustion. You take a few extra seconds to respond, and then you say "I'm sorry, what was that you said" punctuated by a deep breath at the end. That typically solves the problem stat, and before you know it, you've got Grandpa Joe for the next four hours snoring in your right ear. Pick your poision I guess.
Flight attendents amuse me for unknown reasons. They're happy, but beyond a comprehensible level. They're frighteningly jubilant at every turn. You want peanuts, or a Sprite? You can have it, with a wide-grin and an shrieking "Here y'all go now" to boot. Male flight attendents, Mattendents as I call them, are a so depressing its terrific in a weird way. These are individuals that would much rather serve you small cups of booze and plastic meals and travel to not so exotic locals as Boston and Topeka instead of get a legitimate job at a normal place. Moreover, they're either straight and single or gay and engaged. But you never really know.
It's always 50/50 in the world of an airline carrier.
Music: Nirvana - Something in the Way - Nevermind
Mood: Eager
The life and death of Kurt Cobain has been (almost without rival) the most poorly remembered cultural event of my lifetime. It's normal for someone's death to change how we recall what a celebrity was like, but the situation with Cobain is more complex; this is a situation in which a celebrity died, and many private citizens-including countless individuals who were wholly unconnected to Kurt or Seattle or grunge or even popular music-suddenly chose to remember themselves in a completley different way. Kurt Cobain didn't need to die in order to get integrity, because he already had that. However, his dying seemed to give total strangers a sense of integrity they had never wanted while he was alive.
Do I remember the day his electrician found him dead? I suppose that I do. Kurt Loder reported the news on MTV, seemingly every six minutes while I was surfing channels trying to find cartoons. People were suprised, but nobody seemed that shocked; I remember going to school and hearing countless kids older that I was say things like, "That's so weird" or "That's so wild", or "That's so pathetic." It was sad, but everyone seemed to keep themselves together, at least those who actually cared. Apparently Andy Rooney went on 60 minutes and essentially argued that Cobain was a degenerate who deserved to die, but this just made everyone think AR was an out-of-touch moron.
What people seem to forget too often are the months before Cobain's suicide. What we tend to forget are the vicious attacks we threw in his direction. Everyone had purchased In Utero that fall, but not many people seemed to live it; the mainstream consensus was that Pearl Jam was a little better. This is the biggest thing pop historians revise when talking about Nirvana: The week of its release, V sold more than 900,000 copies. Pearl Jam was the people's band; Nirvana was the band that hated its own people. They dropped off the schedule for Lollapalooza and everyone blamed Kurt. Jokes were made when he almost killed himself in Rome. Kids were confused and insulted bu his liner notes for Incesticide, where Kurt expressed annoyance over uncool people liking his songs. There was just this widespread sentiment that Kurt Cobain was a self-absorbed complainer and that if he hated being famous, he should just disappear forever.
Which he did. And then everything immediately changed for everyone.
Mood: Eager
The life and death of Kurt Cobain has been (almost without rival) the most poorly remembered cultural event of my lifetime. It's normal for someone's death to change how we recall what a celebrity was like, but the situation with Cobain is more complex; this is a situation in which a celebrity died, and many private citizens-including countless individuals who were wholly unconnected to Kurt or Seattle or grunge or even popular music-suddenly chose to remember themselves in a completley different way. Kurt Cobain didn't need to die in order to get integrity, because he already had that. However, his dying seemed to give total strangers a sense of integrity they had never wanted while he was alive.
Do I remember the day his electrician found him dead? I suppose that I do. Kurt Loder reported the news on MTV, seemingly every six minutes while I was surfing channels trying to find cartoons. People were suprised, but nobody seemed that shocked; I remember going to school and hearing countless kids older that I was say things like, "That's so weird" or "That's so wild", or "That's so pathetic." It was sad, but everyone seemed to keep themselves together, at least those who actually cared. Apparently Andy Rooney went on 60 minutes and essentially argued that Cobain was a degenerate who deserved to die, but this just made everyone think AR was an out-of-touch moron.
What people seem to forget too often are the months before Cobain's suicide. What we tend to forget are the vicious attacks we threw in his direction. Everyone had purchased In Utero that fall, but not many people seemed to live it; the mainstream consensus was that Pearl Jam was a little better. This is the biggest thing pop historians revise when talking about Nirvana: The week of its release, V sold more than 900,000 copies. Pearl Jam was the people's band; Nirvana was the band that hated its own people. They dropped off the schedule for Lollapalooza and everyone blamed Kurt. Jokes were made when he almost killed himself in Rome. Kids were confused and insulted bu his liner notes for Incesticide, where Kurt expressed annoyance over uncool people liking his songs. There was just this widespread sentiment that Kurt Cobain was a self-absorbed complainer and that if he hated being famous, he should just disappear forever.
Which he did. And then everything immediately changed for everyone.
Music: Coldplay - White Shadows - Live at Glastonbury, June 25 2005
Mood: Le Tired
Only a band like Coldplay can make somebody feel so inspired that they want to grab their guitar and try and write melodic chord progressions for falsetto-fashioned vocalist/banging-Gwenyth type-b individuals.
The weekend has been enjoyable, but now it ends, and life resumes as it was on Friday. I love how life just seems to pause every Saturday and Sunday. What would the world be like if we refused to acknowledge the presence of said weekends.
So my last few posts have been quite the rantigular postings of the musical realm. Klosterman would be proud of my efforts. Nevertheless, I think I need to take a step aside and get 'back to basics' with the usual update + creative writing tidbit. I don't really know what's more important: satisfying my insatiable appetite for music-oriented posts, or, my neverending quest to become the next CK (not the damn clothing company, losers).
This weekend I downloaded two Coldplay DVD's, as well as the Nirvana Unplugged set. Time to watch some and slide into slumber.
Mood: Le Tired
Only a band like Coldplay can make somebody feel so inspired that they want to grab their guitar and try and write melodic chord progressions for falsetto-fashioned vocalist/banging-Gwenyth type-b individuals.
The weekend has been enjoyable, but now it ends, and life resumes as it was on Friday. I love how life just seems to pause every Saturday and Sunday. What would the world be like if we refused to acknowledge the presence of said weekends.
So my last few posts have been quite the rantigular postings of the musical realm. Klosterman would be proud of my efforts. Nevertheless, I think I need to take a step aside and get 'back to basics' with the usual update + creative writing tidbit. I don't really know what's more important: satisfying my insatiable appetite for music-oriented posts, or, my neverending quest to become the next CK (not the damn clothing company, losers).
This weekend I downloaded two Coldplay DVD's, as well as the Nirvana Unplugged set. Time to watch some and slide into slumber.
The Perfect Actualization of 'You'
1 Comments Published by Devin on Friday, August 12, 2005 at 12:20 AM.
Music: Radiohead - Optimistic - Kid A
Mood: Tired
Whenever I find myself in an argument about the greatest rock bands of all time, I always place Zeppelin third, behind the Beatles and the Rolling Stones. This sentiment is incredibly common; if we polled everyone in North America who likes rock music, those three bands would almost certainly be the consensus selections (and in that order). But Zeppelin is far and away the most popular rock band of all time, and they're popular in a way the Beatles and Stones cannot possibly compete with; this is because every straight man born after the year 1958 has at least one transitory period in his life when he believes Led Zeppelin is the only good band that ever existed. And there is no other rock group that generates that experience.
A year ago, I was walking thru the Horn Library with one of my professors, on our way to god knows where, when we passed by a fellow that was working at the side desk near the classrooms. This guy had a blond mullet, his blank eyes were beyond bloodshot, and he was wearing ripped jeans and a black Swan Song t-shirt with all the runes from the Zoso album. The professor turned to me and said, "You know, I went to high school with that guy." My professor was in the neighborhood of 42. But he was right He did go to high school with that guy. So did I. Everyone in America went to high school with that guy. Right now, there are boys in fourth grade who do not even realize that they will become "that guy" as soon as they finish reading The Hobbit in eight grade. There are people having unprotected sex at this very moment, and the fetus spawned from that union will become "that guy" in two decades. Led Zeppelin is the most legitimately timeless musical entity of the past half century; they are the only group in the history of rock that every male rock fan seems to experience in exactly the same way.
You are probably wondering why that happens; I'm not sure, either. For a time, I thought Robert Plant's overt misogyny fused with Jimmy Page's obsession with the occult, since that combination allows adolescent males to reconcile the alienation of unhinged teenage sexuality with their own inescapable geekiness. However, this theory strikes me as "probably stupid". It would be easy to argue that Zeppelin simply out-rocks all other bands, but that's not really true; AC/DC completely out-rocks Zeppelin, and AC/DC are mostly ridiculous. Whatever quality makes Led Zep so eternally archetypal must be "intangible", but even that argument seems weak; here in my room, I'm listening to Dazed and Confused at a friendly volume and everything that's perfect about Led Zeppelin seems completely palpable. There is nothing intangible about the experience. Everything is real. And what that everything is-maybe-is this:
Led Zeppelin sounds like who they are, but they also sound like who they are not. They sound like an English blues band. They sound like a warm-blooded brachiosaur. They sound like Hannibal's assault across the Alps. They sound sexy and sexist and sexless. They sound dark but stoned; they sound smart but dumb; they seem older than you, but just barely. Led Zeppelin soundslike the way a cool guy acts. Or, Led Zeppelin sounds like a certain kind of cool guy; they sound like the kind of cool guy every man vaguely things he has the potential to be, if just a few things about the world were somehow different. And the experience this creates is unique to Led Zep because its manifestation is entirely sonic: There is a point in your life when you hear songs like "The Ocean" and "Kashmir" and you suddenly find yourself feeling like these songs are actively making you into the person you want to be. It does not matter if you've heard those songs 100 times and felt nothing in the past, and it does not matter if you don't normally like rock music and just happen to overhear it in somebody else's dorm room.
We all still meet at the same vortex: For whatever the reason, there is a point in the male maturation process when the music of the Zep sounds like the perfect actualization of the perfectly cool you. You will hear the intro to "When the Levee Breaks," and it will feel like your brain is stuffed inside the bass drum. You will hear the opening howl of "Immigrant Song," and you will imagine standing on the bow of a Viking ship and screaming about Valhalla. But when these things happen, you don't think about Physical Graffiti or Houses of the Holy in those abstract, metaphysical terms; you simply thing, "Wow. I just realized something: This shit is perfect. In fact, this record is vastly superior to all other forms of music on the entire planet, so this is all I will ever listen to, all the time." And you do this for six days or six weeks or six years. This is you Zeppelin Phase, and it has as much to do with your own personal psychology as it does with the way John Paul Jones played the organ on "Trampled Under Foot." It has to do with sociobiology, and with Aleister Crowley, and possibly God.
And you will grow out of it, probably. But this is why LZ is the most beloved rock band of all time, even though most people, including myself, think the Beatles and the Stones are better. Those two bands are appreciated in myriad ways and for myriad reasons, and the criteria for doing so changes with every generation. But Led Zeppelin is only loved one way, and that will never evolve. They are the only thing all young men share, and we shall share it forever. Led Zeppelin is unkillable.
Mood: Tired
Whenever I find myself in an argument about the greatest rock bands of all time, I always place Zeppelin third, behind the Beatles and the Rolling Stones. This sentiment is incredibly common; if we polled everyone in North America who likes rock music, those three bands would almost certainly be the consensus selections (and in that order). But Zeppelin is far and away the most popular rock band of all time, and they're popular in a way the Beatles and Stones cannot possibly compete with; this is because every straight man born after the year 1958 has at least one transitory period in his life when he believes Led Zeppelin is the only good band that ever existed. And there is no other rock group that generates that experience.
A year ago, I was walking thru the Horn Library with one of my professors, on our way to god knows where, when we passed by a fellow that was working at the side desk near the classrooms. This guy had a blond mullet, his blank eyes were beyond bloodshot, and he was wearing ripped jeans and a black Swan Song t-shirt with all the runes from the Zoso album. The professor turned to me and said, "You know, I went to high school with that guy." My professor was in the neighborhood of 42. But he was right He did go to high school with that guy. So did I. Everyone in America went to high school with that guy. Right now, there are boys in fourth grade who do not even realize that they will become "that guy" as soon as they finish reading The Hobbit in eight grade. There are people having unprotected sex at this very moment, and the fetus spawned from that union will become "that guy" in two decades. Led Zeppelin is the most legitimately timeless musical entity of the past half century; they are the only group in the history of rock that every male rock fan seems to experience in exactly the same way.
You are probably wondering why that happens; I'm not sure, either. For a time, I thought Robert Plant's overt misogyny fused with Jimmy Page's obsession with the occult, since that combination allows adolescent males to reconcile the alienation of unhinged teenage sexuality with their own inescapable geekiness. However, this theory strikes me as "probably stupid". It would be easy to argue that Zeppelin simply out-rocks all other bands, but that's not really true; AC/DC completely out-rocks Zeppelin, and AC/DC are mostly ridiculous. Whatever quality makes Led Zep so eternally archetypal must be "intangible", but even that argument seems weak; here in my room, I'm listening to Dazed and Confused at a friendly volume and everything that's perfect about Led Zeppelin seems completely palpable. There is nothing intangible about the experience. Everything is real. And what that everything is-maybe-is this:
Led Zeppelin sounds like who they are, but they also sound like who they are not. They sound like an English blues band. They sound like a warm-blooded brachiosaur. They sound like Hannibal's assault across the Alps. They sound sexy and sexist and sexless. They sound dark but stoned; they sound smart but dumb; they seem older than you, but just barely. Led Zeppelin soundslike the way a cool guy acts. Or, Led Zeppelin sounds like a certain kind of cool guy; they sound like the kind of cool guy every man vaguely things he has the potential to be, if just a few things about the world were somehow different. And the experience this creates is unique to Led Zep because its manifestation is entirely sonic: There is a point in your life when you hear songs like "The Ocean" and "Kashmir" and you suddenly find yourself feeling like these songs are actively making you into the person you want to be. It does not matter if you've heard those songs 100 times and felt nothing in the past, and it does not matter if you don't normally like rock music and just happen to overhear it in somebody else's dorm room.
We all still meet at the same vortex: For whatever the reason, there is a point in the male maturation process when the music of the Zep sounds like the perfect actualization of the perfectly cool you. You will hear the intro to "When the Levee Breaks," and it will feel like your brain is stuffed inside the bass drum. You will hear the opening howl of "Immigrant Song," and you will imagine standing on the bow of a Viking ship and screaming about Valhalla. But when these things happen, you don't think about Physical Graffiti or Houses of the Holy in those abstract, metaphysical terms; you simply thing, "Wow. I just realized something: This shit is perfect. In fact, this record is vastly superior to all other forms of music on the entire planet, so this is all I will ever listen to, all the time." And you do this for six days or six weeks or six years. This is you Zeppelin Phase, and it has as much to do with your own personal psychology as it does with the way John Paul Jones played the organ on "Trampled Under Foot." It has to do with sociobiology, and with Aleister Crowley, and possibly God.
And you will grow out of it, probably. But this is why LZ is the most beloved rock band of all time, even though most people, including myself, think the Beatles and the Stones are better. Those two bands are appreciated in myriad ways and for myriad reasons, and the criteria for doing so changes with every generation. But Led Zeppelin is only loved one way, and that will never evolve. They are the only thing all young men share, and we shall share it forever. Led Zeppelin is unkillable.
I Will Follow You Into the Dark
0 Comments Published by Devin on Tuesday, August 09, 2005 at 4:17 PM.
Music: Death Cab For Cutie - Summer Skin - Plans
Mood: Impressed
Transatlanticism was a good album, at best. Many of its songs were thoughtfully composed and provocative, yet there was an intangible element missing throughout the bulk of Death Cab's previous efforts. Albeit there's been plenty of content released under indie-label Barsuk Records for many years now, but there has always been somewhat of a void in our understanding of DC4C's message and 'plans'. So it comes as no shock to me that after seven years, Death Cab finally get down to the nitty-gritty of artful composition and creativity. Plans, their first major-label release has enough soul to go around, and then some.
The album opens very classically with Death Cab doing what they used to do so very well: creating soundtrack-style songs that invoke black-and-white images in our minds. We feel like we're a part of a slow motion movie while listening to Marching Bands of Manhattan. The second track is the first single, Soul Meets Body, an interesting departure from the norm, but a welcomed retreat from their old tricks. The crisp production on this entire album cannot go without mention, as guitarist Chris Walla has come into his own, serving as maestro extraordinaire on this effort.
Some of the strongest material on this album comes from Ben Gibbard's truly clever lyrics. Written throughout the past year of touring and through many months of Massachusetts isolation, the words are never excessive, and always apt with the tone of the track. On tracks like Summer Skin and I Will Follow You Into the Dark, Gibbard takes a very minimalist approach, focusing himself of developing a more precise pitch instead of distracting us with dual guitars. Where the album succeeds is during the solitary moments when Gibbard is sitting with an open mic and a Walla track, no drums, no bass.
Perhaps their most seminal work, What Sarah Said is the band's best effort at combining their indie-roots with a hint of mainstream appeal. If anything the song is guaranteed some strong radio-play in the coming months. While I consider myself somewhat of an elitist in terms of the music I appreciate, I do think that a track this good is somewhat tainted by the thought of hundreds of inappreciative fans abusing its grace.
In synopsis, Plans picks up partially where Transatlanticism left off, without the several strings attached. The production has been significantly upgraded for the better, Gibbard and Walla are at their strongest, as the band is finally clicking on all cylinders. A very strong record from a band that is considered by many to be too fragile for so much praise.
First Listen: 7.5 / 10
Second Listen: 8.0 / 10
Mood: Impressed
Transatlanticism was a good album, at best. Many of its songs were thoughtfully composed and provocative, yet there was an intangible element missing throughout the bulk of Death Cab's previous efforts. Albeit there's been plenty of content released under indie-label Barsuk Records for many years now, but there has always been somewhat of a void in our understanding of DC4C's message and 'plans'. So it comes as no shock to me that after seven years, Death Cab finally get down to the nitty-gritty of artful composition and creativity. Plans, their first major-label release has enough soul to go around, and then some.
The album opens very classically with Death Cab doing what they used to do so very well: creating soundtrack-style songs that invoke black-and-white images in our minds. We feel like we're a part of a slow motion movie while listening to Marching Bands of Manhattan. The second track is the first single, Soul Meets Body, an interesting departure from the norm, but a welcomed retreat from their old tricks. The crisp production on this entire album cannot go without mention, as guitarist Chris Walla has come into his own, serving as maestro extraordinaire on this effort.
Some of the strongest material on this album comes from Ben Gibbard's truly clever lyrics. Written throughout the past year of touring and through many months of Massachusetts isolation, the words are never excessive, and always apt with the tone of the track. On tracks like Summer Skin and I Will Follow You Into the Dark, Gibbard takes a very minimalist approach, focusing himself of developing a more precise pitch instead of distracting us with dual guitars. Where the album succeeds is during the solitary moments when Gibbard is sitting with an open mic and a Walla track, no drums, no bass.
Perhaps their most seminal work, What Sarah Said is the band's best effort at combining their indie-roots with a hint of mainstream appeal. If anything the song is guaranteed some strong radio-play in the coming months. While I consider myself somewhat of an elitist in terms of the music I appreciate, I do think that a track this good is somewhat tainted by the thought of hundreds of inappreciative fans abusing its grace.
In synopsis, Plans picks up partially where Transatlanticism left off, without the several strings attached. The production has been significantly upgraded for the better, Gibbard and Walla are at their strongest, as the band is finally clicking on all cylinders. A very strong record from a band that is considered by many to be too fragile for so much praise.
First Listen: 7.5 / 10
Second Listen: 8.0 / 10
Here Lay To Rest, Our Love Everlong...
4 Comments Published by Devin on Saturday, August 06, 2005 at 7:54 PM.
Music: Radiohead - Kid A - Everything in its Right Place
Mood: Inspired
At this point, I am certain Kid A is the official soundtrack for September 11, 2001, even though it was released on October 3, 2000.
The first song on Kid A paints the Manhattan skyline at 8:00 AM on Tuesday morning; the song is titled "Everything in its Right Place." People woke up that day "sucking on a lemon" because that's what life normally feels like on the Manhattan subway; the city is a beautiful, sour, sarcastic place. We soon move to song two, which is the title track. It is the sound of woozy, ephemeral normalcy. It is the sound of Jonny Greenwood playing an Ondes Martenot, an instrument best remembered for it's use in the Star Trek them song. You can imagine humans walking to work, riding elevators, getting off the C train and the 3 train, and thinking about a future that will be a lot like the present, only better. The term Kid A is Yorke's moniker for the first cloned human, which he suspects may already exist. The consciously misguided message is this: Science is the answer. Technology solves everything because technology is invulnerabe. And this is what almost everyone in America thought at around 8:30 AM. But something happens three and a half minutes into "Kid A." It suddenly doesn't feel right, and you don't exactly know why. Thihs is followed by track three, "The National Anthem."
"The National Anthem" sounds a bit like a Morphine song. It's a completley different direction from the first two songs on Kid A, and it's confusing; it's chaotic. "What's going on?" the lyrics ask. "What's going on?" It gets crazier and crazier, until the second plane hits the second tower (at 9:03 AM, in reality, and at 3:42 in the song). For a moment, things are somber. But then it gets more anarchic. Which leads into track four, "How to Dissapear Completely." This is the point where it feels like the world is possibly ending. People keep repeating, "This isn't happening." People are "floating" to the earth. We are told of strobe lights and blown speakers; there are fireworks and hurricanes. This is a song about being burned alive and jumping out of windows, and this is a song abotu having to watch those things happen. And it's followed by aninstrumental piece without melody, "Treefingers", because what can you say when skyscrapers collapse? All you can do is stare at them with your hand over your mouth.
Time passes. It's afternoon. Action is replaced by thought. The song is "Optimistic," a word that becomes more meaningful in its absence. it has lyrics about Ground Zero ("vultures circle the dead"), and it offers a glimpse into how Al Qaeda members think Americans perceive international diplomacy ("the big fish eat the little ones, the big fish eat the little ones / Not my problem, give me some"). Track seven, "In Limbo," is abotu how the United States has been shaken out of its fantasy, with "nowhere to hide," finding only "trap doors that open, I spiral down." Now we're at "Idioteque," where it's "women and children first." Survivors slowly conclude, "I'm alive." Unlike "How to Disappear," Idioteque" offers the first moment of acceptance: We concede, "this is really happening." We wonder "who's in a bunker" across the ocean trying to murder us for working in a 110-story office building? Yorke says, "We're not scaremongerinig," yet some of us already are; there is an "ice-age coming."
In "Morning Bell" a shell shocked nation becomes uncharacteristically compassionate ("Everyone wants to become a friend"), but there is no way to deal with loss: On "Motion Picture Soundtrack," Thom sings, "Red wine and sleeping pills / Help me get back to your arms." Suddenly, everyone needs Vicodin. Everyone needs to drink more merlot. We fill our void with cheap sex and sad films, and baby, we think we're crazy. But there is no answer to the question of reality, except the faith that there is something greater than this world, which is how Kid A ends: "I will see you in the next life." And maybe you will, and maybe you won't. It's always 50-50.
Now, please do not misinterpret these thoughts on this album; I am not saying that we should have been warned by it, or that John Ashcroft should have played Kid A in the spring of 2001 and said "You know, we really need to ramp up airport security." I am also not suggesting that Thom Yorke is some kind of pop Nostradamus; in fact, the opposite is probably true. When composing this album in the wake of OK Computer, Yorke had a severe case of writer's block and resorted to scribbling discarded lyrics on scraps of paper, throwing them all into a top hat and withdrawing them at random, one line at a time. Lyrically, there is no conscious structure to Kid A's songs at all. Which is, of course, the only way this could have happened. A genius can be a genius by tryingto be a genius; a visionary can only have a vision by accident.
Mood: Inspired
At this point, I am certain Kid A is the official soundtrack for September 11, 2001, even though it was released on October 3, 2000.
The first song on Kid A paints the Manhattan skyline at 8:00 AM on Tuesday morning; the song is titled "Everything in its Right Place." People woke up that day "sucking on a lemon" because that's what life normally feels like on the Manhattan subway; the city is a beautiful, sour, sarcastic place. We soon move to song two, which is the title track. It is the sound of woozy, ephemeral normalcy. It is the sound of Jonny Greenwood playing an Ondes Martenot, an instrument best remembered for it's use in the Star Trek them song. You can imagine humans walking to work, riding elevators, getting off the C train and the 3 train, and thinking about a future that will be a lot like the present, only better. The term Kid A is Yorke's moniker for the first cloned human, which he suspects may already exist. The consciously misguided message is this: Science is the answer. Technology solves everything because technology is invulnerabe. And this is what almost everyone in America thought at around 8:30 AM. But something happens three and a half minutes into "Kid A." It suddenly doesn't feel right, and you don't exactly know why. Thihs is followed by track three, "The National Anthem."
"The National Anthem" sounds a bit like a Morphine song. It's a completley different direction from the first two songs on Kid A, and it's confusing; it's chaotic. "What's going on?" the lyrics ask. "What's going on?" It gets crazier and crazier, until the second plane hits the second tower (at 9:03 AM, in reality, and at 3:42 in the song). For a moment, things are somber. But then it gets more anarchic. Which leads into track four, "How to Dissapear Completely." This is the point where it feels like the world is possibly ending. People keep repeating, "This isn't happening." People are "floating" to the earth. We are told of strobe lights and blown speakers; there are fireworks and hurricanes. This is a song about being burned alive and jumping out of windows, and this is a song abotu having to watch those things happen. And it's followed by aninstrumental piece without melody, "Treefingers", because what can you say when skyscrapers collapse? All you can do is stare at them with your hand over your mouth.
Time passes. It's afternoon. Action is replaced by thought. The song is "Optimistic," a word that becomes more meaningful in its absence. it has lyrics about Ground Zero ("vultures circle the dead"), and it offers a glimpse into how Al Qaeda members think Americans perceive international diplomacy ("the big fish eat the little ones, the big fish eat the little ones / Not my problem, give me some"). Track seven, "In Limbo," is abotu how the United States has been shaken out of its fantasy, with "nowhere to hide," finding only "trap doors that open, I spiral down." Now we're at "Idioteque," where it's "women and children first." Survivors slowly conclude, "I'm alive." Unlike "How to Disappear," Idioteque" offers the first moment of acceptance: We concede, "this is really happening." We wonder "who's in a bunker" across the ocean trying to murder us for working in a 110-story office building? Yorke says, "We're not scaremongerinig," yet some of us already are; there is an "ice-age coming."
In "Morning Bell" a shell shocked nation becomes uncharacteristically compassionate ("Everyone wants to become a friend"), but there is no way to deal with loss: On "Motion Picture Soundtrack," Thom sings, "Red wine and sleeping pills / Help me get back to your arms." Suddenly, everyone needs Vicodin. Everyone needs to drink more merlot. We fill our void with cheap sex and sad films, and baby, we think we're crazy. But there is no answer to the question of reality, except the faith that there is something greater than this world, which is how Kid A ends: "I will see you in the next life." And maybe you will, and maybe you won't. It's always 50-50.
Now, please do not misinterpret these thoughts on this album; I am not saying that we should have been warned by it, or that John Ashcroft should have played Kid A in the spring of 2001 and said "You know, we really need to ramp up airport security." I am also not suggesting that Thom Yorke is some kind of pop Nostradamus; in fact, the opposite is probably true. When composing this album in the wake of OK Computer, Yorke had a severe case of writer's block and resorted to scribbling discarded lyrics on scraps of paper, throwing them all into a top hat and withdrawing them at random, one line at a time. Lyrically, there is no conscious structure to Kid A's songs at all. Which is, of course, the only way this could have happened. A genius can be a genius by tryingto be a genius; a visionary can only have a vision by accident.
Music: Da Lata - Alice (No Pais Da Malandragem) + Deltron 3030 - 3030
Mood: Overwhelmed
I am in an immense state of shock. To preface, this night has taught me many wonderful lessons that I shall henceforth cherish as sacred and true. You see, like the dumb fool that I am, I thought it was a good idea to check out Wedding Crashers this evening. Now, the movie was excellent, and I highly recommend it to everyone. But, the trouble was not the film itself; my peril is a by-product of the time I chose to see this flick. 7:30 PM, at the Calabasas Commons, which you might be thinking is so innocuous, that there would be nothing even remotley negative that could possibly occur. Right?
Wrong.
7:30 in Calabasas at the Commons is the playground for pre-pubescent games of grab-ass. I stood to the side and watched as these so-called teenagers shot the proverbial shit, wandering amidst their peers trying to stand-out in some totally contrived-yet-somehow-considered-unconventional-(dare I say rebellious)-fashion, literallly. This one dude was wearing a plaid shirt a la 1994, but completley unbuttoned, so he could catch glances from the crowd of kiddies on the off chance that one girl finds it in her 'heart' to blow him before the night is over. What's more, his 'boys' were wearing their so cliche NoFX shirts they bought from Urban Outfitters from the bargain bin. GET YOUR OWN SENSE OF STYLE, KID.
Ok, it is not like I was never at that point in my life. I like to convince myself otherwise, but the fact of the matter is, we all did stupid things when we were young and in high school. That's another thing that struck me. As they mingled without purpose, I thought to myself how very thankful I am done with high school. That entire phase in my life just seems so distant and cheap after watching these kids make a mockery of their freedom. There was a circle about 30 deep gathered at the front of the movie theater just to watch two Armenian kids in LRG and Ecko shirts try and freestyle over the token black guy's 'beat-boxing' (Which is another thing- why does is it that the black guy is expected to know how to beat-box?!? Can't he just be the star player on the all-white basketball team? Where's the love, y'all).
If anything, the experience was an eye-opener. Never in my life had I expected the youth of my generation to stoop to such assinine levels. Watching five guys jacked up on testosterone try and mack it out with 5 totally oblivious girls is hillarious, and can be a world of entertainment by itself. But that's not what made my moment, or my day for that matter. What I came away thinking was that I'm fortunate to be older, wiser, and not a part of that 'scene'. High school politics and who's getting with who is so blatantly pointless, when you consider that your 9th grade flame is probably going to UC Berkeley and you're doing double-time at Irvine in three years.
I don't know if its a part of growing up, or a subconscious reaction to my past, but I know that today was important. I just can't figure out why.
Mood: Overwhelmed
I am in an immense state of shock. To preface, this night has taught me many wonderful lessons that I shall henceforth cherish as sacred and true. You see, like the dumb fool that I am, I thought it was a good idea to check out Wedding Crashers this evening. Now, the movie was excellent, and I highly recommend it to everyone. But, the trouble was not the film itself; my peril is a by-product of the time I chose to see this flick. 7:30 PM, at the Calabasas Commons, which you might be thinking is so innocuous, that there would be nothing even remotley negative that could possibly occur. Right?
Wrong.
7:30 in Calabasas at the Commons is the playground for pre-pubescent games of grab-ass. I stood to the side and watched as these so-called teenagers shot the proverbial shit, wandering amidst their peers trying to stand-out in some totally contrived-yet-somehow-considered-unconventional-(dare I say rebellious)-fashion, literallly. This one dude was wearing a plaid shirt a la 1994, but completley unbuttoned, so he could catch glances from the crowd of kiddies on the off chance that one girl finds it in her 'heart' to blow him before the night is over. What's more, his 'boys' were wearing their so cliche NoFX shirts they bought from Urban Outfitters from the bargain bin. GET YOUR OWN SENSE OF STYLE, KID.
Ok, it is not like I was never at that point in my life. I like to convince myself otherwise, but the fact of the matter is, we all did stupid things when we were young and in high school. That's another thing that struck me. As they mingled without purpose, I thought to myself how very thankful I am done with high school. That entire phase in my life just seems so distant and cheap after watching these kids make a mockery of their freedom. There was a circle about 30 deep gathered at the front of the movie theater just to watch two Armenian kids in LRG and Ecko shirts try and freestyle over the token black guy's 'beat-boxing' (Which is another thing- why does is it that the black guy is expected to know how to beat-box?!? Can't he just be the star player on the all-white basketball team? Where's the love, y'all).
If anything, the experience was an eye-opener. Never in my life had I expected the youth of my generation to stoop to such assinine levels. Watching five guys jacked up on testosterone try and mack it out with 5 totally oblivious girls is hillarious, and can be a world of entertainment by itself. But that's not what made my moment, or my day for that matter. What I came away thinking was that I'm fortunate to be older, wiser, and not a part of that 'scene'. High school politics and who's getting with who is so blatantly pointless, when you consider that your 9th grade flame is probably going to UC Berkeley and you're doing double-time at Irvine in three years.
I don't know if its a part of growing up, or a subconscious reaction to my past, but I know that today was important. I just can't figure out why.
Music: Coheed and Cambria - Welcome Home - Good Apollo I'm Burning Star IV: Volume I
Mood:
This is a post to make the following declaration about my musical taste. I love songs that sound 'epic', which is an implication that I am a sucker for orchestral backing on guitars and drums. There are tons upon tons of songs, however, that are composed in such format, but absolutely blow. Meanwhile, I have quietly assembled a tasty collection of some of the most profound tracks on the planet, which, when given the time and mood, I listen to for a sensation that's irreplaceable.
(sidenote - my blog has degeneraed into a musical ranting page; try as I might, I cannot shake the temptation to rant about this stuff)
Well, what is new and what is old in the land of Devin. Nothing really, just enjoying life, working hard, playing das guitar far too often, but, getting better at it daily. I have to keep learning new tricks and skills, else I'll stagnate and forever play Am F D Em progressions.
Listen to the following album this week: Nirvana - In Utero
Mood:
This is a post to make the following declaration about my musical taste. I love songs that sound 'epic', which is an implication that I am a sucker for orchestral backing on guitars and drums. There are tons upon tons of songs, however, that are composed in such format, but absolutely blow. Meanwhile, I have quietly assembled a tasty collection of some of the most profound tracks on the planet, which, when given the time and mood, I listen to for a sensation that's irreplaceable.
(sidenote - my blog has degeneraed into a musical ranting page; try as I might, I cannot shake the temptation to rant about this stuff)
Well, what is new and what is old in the land of Devin. Nothing really, just enjoying life, working hard, playing das guitar far too often, but, getting better at it daily. I have to keep learning new tricks and skills, else I'll stagnate and forever play Am F D Em progressions.
Listen to the following album this week: Nirvana - In Utero
Music: Death Cab For Cutie - Marching Bands of Manhattan - Plans
Mood: Sensitive
I have jettisoned the Mars Volta temporarily. They are just not doing it for me. So, back on the Death Cab bandwagon. New album comes out August 30th, and I expect tremendous things from them. For those who equate their music to soft love emotions, just listen to the complexities and structures of their songs. Every song is unique and so incredible. Ben Gibbard has a fantastic voice.
Mood: Sensitive
I have jettisoned the Mars Volta temporarily. They are just not doing it for me. So, back on the Death Cab bandwagon. New album comes out August 30th, and I expect tremendous things from them. For those who equate their music to soft love emotions, just listen to the complexities and structures of their songs. Every song is unique and so incredible. Ben Gibbard has a fantastic voice.
