The two cent peanut gallery

Look all three ways

2011-06-16T13:06:00.003-04:00

Caught this on Gawker: Visual artist Ron aka RonConCocaCola explores dysfunctional urban interactions in the form of bad street habits for his master thesis project "Three Way Street". NYC is notorious for its crazy drivers, but anyone who lives here knows that drivers, bikers, and pedestrians are all guilty of reckless urban traveling. As Ron notes on his blog, these old habits are preventing effective new change and blurring the debate over who has rights to the space. The bird's-eye-view nature of the Three Way Street video puts these arguments in better perspective than a town hall meeting. It's also quite entertaining.

3-Way Street from ronconcocacola on Vimeo.

Hero Day: Jay Z (repost from Dzigasounds)

2010-11-19T16:54:00.001-05:00

I rap.

No no-, it surprises me too that this housedj/black-soul-hipster-lookin- chick actually drops some verses and I will publicly announce now that the rapper who has been most influential to me is Jay-Z.

Idk what that does to my street cred or my music snobbery cred, but I'm going to explain. I grew up in the 90s....that use to make me young and my memory of pop culture and pop history insignificant but I don't think that's the case anymore. Furthermore, I grew up in the hood/ a predominantly working class-middle class Black neighborhood of a super segregated New York State city with two very older siblings who were driving by the time was I was walking. Likely, with a single-parent working mother, when I wasn't with my grandma I was with my siblings-- in their cars, with their friends, in the house; being exposed to whatever radio, cassettes (90s!), or music videos they played and watched. It was all hip-hop and R&B, so as I child, before I grew a musical identity of my own, I continued to listen to what they listened to and watched the videos they watched. The artists behind these songs, at least the hip-hop ones, that I remember were Big Pun, Foxy, Missy, and Jay Z.

*(I missed tupac and biggie, and I ain't gonna front like I ever tried to catch up. I didn't. It's just the way it was for me)*

Jay stuck out the most. I'll try and regain some cred by saying that the prime of J's musical careers were the albums he came out with during my childhood (Reasonable Doubt to the Black Album). These are the albums people think of when we call him one of the best rappers of all time. When I was 11 and 13 I ordered the Blueprint, Jay-Z: MTV Unplugged and The Black Album from a CD catalog that was the way to order CDs before Apple was more than a fruit and Amazon existed. Can't tell you how many times I listened to them, how much I heard bits of myself in songs like Dec. 4th, can't tell you how much I appreciated, learned from, and absorbed J's flow on the tracks, how much I escaped to or understood the stories painted in these albums.

Many communities don't get voices...sometimes its problematic to have rappers, rap, hip-hop, and pop-hop as it's become to be the voice of urban, black, or youth communities. But during that time period, Jay was the voice of my community. And he did it with class.

Yes, class, though hip-hop can be seen as a sort of classless art form. What's expected from an artistic tool used to discuss a dirty, grimy, dark lifestyle and existence? It's a heavy burden to do that and do it well and many rappers fail and many rappers get lost and many rappers don't even try and abandon that tradition, one that was started when the first boats arrived from Africa so when a rapper does do it well-- you can feel it.

But enough philosophy. J painted my childhood until I got to the point where I abandoned hip-hop for music that made more sense to me at the time. And although there were a few more rappers that also grabbed my attention before I left (Luda, Nelly, Missy, Busta...), whenever I sat down to tell a story, to release something--it came out in rhyme and in the form of a rap verse and I always had Jay- Z in the back of my mind.

And that's just my story, but I don't know a whole lot of other music lovers who don't have a solid Jay-Z track in their catalog of 50 best songs of their memory. But more than just the far-reaching potency of his music, what must also be respected is Jay-Z's business sense. This dude has done some serious, serious, entreneurship. He's built an empire of record labels, basketball teams, clothing lines, restaurants, clubs, real-estate, beer...everything. He's retired, married a superstar, made albums, went on tour, launched some of the most famous rappers and producers into the game, come back, released an album, went on tour, produced a broadway musical, and returned to claim his throne. But in all fame, glitz, glamour, and general hallabaloo, we sorta lost sight of the J we use to know and couldn't quite remember if he deserves the respect he seems to be demanding.

Enter J's new book (yeah homie's an *author* now) "Decoded", and more importantly his recent conversation with Dr. Cornel West (moderated by some crazy European dude) at the New York Public library. These two media releases brings Jigga back to the level of leader, poet, and important community (Black community, music industry community, hip-hop community) voice. Not gonna give a full synopsis, but you need to watch this ish. They talk about anything and everything that is relevant to these two cultural figures. Without a doubt, whether we like it or not, Jay is going down in pop-culture history, but before we dismiss it I think it's important to understand what he's saying as he continues to make his mark. Take for example this: "The internet was a way of the music industry purging itself". Dude believes the same thing I do, that the internet is the way to escape the banality, shallowness, and "thinness", as Dr. West calls it, of radio-driven commercial music (see the success of J Cole's new mixtape). Jay even admits that he left the system for two years to build with other artists because he's disgusted with the fact that "people don't even believe in artist development anymore."

As I've made my return back to hip-hop, I've come to know a lot of young MCs and musicians who see the hip-hop game and music industry as a way to make it. As a way to escape. They wanna be "BIG" big. They wanna have the money, the lights, the glam. They wanna be the next Jays, Lupes, Drakes, whatevers. Without leaving you my own opinion on all that, or even what I want from music myself ( who wouldn't mind a Jay-Z story of their own?), I'll leave you with a beautiful quote from "Decoded" about what the men and women we grew up with used this music thing for.

The 70s were a strange time, especially in Black America.The music was beautiful in part because it was keeping a type of torch lit in dark times...I feel like we as rappers, djs, producers were able to smuggle some of the magic of that dying civilization out of the music and use it to build a new world. We were kids without fathers so we found our fathers on wax, and on streets, and in history, and in a way that was a gift. We got to pick and choose the ancestors who would inspire the world we were going to make for ourselves...rap took the remnants of a dying society and created something new. Our fathers were gone, usually because they just bounced, but we took the records to build something fresh.

Popculture eaters/historians/cultural students--watch or listen to this conversation.

My fellow musicians and aritists--what new world are you building, and what ancestors are you bringing with you?

Black Males in a Perpetual Crisis

2010-11-10T11:30:00.005-05:00

I just stumbled across this article on the Buffalo News website. More accurately, I stumbled upon the adorable face of this little guy

and couldn't help but read on.

"The nation's young black males are in a state of crisis,"

Well...that's not new information. The Nation's young black males have been in a state of crisis since 1863 when they became part of the nation, since 1954, sine 1992, since 2008. Year after year, decade after decade, generation after generation, a combination of legal and de facto external and internal policy has put the young black male on the chopping block. Even today. Don't tell me about Obama, his election may have well been one of the most detrimental things to happen to YBMs. Wars on Communism, Wars on Drugs, Wars on Terror--Fights for our right at the sake of their rights, Protect our communities, Secure our families--We want our country back...

Whatever banner waved above them, people have been seeking policies and change that more or less not only disenfranchise the young Black male, but the poor, the old, the disabled--the other of all colors. The Civil Rights Movement fractured, small groups of fighters formed their own coalitions, demanded their own things, and failed to support each other, thereby failing to acknowledge their common enemy, and failing to defeat Him. Disgust of immigrants, of Muslims, of terrorism, of Gays, of Obamacare has fueled the support of the most non-helpful, racist, classist, elitist candidates, who have risen to power in this past election, or eagerly seek it.

Of course not everyone recognizes this. No one is out to overtly systematically destroy the Black male. But that's exactly what's been happening for centuries. Mentors within the community and White House Meetings on the current "crisis" are nice....but those are not the solutions. The problems are not coming from the YBM community. Those are just the results. The problems are coming....have been coming....from us. From our own hate, fear, and ignorance. From politicians selling themselves on the fear ticket, from voters too ignorant to truly research their platforms. From "scholars" and "professionals" and "historians" failing to demand the external change that is required for the internal change to occur. From self-centered activists, too narrow in their scope. From artists, who have been stolen from the community. From the everyday individual: uneducated, unchallenged, and complacent.

WE will kill the black male. We will kill him like we killed the red male. We will kill them all, all the browns, slaughtering them with ignorance, silence, and hate until there are no more left. They will cease to exist. They will face erasure.

That little boy's eyes will fail to matter.

Where is our report? Where is our coalition, our White House Committee.....Where are we?

My July 4th Manifesto

2010-07-04T14:12:00.003-04:00

I am probably using the word "manifesto" incorrectly, but nonetheless....

It's independence day, which is in its most simplest form, the day we celebrate that time way back when those old rich white guys who wore wigs and whose name most 12th graders in prestigious high schools don't know signed this bill and pretty much told another old rich English white guy wearing a wig to go fuck himself and that we were going to form our own country without his stupid tea, taxes, and with more kick ass things like fireworks and snowblowers. America, FUCK YEA!

And okay, maybe now it's more like a country that destroyed its Native Population, systematically destroyed it's non-white population, is run by an oligarchy of very very rich old white guys, is in currently in two semi-failing wars, with a giant oil spill, infiltrated with crappy pop music, reality shows that create heros and heroines outta steroid injecting alcoholics, and a population that is either wildly apathetic and cynical or completely crazy, unrealistic, and every sort of 'ist and 'ic you can think of (homophobic, racist, agist, sexist, fill in with your own ____ism).

But let's take a step back here......back to those guys in wigs and that bill they signed and all that nonsense and what it really means....

America, in a sense, is kind of like it's evil enemy Communism. It sounds good on paper, but often the execution of it becomes rather sloppy and piss poor and you end up having a lot of pissed off and disappointed citizens. Imagine if you will a country in which every man/woman equally has the right to pursue their own ideals of happiness however they see fit to do so regardless of minor differences like the color of their skin and the neighborhood they grew up in. I can't lie...that sounds pretty badass. And sure, capitalism may have ~~definitely has~~ set us back a while in making this an absolute reality, but even within this screwed up system there is still room for the fight towards making it better, something that not many other systems allow for. And yeah sometimes that fight gets digested into the 'ist and 'ic ideology, but it's still there! Some even argue that the goal of capitalism is to create a society in which the rich and those with the most work hard to help give back to those with least, in order to enrich society and the working class which will ultimately lead to an overall efficient country. We just haven't done a great job of doing that yet....

Look, I have every reason to hate this country. I'm a queer woman of color. My sister is somewhere in the middle east dodging mortars and bombs for a cause I nor she really understands. My college education is gonna set me back close to 40,000 dollas in debt, and despite all the smartness and privilege I do enjoy, I still have to assure the white men and women I encounter in my hometown that my name is not Sha'qwana and I don't wear weave.

But despite all that, I have a lot of faith in this place. I mean, I definitely know it's going to shit. But I do know that despite all the nasty things out there and the terrible effects greed and a lack of understanding of universal humanism is having on this country, that we as the little guys still have so much power to change it all. if we only realized it.

So I say to you, YOU, out there. You dissenters and cynics...follow a few steps to have a happier 4th of july.

1- If you are really upset about this oil spill and how much damage it's causing the entire ecosystem and environment of the golf coast---shut the fuck up, stop driving, stop using plastic, and stop buying half of the clothes, food, home items, and electronics that you buy.

Not gonna do that? That's okay, I didn't think so. Just stop whining and embrace the Armageddon you have willingly participated in.

2- If you do want to do something about huge energy companies destroying the Earth and in particular our own country, check out the film 'Gas land'. Find some more information about it by reading my write up on it and watching the trailer here.

3- We can't stop the wars or the massive amounts of money going into them, but we can do something to help those that our government is failing to help. If you're concerned about deficits in spending on education, the environment, and the arts, find a way to get connected to organizations that are trying to improve these areas within your own community. We can't always rely on a rockstar President to fix everything. Nor can we think that just because we got off of our sofas and put 'Jersey Shore' on pause for an hour to go flip a yellow switch and vote that we did all our civil duties. And citizens of this utopia gone bad, we have to take an active part in healing and helping each other. That's the room and freedom that has been granted to us by those old wigs, let's use it.

4- Finally, stop turning your brain into mush. Don't let your kids live off a diet of McDonalds. Do some exercising. Take a walk in your local park with your family. Support local artists and independent musicians. The internet is the miracle tool that has come to give you CHOICES people. And educated ones at that! We don't have to be stuck with the banal and mindnumbing anymore! Fight for your rights to not become the apathetic vegetables this country needs in order for nothing to get better.

5- Finally, go watch some fireworks. Or blow something up. At least you'll feel a little better.

Happy Fourth of July!

Cheers to a country that sucks at soccer and gay rights!

That much more to look/work towards....or something like that.

Job Wanted

2010-05-25T20:13:00.003-04:00

New York--You kill me with how seriously you take yourself.

What happened to the days when someone walked into a place, said they were looking for work, and got hired if the manager thought they were a good kid?

Since when do I need a resume to fold clothes?

Or a cover letter to transfer VHDs to DVDs?

How do I even write that??

Like many of you, I am young, broke, and desperately in search of work. (luckily, I am not a college grad yet, otherwise I'd probably be crying in a corner*.) Here's the thing:

They say the economy is bad and there are no jobs available, but there are still tons of places (when not looking for ~~slave labor~~ interns) that are willing to pay some chumps to do some menial tasks (such as answering phones, pushing buttons, pretending to like people, folding things, standing there, taking up air, blinking, etc.). I see these places all the time, walking down the street, on craigslist, and in the fables my friends tell me of how they walked into a bar, asked for a job, and became a bartender with no experience what-so-ever.

What's so bothersome is the frontin' these shisters do, especially in NYC. Listen people, get real: Don't tell me that I need two references and a cover letter to work at your soon-to-be-closed boutique folding barely-there t-shirts, or that I'm gonna need at least 3 years of city experience to work at Uncle Zeek's Taco shack. Because its just not true. And furthermore, the last thing any of these employers want is a highly motivated enthusiastic worker who is looking to climb up the pay ladder and own the joint one day. Nuh-uh. You want someone who will work 4 days a week for $8.00 an hour doing whatever the hell you tell them too with minimal complaints. So you know what we should do instead of all this farcical "I am a really legit employer" "Well, I'm a highly qualified candidate" mumbo jumbo? We should just be real with each other.

I am a highly educated and highly impoverished college-student hipster-type kid just needing a place to work so that I can apply for food stamps. You are a wish-I-didn't-major-in-philosophy manager looking for someone to sit in a chair and answer phones/ mop the floor for 4 hours a day. You're not going to give me a raise, and I'm not going to ask for one. So let's cut the bullshit: you hire me, I make your office look good for a few hours, and we shake hands on Fridays. Sounds simple enough.

In conclusion,

Quit asking me to rack my brain trying to write a creative cover letter for a job that is only going to lead to boredom and utter waste of life.

* Just kidding recent grads, there is hope for you. Or you could always move to LA and suck a penis.

repost from dziga sounds

2010-05-03T17:52:00.005-04:00

I'm reposting this here since I think it sorta covers both the areas of music and philosophising. But please, if you haven't yet, do move on over to dzigasounds. A lot will be coming outta there.

#hearts

You must be living under a rock of Gaga glitter, Nicki Minaj's pussy on your sideburns, and Drake pop culture references if you've missed the coming of the hipster national anthem, Edward Sharpe & the Magnetic Zero's folk ensamble love song "Home". With it's tamborines, whistles, and charming lyrics ("Alabama, Arkansas, I do love my ma 'n paw, but not the way that I do love you....home, let me go home. Home is wherever I'm with you.) the song is an instant sing-a-long sensation. But it's more than just that. "Home" hits the hearts of anyone who hears it. I must confess, after hearing a cover at a TSW party in Brooklyn, I ran all the way to the L train back to manhattan and the one I love, whistling till the doorstep. Lovers or friends, folks love to dance to the tune, kick their fake cowboy boots, and pretend their somewhere sunny. The music video embodies this feeling. Shot somewhere in Texas or California or Arizona or some...deserty like place, the official music video feels like Arthur Penn's Bonnie and Clyde, glorifying the journeys of two runaway youths in love and their gang of vagabond-like young friends. Watch it and try not to get captivated by its grainy footage, western allusions, and sunny skies that make us want to get up and go...some place....home? No, not that.

The truth is, "Home" speaks to the young, mustached, and feathered haired misfits of today because it and its accompanying video are the only home these kids know. Home is wherever a loved one is, or somewhere in the middle of nowhere and that speaks to the aimlessness (or abandonment?) of a youth culture that seems to find residence only within itself (and the L line).

Hipsters and the young have an obsession with living in the past, and I'm not talking about rocking gold chains like it was 1980. I'm talking all the way down to lifestyle and image quality. We kids of the late 80s to early 90s have grown up with only the baby boomer's memories of the 60's and 70's and our parents non-stop references to the good old days when things were just, for whatever reason, better. It's actually kind of sad. It's like we're always trying to live up to something. Our musicians are trying to be the new Jim Morrison's or Hendrixes, our activists aim to fall somewhere in between MLK and La Raza but fail miserably, while our fashionistas wear anything that was either made in 2010 to look like it came from 1968 or was made in 1968 and cost $210. And any relics from that era are quickly gobbled up into the vintage-culture machine and spit out in a way that some how retains its old soul ( see the new Gil Scott-Heron album, very appropriately called "I'm new here" on XL Recordings or Bobby Womack's and Lou Reed's guest appearances on the Gorillaz's new project Plastic Beach). Meanwhile, we squeemishly run away from anything that is too present, jadedly seeking adventures in cultural memories that we ourselves are too young to have even watched someone else experience.

I'm not sure what our problem is, or if we have run out of vision and creativity other than this kitsch-like rehash--but I do know that some great stuff is coming out of it. And holy moly oh me oh my, this song is the tip of the iceberg.

la, la, la, la take me home.

AHHHHH!!

2010-03-30T20:42:00.003-04:00

How shameful is it that my first post in centuries is to inform you of a new blog??

Whatever, it is what it is.

I've started a new blog to give actual attention and space to what this blog was eventually going to become anyway: a music blog.

I know, super original right?

I needed it, I wanted it, I did it, and hopefully, you will like it.

Check it out here, it's called Dziga Sounds--a title very much inspired by the pseudonym Dziga Vertov.

I hope you enjoy it and now, I hope that I get off my lazy ass and actually start posting on the two cent peanut gallery once again.

'Cus it's still here, and now it will be solely for the purpose of....idk, sorting out my head.

Cheers loves, and please enjoy Dziga Sounds.

Straight to the Morrow

2009-12-22T07:34:00.005-05:00

You can tell when you've reached Buffalo by the scenery change. When scenes of Western New York pastoral life become an awkward compilation of densely distributed wooden houses and clusters of cemeteries. Welcome to Buffalo, New York. An All American City.

"Do you need a cab ma'am?"

"No." I half way grumble at the woman without lifting my head to see her more than out of the corner of my eye. She shuffles away in her jean jacket with a grey hoodie underneath. It's cold out, but really cold. In New York City it gets cold, but it also gets windy, very windy, almost like a vindictive wind. Still, you can feel a bit of the ocean in the vengeful whips. In Buffalo it's just cold. A bitter cold that seeps through your clothes and tries to sting right through to your bone morrow. Often it succeeds. It is 5:45 am, and I am fresh off the bus from my third college semester in New York City. I have also just finished reading Greg Ames' Buffalo Lockjaw, a book I compulsively bought when I saw it oh so pretentiously sitting on a bookshelf in the NYU bookstore. What are you so proud about, no name author with your book about this coming home to this no name city? I had to do it, and now it sits heavy on my mind as I stare out at the chocolate brown wet pavement, the orange street lamps, and the accenting snow.

I wish my mother would come faster, not because I'm cold but because I worry that the cabbies think I'm lying. Maybe they don't think I'm lying. Maybe they don't give a fuck. That's fine, I don't give a fuck about them either, or their stupid blue van cab service. Need a lift? 875-3500. And this is not downstate elitism, I've always felt this way: any cab service you need to call defeats the purpose of being a cab service. In my opinion. And any cab company other than NYC Taxis is a joke.

No, I don't care about the cabbies, but I do wish that I had given that woman more time of day then I did. I didn't even lift my head up, I could have smiled. Looking at her I realize that while in New York she would seem like a shady character, in Buffalo she is just a normal woman, a hardworking woman: short stature, stringy dyed red hair, and a scrunched up face with a few good hard lines pressed into it, probably from years of working mornings like this; years of Buffalo lockjaw. Yeah, she's just normal, yet too much time in the City made me treat her like a bum, which is ironic 'cus I've been a bum (in New York, handing out flyers puts you on the same level as a pan-handeling drunk to pedestrians). I feel bad, I've forgotten where I came from.

No, that's impossible. That's something I've learned from Ames and from life: you can never take the Buffalo out of the Buffalonian. It's there forever, whether its showing your friends on Long Island how to dig a car out of the snow, or when you scoff at chicken wings at a restaurant. And Buffalonians always seem to run into each other, you'll find them happily sprinkled around everywhere. Youths mostly, trying to escape their fate and the ironing of hard lines into their face by the lockjaw.

My mother has arrived. It's taking her longer to figure out how to open the door these days it seems. Or maybe not, maybe that's a petty observation, but if you've read Ames' book, which is also about coming home to witness his dying mother's last stages of dementia, you would understand why I am concerned. I am not much of a literary buff (no pun intended), but Buffalo Lockjaw is probably not the most stellar piece of literature. Buffalonians will love it however. Not just because they are looking for the shoutouts and insiders on every other page(which unfortunately Ames often has to explain for those other readers), but also because of the sentimental understanding each chapter has of the city and its people. And rightly so, it's written by a man who knows how the cold goes straight to the morrow, how sometimes you find the majority of life's answers driving around aimlessly on the West side, and how the 27-blocks of Elmwood avenue break hearts, save lives, and become a backdrop for the climb from childhood to young adulthood. My mother has just run a red light. Not even one of those speeding right through the yellow, but she genuinely looked at it and still did not notice it was red until she was under it.

"Mom!" I cry out, but then I notice that someone has opened a new coffee shop on Broadway. Right across from the library. Good for them. The wind is whistling through my window. That Buffalo cold still trying to get at me. It's relentless I swear. One February to March I saw it play with our hearts, bring sun and signs of grass and new buds one day, then killing them all the next with a harsh frost. We are not suppose to be on Broadway. "It's too early for you isn't it?" "Yes," laughs my mother " You're really risking both our lives by having me out this early." I believe her, I blame it on the time.

Humboldt Parkway. My mother told me that when she was younger, this use to be a glorious stretch of actual park. Two sides of the road were separated by a giant island full of trees and grass and foliage that went all the way through the city. Now they're separated by a vast, noisy, and very ugly expressway. A piece of highway infrastructure that when built, during the days of city expansion and population growth, was a great idea, but now, after deindustrialization, is just a rarely-densely populated stretch of pavement and columns that makes getting anywhere never take longer than 10 minutes. Back then, the city got swept up in the national highway craze during the glory years of the 50s. Now, it's a sight of contention. Politicians debate about tearing it down, as if that will make the city better. Even if it would, this hasn't happened. It doesn't and probably never will. That's a Buffalo mindset for you.

My mother forgets the keys to the door in the car. I need to stop taking notes of these things. But I'm happy she did. It gives me a chance to look at my street. Covered in a blanket of snow, it's silent. The little sleepy homes resting peacefully. There's the standard one house with sorry excuses for christmas lights blinking, the smell of winter in the early morning air that makes your nose tickle. The pink-grey sky hugs the neighborhood, my breath the only thing I can hear. I love being home.

Inside it's like I never left. I go up to my room to turn on my heater to bump that lofty chill off. My mother has turned on the radio. 10 years ago, right at this time, I would stumble downstairs, rubbing sleep out of my eyes, and ruin my mother's bathroom time. We only have one bathroom in this house, and she was never finished getting ready before I was just getting started. The same radio station would be playing in the background, the same coffee pot roasting under the same fluorescent lights in the kitchen. Some things never change.

Though things do change. Around the time I post this, my grandmother would come hopping up our steps, I'd let her in. Eventually my Papu would be the one to get me, and he would honk his horn. Then later, it was my grandmother again, with that silly leopard printed hat on her head, her glasses, and shifting teeth that always made a smile when she saw me. She would come in and start fussing with my grandfather. Then my mother would take me to school.

Now all three of them are gone, and I watch my mother hop up the steps of our porch, in her silly fuzzy hat. If she weren't so tall, I'd think I was looking at a ghost. It would make sense: my grandma passed in what is now my mother's office. I wonder if on early mornings, or late nights, they keep each other company without even noticing. I go down the back hallway to let my dog in. He looks like a black bear. I did this all the time, every morning and night. Sometimes I'd even go out barefoot. Today, I have on slippers.

In my room the sun has not yet poked through the window. My fake fireplace pops. When there were snowdays, I would climb back up here, laugh at the cold for loosing this battle, and lay in bed, a bit too awake but very happy to be home. Then slowly, I'd drift right back to sleep.

Some things never change.

Hi, I'm Icarus, I'm falling.

2009-11-03T23:45:00.004-05:00

We keep on burying our dead
we keep on planting their bones in the ground
but they wont grow
the sun doesn't help
the rain doesn't help
....Man I have a terrible feeling
That somethings gone awful wrong with the world
Is it something we made
Is it something we ate
Is it something we drank

-Lacrimosa, Regina Specktor

Today, or rather early this morning (4:30 am) an NYU student, a junior, jumped to his death in our library.

Foul, unnecessary, but still in the back of everyone's mind Jokes about the "BOBST diving team" aside: one of us went to a place we all know and ended his own life in a horrific, tragic, shattering way today.

When I say us I don't mean NYU students, I mean us, college students, young adults, all on a similar journey despite our various paths. Going to class, living dorm life, only eating ramen, trying to make it, struggling, and studying late night in the libraries.

Last year I had a Spanish class of 10 kids. I didn't know everyone and no one became a good friend, but the fact is that for two nights a week we all sat in a little room in a basement for an hour and a half trying to better our Spanish, for whatever reason, shrinking behind ugly American accents and hating subjunctive conjugation. As usual, every kid had a chair and/or general area of the room he or she occupied. Every kid had a distinct role: there was the kid who smelled like menthol cigarettes all the time, the eccentric senior, the girl from my home town, the cool guy, the rather goofy guy, the young cute PhD student teacher, etc. Then one day I came into class and no one was moving, and there were two strangers dressed in black at the front, and my teacher looked a way I never saw before. One of my classmates had died. He had been missing from class for about a week or so, no one really noticed, he was just sick or blowing it off, flu season had started, I'm sure I probably made the "is he still alive?" joke on one occasion. He wasn't. He had passed the weekend before. No one had seen him prior too, no one would see him again.

None of us were friends. None of us are. But we all gathered twice a week in a basement for an hour and a half and the fact remained that one of us was gone, had been ferried off into the Netherlands of the afterlife that scare the shit out of any person with a soul underneath the skeleton--That the grim reaper had come and stolen him away and sucked the control right out of our hands and left us spinning in a vacuum and that something strange and deep down inside of us knew we wanted to be sad and we were and we didn't know what to do with it.

It's a tragic thing when a young person dies. It's even more tragic when a young person takes his or her own life because they no longer find the desire to live. Because no one deserves death. And no one deserves to leave. And we don't deserve to be left.

I had a moment earlier today Uptown and in Central Park. I remembered, vividly realized, that everything is connected, all of us, everything. I saw a man-made lake look so perfect I couldn't stand it. I heard the hum of the universe. I saw nature and city become one. I saw human life buzz between them. I heard a baby squeek to my left and saw an older woman being pushed in a wheel chair to my right and as I stood in the middle tears came to my eyes. Everyone and everything is connected and we are so beautiful. I hurt for people who cannot realize this, who never have, who may have once and never will again.

I feel sad for that young man and his family. I feel sad for his friends and for the people who passed him regularly on a daily basis. I feel sad for the student body, because tasteless jokes aside we are all shocked and a little humbled but most of all confused. Because we are all connected. We are all here: on this path, on this ship, in the basement, at that library. And one of us had to go; Icarus--your wax was not suppose to melt this soon yet violently you fell from the sky, your flight was ripped from you, where is my confidence to continue flapping? Why didn't anyone catch you, will someone be there to catch me.

Icarus

We could have helped you, had we known we would have given you some extra wax. Maybe--we could have....
We are all together and one of us left so alone.

I do not know what everyone is going through right now but I know that life is beautiful. I know that death is confusing, and I know that somewhere between a guilted sense of responsibility and necessary apathy/compacted mourning the thought stumbles in the back of each NYU student's mind.
And I know we are not alone and that on every campus some where there is something that shatters common confidence. I know that somewhere between "living fast, dying young" dogmas and constructing dreams every 20 something and late teenager fears fucking up. We're all scared, we're all all flapping. Take a moment, and remember that.

Then keep walking like nothing ever happened,
but honor the fallen feathers.

Everyone should date an Asian Man

2009-09-17T18:23:00.002-04:00

...or at least fuck one.

WTF America (Make Shift Patriot)

2009-08-13T16:24:00.012-04:00

So I have been away from the blogosphere for sometime and away from American news and the country itself for a hot minute. After the urging of my friend Mike, I decided to take a day and see what's going on in the motherland. And of course after a simple 4 minutes of browsing I came up with this question: WHAT THE FUCK AMERICA???

I know, not that original but still. Here is a list of the things I discovered that led me to asking this question.

1) The disgustingly ugly battle of "Health Care Reform"

2) Disney

3) The fall of the empire and its strict denial.

4) The economy

5) And lastly, rich suburban kids with too much money who love to make their parents cry.

There isn't much to elaborate on for number five. Just follow the links and watch the videos and shake your heads.

Ahem, are you done puking? Alright let's get back into it.

So for starters, how about this little proposal:

David Mamet has been signed on to write Disney's (yes, DISNEY's) version of the Anne Frank (yes, Anne Frank) story. Yes yes, that is heavily confusing. Let me put it to you this way

This + This is going to some how = This

The entire idea is an Oxymoron. My only question is, will this be animated or live acted?

Either way, my guess is that we should be ready to meet the new Anne Frank

Disney Exec: No no, it will be awesome! By night she'll be a blonde rockstar and by day an average Jew hiding from the Nazis! "It's just the best of both worlds, but only if the Fuhrer don't find out"

So this is nothing new: the economy is fucked. Listen I am in no way shape or form an economist. When I hear/read numbers my brain spazzes. But I just want everyone to know that there are no jobs to be found post-college. Though you will still be in thousands of dollars of debt. The working class continues to be exploited, though don't worry, it's full of mostly youngish typically nonwhite Women so who cares about them right? And apparently we won't start feeling any of the "better" that the economy is getting for quite some time.

I guess the part that really pisses me off is that my fellow classmates and I have played our cards right. We've competed and kept afloat in a flawed academic system, done what's expected of us, succeeded and sneered at the losers, hated ourselves for getting less than B's in subjects we despise and no longer mean anything to us, kept our mouths shut, got into the top colleges, cost our parents an arm, leg, and a soul, and continue to do well. And for what? To graduate with nothing given back to us but some demands from the bank because the schools we've pretty much been shaped to go to and aim for cost 30,000 dollars more than what some airline pilots make? To be guaranteed only a position at a minimum wage job (and not even a manager position at that)?

That brings me to the other thing I was going to talk about, the Health Care issue. Because not only does Europe have universal health care, it also has affordable education.

Exhibit A:

KateTheGreat

My British friends have nothing bad to say about their healthcare system...it's served them well! Also, they pay around 40% tax on their income (same here when all said/done) but get free healthcare and $3,200/year tuition at Oxford! You can't attend a community college here for that amount!! At least they're getting something for their money...

For those of you who don't know, the health care reform battle has gotten OUT OF FUCKING CONTROL! People are spreading all sorts of nocuous, vicious, and deceptive lies about the future of health care were President Obama's proposal to become reality and the bad part is....Americans are believing them.

"...it surprised me to hear my Catholic grandmother say that if health-care reform passes bureaucrats will show up at her door advising euthanasia—and especially to hear my mother, now undergoing chemotherapy, insist that were Obamacare already law it is more likely than not that she’d now be dead."

- Conor Friedersdorf, "Why Obamacare Scares America". The Daily Beast. 8/11/09

Level headed Americans are not the only ones getting upset by it either. European countries, for example Britain, are getting pissed off about the flat out lies being tossed around about their very own system, which by the way, really isn't that bad. There are no Ethical Suicide Parlors in merry old England.

But Mr. Friedersdorf does make a good point in his article. The other side isn't doing a good job at making this fight any less harder or frightening. I agree that this battle needs to be fought much more quieter, softer, and in smaller doses. Because let's face it, yes:

by the age of 40 we will all have some sort of cancer or stress related heart disease and be living in a deteriorating body that is either a walking pharmacy or pin cushion.

Considering that social security will be virtually nonexistent, I would like to not have to worry about a medical bill for my remaining 30 years. However, not every American is comfy cosy with this idea. In fact, most Americans are still in a rather pathetic state of denial over the condition of our country. I would compare it to the way that conservatives and Republicans are denying that they are getting old.

The empire has indeed crumbled, but any time you mention this to my fellow citizens and the changes that need to be made in order to insure our high standards of living and the prosperity of our country it's "Oh no! THE SKY IS FALLING THE SKY IS FALLING! We're going to turn into EUROPE!" As a minor globe trekker, I need to tell you that the rest of the world is not scary. And its big. Oh yeah, it's also very, very progressive. Wake up homies, we're not the only important ones anymore.

However, as another disgruntled commenter puts it, we would much rather prefer to cling to our misinformation, stubborn bias, and arrogant ignorance. Because it makes us feel good about ourselves, but more importantly it makes us feel less scared. We need to continue to cushion that fall into reality for as long as possible.

So go on obedient citizens, stand by your motherland and fight the opposition to hell. But for one nation under God's sake, don't expect a reward. My college brothers and sisters? My advice to you is to stop expecting that good job and pat on the back from the nation you've busted your ass and spent the last 4 years working minimum wage jobs for. Start brushing up on your foreign language skills, for somewhere across the pond there is probably a promise land for you. And I know that our education system and society cripple us completely to work in the global market, but perhaps if you take half the effort you've spent trying to get into a top tier school into learning at least two other languages, you'll be okay.

As for me, well

now that I've had my daily dosage of wtf America, I am going to go to bed

in Europe.

Where the health care is free (ish)

the beer and wine are good

the cars are fantastic

the speed limit nonexistence

and the police digital

yet the water still coming out of the faucet hot

the food still abundant

and the people more healthy.

How'd it get that way? I don't know.

Does it have it's problems? I'm sure.

But it certainly is a nice thought.

Cheers from Wiesbaden, Germany

xox sue-elise

"haha, dont forget the nazis" <----- Fuck you Mike.

An Empty Throne

2009-06-26T15:21:00.003-04:00

I certainly did not intend to blog about this.

When I heard that Michael Jackson died, my eyes immediately filled with tears. They didn't run down and I didn't cry, but tears were there. I didn't really think much of it; that happens often when I get caught up in a moment of overwhelming excitement over something I'm not even sure I should be emotional about but is just...shocking. And this was certainly it: shocking, piercing, and really unbelievable. Earlier that day I was just looking at an month on People's Magazine with photos of Michael and his kids. I looked at Michael, with his odd features and pale skin and thought "despite it all, he's still going". The last thing I ever expected to hear about him that day was that he had died at 50.

I stood in the same spot in the same position for the following 15 minutes, not even moving my feet while I whipped out my phone and texted everyone in my contact list: "DID MICHAEL JACKSON REALLY FUCKING DIE JUST NOW!!!!!!!!??". As the texts rolled in to me and everyone else in the room, it became clear that the answer was yes. I suddenly imagined the world stopping for a moment, I imagined mourners clad in black taking to the streets in all seven continents. I imagined news reporters and presidents truthfully caught in a moment of shock and horror and dropping their public masks for a second to take it in. It's not that I think MJ was the most important person in the world, and true he hadn't been in headlines for a while....but he was/is a legend. The man was truly that magical, so I imagined nothing short of the protestors in Tehran ceasing their violence, putting on black garments, and wailing--just for the day-- for the King of Pop.

Still, the emotional aspect of it hadn't really sunk in. So as rehearsal continued and the day went on, I had lost reason why it was such a big deal when I finally got home and turned on the television at midnight. It was all over, stopping scheduled programming and taking over CNN, FOX, and MSNBC. I watched for a bit as I worked out, talked about it online with some friends, shook my head at a facebook group entitled "Rest in Hell Michael Jackson", an utterly stupid concoction of none other than some high school boys who always seem to bless the world with daily doses of douchbaggery and dumbness, then went to bed. I mean, I wasn't his biggest fan or anything anyway. Today I watched some news, listened to different reporters and call-ins, and changed the channel to avoid hearing the 911 call. Then slowly, it began to set in as I started craving MJ songs and watched the Jackson 5 on youtube. It hit me....

There isn't a single one of us who doesn't know "ABC" or "I Want You Back". Who hasn't put either on for Kareoke, or during a solo-dance party, or while hanging with friends. My first memorable encounter with these songs and Michael himself was watching the movie "The Jacksons" on TV for the first time as a young girl, around the same age as Michael was in the beginning of the film. I loved the dance steps, I loved the music, I could relate to the beatings from Joe Jackson and his drive for perfection, and most of all I related to Michael's loneliness and the companionship he found in animals, particularly his rodent friend Ben. I cried with the on-screen young Michael when Ben was killed, and perhaps it was my first heartbreak. I've had several pet mice ever since, and they've always been my best friends. Later on, the Jackson 5 Greatest Hits was one of the first albums I ever owned.

As I grew up, Michael grew up with me. I have taken innumerable rode trips with my father, which has been our best way to spend quality time since my parents split up when I was 3 and he's been living out of state and country since I was 8. Every single trip, MJ's Off the Wall has been played at least 5 times. In my dad's younger days, that album was his most reliable partner. He told me stories of how in Germany, him and his buddies brought clubs back to life by requesting that the DJ played Off the Wall. What was once a melancholy beer hall turned into a vibrant bar filled with couples taking it to the floor, the tables, and even the ceilings to the beats of Rock with You, Workin' Day and Night, and Don't stop till You get enough. So, my father passed the legacy of music, dancing, and the ability to revamp a party by playing the right Michael Jackson tune down to me, as I'm sure your parents have to you, consequentially connecting music to love and to family, making the three synonoumous and music powerful. Michael Jackson touched the lives of millions of families and generations all around the world. When attacked with allegations of pedophilia and child abuse his fans rallied all over in support of him. They loved and appreciated the love he gave them, the love that comes alive in every dancehall or backyard party or street on Halloween when Thriller reenactment zombies take over. Love he put into songs like Black or White and campaigns against injustice and inequality and for compassion.

Michael Jackson gave the world and his fans pure love for the majority of his life. So much that he barely had any left for himself. He and his brothers were the little black boys next door from Gary, Indiana, and they walked into the homes of mainstream America not in the form of some country singer sloppily covering their "jungle music" and making it "safe", but in the form of the little black boys next door from Gary, Indiana in a time when that was unheard of. And as that little boy grew up, the scars of the nation surfaced in the form of the drastic transformations of his physical appearance. Centuries of beatings and oppression found its way in knife cuts and bone tucks in his face but he still kept giving love. Scarred by childhood and the demands of the entertainment system, he was abused by society and showbiz which took advantage of him but he still kept giving love. Two times we accused him of crimes that to him were unspeakable because we just didn't understand his weirdness and two times he was acquitted, and two times his heart broke. But on that last time, frail, bankrupt, uneasy, and barely alive with a shattered heart, seeing his fans who were still there for him and grateful, he mustered up the strength, climbed on top of a car, and gave a show. To the media and viewers at home, it was a circus, a freak show. But for Michael Jackson and his fans--it was love.

Whether it was something to laugh at or cheer at, Michael Jackson spent his life giving himself to the world. It battered him and broke him to a state where he finally had to seek sanctuary. But even then, he rose one more time to give a tour, and for one more time to give the world love. His frail and used heart just couldn't give anymore. So it stopped yesterday, and Michael Jackson died.

I know no other human being in my time and in history who gave as much as that man. Without him the likes of Chris Brown, Usher, and Justin Timberlake wouldn't exist, and maybe not even Madonna or Lady Gaga or Britney or most things on the radio. He is not the King of Pop he is the King of an Era, and without him the whole world feels the suck of the vacancy of this thrown. But I think he will, in a way, live forever. Because love lives forever, and he gave a lifetime of it. So I will show my gratitude to him. I will make sure that my children dance to "ABC", and that my grandchildren know every song on Off the Wall. So yes, we owe him this news coverage and this twittering and status updates. I expect mourners in black taking to the streets, and news reporters and presidents taking off their masks. I expect for Tehran and all of the world to pause, just for a moment, to say thank you to Michael. May he rest in peace, finally.

Goyte, Heart's Mess

2009-06-23T21:28:00.002-04:00

Please allow this fantastic video to work wonders with your mind while the music smoothly slides your undergarments off and makes sweet sweet love to you before you even realize you're naked.

Ahem.

Belgian/Australian Goyte's beautiful animated video is the work of fellow Ossie Brendon Cook. Enjoy.

"She gives bits and pieces of herself, I break myself open and pour the contents on her shelf"

2009-06-21T13:13:00.002-04:00

So. Today is father's day. It's also my 8 (or 7, or 9th? I told you I stop counting at 6) month anniversary. I know, silly silly for me to make a big deal out of it...but SOMEONE likes to count, and that someone I happen to love. So..as a gift, I completed a song I wrote for you and decided to publish it for the global world to see...and you too. Love you rhubarb, this one's for you. Happy anniversary.

Antithesis To Melodramatic Romanticism

What do you think of me

I ruin everything

you say the sweetest things

but I dont recall a single thing.

I'm the antithesis

to your romantic bliss

how do you deal with this

am I really that lovely?

oh no

I said it again

" I miss the days when we were just friends"

and you

you died inside a bit

I know even if I didnt see it

now I've got to appologize

tears swelling in your eyes

carefully organize

backspace backspace

no that's not what I mean

you're the only one for me

this is getting so routine

how do we keep up?

what do you think of me?

I ruin everything

you say the sweetest thing

but I don't recall a single thing

I'm the antithesis

to your romantic bliss

how do you deal with this

am I really just that lovely?

dear god

I'm calling again

it sounds so good

inside of my head

and you

you answer with glee

hoping this time

that I wont be mean

I hate to disappoint again

why do I offend?

I'm hoping that you understand

but you don't

you don't

cus you're not in my head

I'm wishing i was dead

let's make love instead

take the easy way out

What do you think of me?

I ruin everything

you say the sweetest things

but I don't recall a single thing

I'm the antithesis

to your romantic bliss

how do you deal with this

am I really just that lovely?

now we're

standing face to face

my head in your hands

my arms on your waste

and you

so ginger and sweet

smile with love

and kiss both my cheeks

then I whisper the perfect thing

your heart beats and your ears ring

this is so lovely

I win, I win

but as soon as the moment ends

I'm ignoring and texting friends

I dont realize you're still there

next time just grab me and say

"What are you thinking?

you're ruining everything

stop running away from me

cus I can be your anything

don't be afraid of this

just give me a kiss

because i promise

I truly think you're that lovely."

There. xoxox- me

*yes this is copyrighted. Steal it and I'll hunt you down bitches.

The Passion of the Pit

2009-06-20T01:43:00.007-04:00

Here's a blog about something I didn't intend to blog about and have probably talked about too much (but perhaps cannot talk about enough)--Passion Pit.

By now if you don't know who Passion Pit is than you must have certainly been living under an internet rock (or real world rock, depending on who you ask) for the past year, but maybe this is a take you haven't heard before.

When I knew Michael Angelakos (though he looked much more like this one), he was making every freshmen (and probably upperclassmen) girl's heart flutter as he walked around our high school campus, turning a simple beanie hat into a fashion item/sex symbol and charming us all with his offbeat comical displays at morning meetings. My most memorable experience with Mr. Angelakos would be the time spent with him during our school's production of "the Scottish Play" (actually, it would be the morning I was at my locker, felt a tap on my shoulder, turned around to see it was him congratulating me on making my first speech ever at morning meeting, smiling, then gracefully walking down the hall into the sea of students, who were for some reason moving in slow motion, as I tried to regain my breath.....you get the picture; I was a freshman). He had the role of Duncan and I was the Sergeant with the long speech in Act I Scene 2. What I think of, in retrospect, is sitting in rehearsal one day, watching the opening of the play and hearing this utterly disturbing music come on followed by this striking high-pitched falsetto. It was creepy, but extremely unique and it worked with the scene and eerie ambience of the play. When I asked Lulu, the stage manager, where we got this from I was shocked to hear that all of it was Mike.

Less than a year ago, Lulu again introduced me to some more of Mike's music, this time in the form of a little known band from Cambridge, MA known as Passion Pit. I liked it, and a few local shows, CMJ music festival, MTV Spotlight, Columbia Record's deal, big time tours with big time artists, first EP, and headlining tour later....so does everyone else. You see not much has changed with Mike: he's still making our hearts flutter, adorable, and surprising as well as moving us with his music. This time however he's not just playing to freshmen girls and high school theatres, but to an international audience, impressing hundreds of bloggers and the Rolling Stone along the way. A few days ago, a sold out Mohawk Place and myself welcomed Mike back home (his real home, NOT Cambridge, but Buffalo) and I recorded this live version of Sleepyhead. However, what really inspired me to write this blog are the numerous covers and youtube videos I found connected to the one I posted. Just as the name suggests, Passion Pit impassions everyone who listens to them; they encourage creativity, they encourage people to grab their guitars and/or to string their vocal chords with the same unbridled fervor Angelakos's magical falsetto rings through their headphones, and finally they encourage people to feel the passion, to give themselves up to the uncontrollable outbursts of emotion and energy you'll find at a Passion Pit show, and to explode--floating in a million pieces in and out of everyone in the crowd, on stage, and the synthetic beats and tingles swerving under the high pitched yelps and children's choir in songs like The Reeling, Make Light, Moth's Wings, and practically all of Manners. From a local perspective, Passion Pit fills everyone with a beaming pride to have taught, acted, or shared the same lunchroom, quad, or city with Mike Angelakos.

In all honestly, and as it is with the most emotional of things, I cannot truly capture the essence of all this in words, and have pretty much embarrassed myself (God I hope his younger brother and his family somehow skip the beginning of this) trying. So, I leave you with some videos and these words of advice: If you want to be reminded that you're living--go see Passion Pit live. And feel the Passion.

Here's a charmer:

This guy is clearly just feeling it for himself and sharing it with the world:

This kid is pretty good; A sleepyhead cover:

This is the best cover I've seen so far, kudos to Run toto:

O0o, art project from Argentina:

the beanie returns:

Ah, These guys give it their all:

A note to Buffalo, NY

2009-06-14T03:51:00.002-04:00

It takes a village to raise a child. This adage is older than I am, but I question if its still around. Charity Vogel’s commentary “Dream dies, taking toll on children,” in May 25th’s paper answered my question. As a resident of the East Side and student of North Buffalo private schools, I’ve seen various sides of the education conundrum. I’ve watched as economic disparity, de facto segregation, and blindness have left many children at great educational disadvantages, much more so than their affluent, suburban, and/or privileged counterparts. Further, I have also seen many other students left in the dust. They are the invisibles: poor White children who go unaided as the outreach programs and scholarships in existence mostly cater to non-white youths. All the while, funds that could be used to deter this debilitation get funneled off to places and projects that are not in such critical need. A fine example of this is the diocesan’s decision to close the progressive, and according to the diocesan too expensive, SS. Columbia-Brigid Montessori School on the East Side, but keep their large suburban facilities and the bishop’s mansion running at full speed. It leaves room for one to wonder about the price comparisons.

What strikes me the most is not this type of decision-making (it’s really not all that surprising), but more the lethargy with which we as citizens have responded to such injustices. We complain of unmotivated Buffalo youth, of urban degenerates, of a stagnant economy and the exodus from the city of young professionals, but when has this village made the effort to protect and support its children? Perhaps we are unaware of the importance of education. Children go to school not just to learn arithmetic and literacy; they go to school to learn how to be people. I would have never fell in love with learning without my 7th and 8th grade English teacher, and I wouldn’t have thrived as an individual without the atmosphere of my high school. Yet at the same time, other students who also grew up in poor neighborhoods but didn’t share my luck went to schools that only taught them to strive for the bare minimum, where they were never offered leadership roles, were told that any college or passion above the poverty line wasn’t worth their hopes, and that in the end were encouraged to be mediocre more so than ambitious. I’ve even taught these students in classes, and have been moved to tears by the stuntedness of their intellectual and personal selves--their obliviousness to the fact that yes, more can be expected of them and yes, they can certainly do more. As Vogel said, the dream is dead.

Maybe we just don’t see the connection. It is, if you haven’t figured it out yet, that schools that limit intellectual growth limit personal growth. Yes I am aware that not every student can afford a private high school experience or to have dreams of attending top tier universities with tuitions that are exceeding $50,000 a year, but that doesn’t mean that they shouldn’t be encouraged to think that way; encouraged to go above and beyond with what they have and to think of how to excel instead of just get by. And when the funds and resources are given to the already privileged, who are encouraged to go do bigger and better things at bigger and better schools in bigger and better cities, where are we to hold the decision makers responsible and pick up where they left off? Where are we to question the overall disadvantages to the city of such choices and to care about the outcomes? When you have a whole garden of ripe minds at your disposal, yet you fail to harvest it, then you cannot complain when your villiage goes starving.

The political achievements attained by politicians and the federal handouts from presidents who seem to care are worthless if citizenry don’t care either. Beucracies can only do so much execution, and school officials can only do so much fighting. When will we the citizens, the life force of any town, city, state, or country, wake up and do our part? When will we realize our civic responsibility to make demands of our leaders and community? When will this village start raising its children and hoarding its future? Until it does, don’t you dare shake your head at the lost hooded youth robbing a West side convenience store. Recant your dinner conversations of sympathy for the family of the dead little Black boy in the street, or compassion for the futureless group of teenagers on the porch stoop. Instead, hang your head in shame and sorrow that we have lost another child, or more children. Muse not on gang violence, or poverty, or bad parenting as causes, but instead on how we as a village failed to protect them. Then, think about how we can begin to fix it.

With and in love for the class of 08/2012...

2009-05-07T20:38:00.012-04:00

all that I know is I'm breathing. all I can do is keep breathing. all we can do is keep breathing now...

I forgot how much these words, moaned in melancholy by Ingrid Michaelson, hit me right in the throat.

Typically it's happened at times when I question life the most: pits of depression, break ups, extreme existential moments. It's kind of like I put myself in the mood for it first, but this time it caught me by surprise.

I just woke up from a nap and am now facing my last night here in NYC.

It's not necessarily my last night, there will be many more to come after this four month hiatus.

But it is my last night in New York as a college freshman, the bright eyed and bushy tailed moments of wonderment tuning down as I take a breath and settle into adult-like skin. "Ease on down the road!" my grandma use to tell me as she coached me into a bathtub of warm water.

The water pricked my skin in an uncomfortable way before I was able to finally exhale and learn to enjoy it. Similarly, I'm wondering if it'll be sophomore or junior when I stop holding my breath.

You see I don't have a fear of getting old or something like that per say,

it's just that when you go from a kid to an adult

you also have to make the move from dreaming about things to actually doing them.

It's easy when you have excuses like still being in high school or having no money or your age to shelter you from that work.

But when those things come and go, and you wake up done being the fantasized age of 18, and are slowly yet incessantly approaching upcoming years, and life is banging on your door like "Dude, when the fuck are you going to let me in? I'm not going anywhere"---

you get a little scared.

Personally, I question whether or not I'm going to fall short of my dreams, and if I really have what it takes to make them happen.

I want to change the world instead I sleep

I want to believe in more than you and me

All that I know is I'm breathing

All I can do is keep breathing...

How long am I going to stay in the sleepy sheltered world of childhood, waiting for my ambition to somehow drive itself and avoiding the examination of my inner potential?

How long will I just keep breathing; sometimes it's all we can do, but is it the only thing I can do?

These are the kind of questions waking up on a night like this forcefully put you in the mood to answer.

They give new meaning to an old song.

And they scare the shit out of you.

Sarah Silverman; Love her or Hate her

2009-04-28T00:18:00.004-04:00

"I once gave a Mexican a blow-job.......I had diarrhea for 3 months."

I told this joke as a sophomore to my mostly White friends at my mostly white, upper-middle class, private high school in my de facto segregated hometown. I liked it because it had shock value, because it dared to have shock value, because it was told by a little Jewish chick who dared to have shock value, and because...well....it was funny. Insensitive, mean, and racist--yes, but also ridiculous and therefore a racism worth laughing at. It'd be three years before I came across some literature and an academic setting that would validate and better articulate this opinion that my 16 year old mind was forming and struggling to defend.

Now I don't mean to bog you down with academia but this is "my mind brought to you by the speed of my fingertips". Recently I was assigned this webessay to read for my media crit class. It's called "Awkward Conversations About Uncomfortable Laughter" and is about the precious Sarah Silverman and her offensive jokes. No, it's not a bunch of offended Mexicans demanding Silverman be tarred and feathered. Instead, it's a critical look at how and why Silverman's comedy functions, and why it should be examined with more of an open mind ready to discuss instead of a closed mind ready to finger point and protest. I wrote a little response which I'll post here, but I invite you to read this essay for it's full of lovely good points and enjoyable video clips. In a time where anyone with a microphone and a stage who says the wrong thing gets virtually stoned, it's important that we think twice before we criticize; question before we shrink back in pain and hurl counter attacks.

The essay can be found here: http://flowtv.org/?p=1201

As a fan of Sarah Silverman, I enjoyed Henry Jenkins's essay "Awkward Conversation About Uncomfortable Laughter" that recognizes and analyses the causes and effects of Silverman's jokes, which are usually very funny and highly "offensive". Jenkins notes that Silverman's humor is effective and worthy of discussion in the way that it "map[s] the border between what can and can not be said," about race and ethnicity in an America that's becoming increasingly diverse and ethnically fragmented simultaneously (Jenkins). Many of Silverman's jokes depend on an America,particularly White America, that hasn't figured out how to create new racial relationships and discourses despite the breakdown of older racial rhetoric. As a result of this national context, Silverman's stage persona is a over-exaggerated/dramatized version of a confident, innocent, well-intended yet horribly ignorant White American who falls on her face when trying to deal with issues of race by radiating blatant "enlightened racism" instead of the tolerant speech she aimed for, although she remains blind to this fumble (Jenkins).

What makes Jenkins's argument and Silverman's work so important can be summed up in this quote: "There are no words to describe whiteness which have the same sting as 'chink' or 'nigger' and so she has to perform whiteness, against a backdrop of other racial identites, so that it can recognize itself in all of its insensitivity and self-centerdness," (Jenkins). This quote brings up an important question that is central to Jenkins's argument: how do Whites, who traditionally have been seen as the racial majority and therefore void of racist discrimination, enter into a conversation that has been closed off or taboo for them? Where is this space? In the realm of joke relations, comedians set the boundaries for who could tell jokes about whom: Blacks tell jokes about Blacks (and sometimes Whites), Asians about Asians, etc., leaving Whites with no platform to make jokes about other races and for conversations about racism to be carried out only by minorities. But this is not the way to have an open and effective discourse on race policies, especially if one is preaching to the choir. Silverman is forcing Whites (and everyone else) to stare these mishandled issues in the face in a time that calls for such a task to be done if we are to operate as a cohesive society (Jenkins notes that Silverman's joke would never work had it not been for the great changes in the American ethnic and cultural landscape). For me, I equate Silverman's work to that of another favorite comedian Margaret Cho, who once explained her lewd and brash humor (most notably about sexuality and body image) as her way of getting hush-hush topics out in the open because if they're not talked about it is as if they don't exist. Slippery race relations still exist in the US, and Sarah Silverman is just creating the space, perhaps a bit forcefully, for us to discuss them.

New York City-March 5th-1230 am

2009-03-05T01:01:00.005-05:00

Today, late night/ early morning riding the 1, my peaceful ride and the bubbly Italian chatter next to me was cut by the announcement of a panhandler. It's nothing new here, but this time the whole train went silent as this man gargled his words. I couldn't tell if he was drunk, brain damaged, or if his vocal chords were just shot after years of abuse, alcohol, drugs, and cold weather. I assumed a mix of all three. I strained my ears to hear him howl about his situation. "I desperately need a job," I made out. "If anyone can, please, HELP ME!"

But the help me was a howl from his soul. It was a shriek that began as air from lungs pinched by cracked rib bones, escaping through a broken throat. It was more desperate than the howl of Ginsberg. It was like the help me of the lost little white girls in thriller movies. It was the help me of someone dying, drowning in a puddle of his insides. It was the epitome of desperation, and after it I listened as the man moaned his way through "Ain't too Proud to Beg" , horribly too fitting, surprised that he got as far as he did. I bet he came from a time where that was his favorite song to hear on the radio and to sing with his friends. I bet he's had that memorized since he was my age.

And what did I do? I stuffed my nose in my book of essays, I ignored him just as this city and these people have taught me too. No--

of course you cannot listen to every crying bum and empty your pockets for everyone with a cup. But do you ever wonder where he came from? What he was like when he was a child? If his family knows where is now? The amount of dehumanization and abandonment of pride and dignity it takes to do that every day? Did he ever have any? When did he realize he lost it? What were his dreams as a child, what neighborhood did he grow up in, what's his mother's name, what's his name, why is he here, on this train, drowning in phlegm and whiskey? How did he get here?

It's far much easier to turn pages than it is to think about these questions.

I got onto the 2 and the man slumped over in the seat across from me stank so bad of urine that at the next stop I ran to the next car. And on this train was another man, coughing and clutching a McDonald's bag, his finger circling a barbecue saucepacket, his mouth creating a contorted sad smile, and he laughed in whimpers between coughs.

And they're always black, dark black. A black deeper than the keys on my macbook. Black like the caked frying pan your mother use to cook with. As black as the dirt they're covered in, the filth that is their existence.

As I transfered at Times Square I walked past advertisements and pictures and sparkly images. The reflections of our consumerist culture that feasts, and feeds, and ingests.

Safe.

We love our comfy lives but we have to walk on the body of someone to live them. Crumple their bones like the dollar bills fisted into pockets.

No, Freedom isn't free.

My girlfriend once told me about the time she watched Sarah Jones perform her brilliant one woman show, during which she portrayed a homeless woman who said people don't like to look at her because she's actually our reflections. I've always remembered that.

Waiting on the platform for the Q to take me home, as cars flickered pass me with bundles of blankets and coats hunched over in the corners, I couldn't help but put my head down because I felt

ugly.

Disney is taking over the mother effing world.

2009-03-03T01:40:00.003-05:00

Alright, this shit is getting creepy.

This is a short reading response I had to do tonight for a class, but the prospect that Disney, the world's largest media corporation has actually been executing a coup of America for the past 20 years is becoming more and more realistic to me as I learn about their TOWN (they created an effing town!?!) Celebration, Fl and their latest endeavor, an organic fruits and veggies line...

It's out of control. Enjoy my wanna-be scholastic self, and if you're down for reading the real article, I uploaded it on this free internet file storing site. Check it out:

My only grievance with the articles “Are Disney Movies Good for Your Kids?” is that Henry A. Giroux did not write it today. I’m curious to see what he would have to say about the even larger and more aggressive media empire, particularly about its cable TV channel that has been inundating the entertainment world for the past couple of years. The appearances of Zac Effron and Vanessa Hudgens at the last month’s Oscars as well as this article convince me that Disney has been slowly executing a coup for the past 20 years. Still, Giroux makes a compelling argument with that he had to work with at the time, and effectively argues the importance of overlooking Disney’s pristine and innocent surface in order to understand the concepts of American and individual identity Disney constructs for children. Through analysis of the great Disney films of the 90’s, Giroux argues that through sexist, racist, and anti-democratic undertones Disney teaches children that “cultural differences that do not bear the imprint of white, middle-class ethnicity are deviant, inferior, ignorant, and a threat to be overcome,” and that society is ruled by a strict hierarch in which men are dominant and leadership is defined by one’s social status (62,63).

This idea of critically looking at Disney is an extremely good one when one takes into consideration the prevalence of Disney in the media world as well as everyday life, the extent of its power, and the aggression with which Disney fights to maintain its dominance. The article notes Disney’s intense copy right protection efforts, it’s leakage into other aspects of life such as furniture, clothing lines, and education, and it’s drive to maintain a wholesome, innocent view of America, even to the point of creating an actual town. I think the fact that Disney is the largest media corporation in the world, a fact the article omits, is critical to a discussion about ideology, in which one may argue that Disney fights to maintain spread its ideology, which can include it’s innocent image, in order to remain the dominant company in the media world. Still, Giroux reason for investigating Disney, the fact that it aids children in their construction of reality and identity, is a very smart one. From this standpoint, what Disney is doing is the perfect scheme: catching buyers at an early stage of socialization and indoctrinating them into a society that, on top of other typical aspects of the ideology favoring those in control of America’s economic base, rejects the cannon of democracy. I believe this idea is portrayed well in Disney’s real life version of their America, Celebration, FL: a town in which virtually no member of a governing body is elected democratically, and those that are are elected by homeowners, specific governing boards, or “The Developer”, Celebration Company, also known as Disney (http://www.celebration.fl.us/governance.html). Those in control are in control because they have money or status. In terms of media, as Giroux argues, this type of ideology is used by Disney to produce consumers who aren’t even duped into believing that everyone gets a fair chance but rather are taught to not even question governing bodies or dabble on politics, and instead are encouraged to consume. For me, this is a terrifying tactic and makes Giroux’s argument, as well as his solutions, very useful.

All the single ladies' anthems

2009-02-28T01:10:00.010-05:00

Girl anthems. Love 'em, hate 'em, dance to 'em--you can't deny their brilliance.

There have been a lot of great female anthems in my life time. Before I continue, I think it's fare we define a female anthem. I was going to totally bullshit this part by creating my own definition, but I thought it might be worth actual research.

Here's what my friend Miriam has to say about anthem:

Pronunciation:

\ˈan(t)-thəm\
Function:
noun
1 a: a psalm or hymn sung antiphonally or responsively b: a sacred vocal composition with words usually from the Scriptures
2: a song or hymn of praise or gladness
3: a usually rousing popular song that typifies or is identified with a particular subculture, movement, or point of view

So, we could say that a female anthem is a pop song that sings praises of the vagina race and rouses up in its members a sense of price and empowerment. A couple of the great ones that come to mind are:

Just a Girl, by No Doubt

Video, by India.Arie (a personal fav)

Independent Women, by ~~Beyonce's~~ Destiny's Child...

Actually, miss Sasha Fierce has put out a lot of good anthems recently, such as Me, Myself, and I; Irreplaceable; Ring the Alarm; If I were a Boy; the almighty Single Ladies and anything else ~~jay-z~~ some broke down njigga could give her inspiration for.

But isn't that what makes a great female anthem, really?

I mean yeah, feminism is great and all but it always sounds better in the form of gettin' in the ass of all the broke down, good for nothing, sorry ass scrubs in a lady's life (Chilly, T-boz, and Lefty always knew what was up).

From R-E-S-P-E-C-T, to Womanizer, to even Smell Yo Dick, there's nothing like a chick (who may or may not be able to sing) powning a good for nothing dude in a melody over a good, maybe addictivly catchy beat. With that being said, I think we can all agree that the number one female anthem just has to be Call Tyrone, by the great Erykah Badu.

Ms. Badu was a breath of fresh air for me as a young girl trying to figure out what she was suppose to be and, like every other girl in America, looking at media images of women to figure it out. It started out bad, because I had no chance of fitting any of the molds I was seeing, until Erykah showed me that things could be different: I could be Black but not a video hoe, sophisticated but still reppin', and have odd choices in hairstyles and still look cool(?) .

I digress. Call Tyrone is the shiznet, whether your chillin' on a friday night, hanging with the girls and hatin' on men, or just in the mood for a good female anthem, give it a listen. I leave the lyrics for your own enjoyment:

I'm getting tired of yo shit

you don't neva buy me nothing.

And every time you come around

you gotta bring Jim, James, Paul and Tyrone.

Now why can't we be by ourselves sometimes?

See I've been having this on my mind for a long time--

I just want it to be you and me like it use to be, baby

but you don't know how to act

so matter fact

I think you better call tyrone

(Call Him!)

And tell him come on

help you get yo shit

(C'mon, c'mon, c'mon)

You need to call Tyrone

(call him!)

and tell him I said c'mon...

Now every time I ask you for a little cash

you say no but turn right around and ask me for some ass.

Ho! Now hold up listen partner I ain't no cheap thrill

cus Ms. Badu's always coming fo'real

you know the deal

nigga.

Every time we go some where

I got to reach down in my purse

to pay your way and your home boy's way

and sometimes your cousin's way.

When we all went out to eat

you made me ride in the back seat

and that ain't right child.

That ain't right child.

You need to call Tyrone

(call him!)

and tell him come on help you get yo shit.

You need to call Tyrone

(Call him)

But you can't use my phone.

Take my pills, pay my bills, I'm here to let you know

that what I feel is real.

Day to day life with you is no thrill.

It's getting late

no time to hesitate

you need to go home so I can meditate.

Om....

Om.....

Lite my cone, sing my song

I don't give a damn if I'm right or wrong.

Day or night

wrong or right

Tell your boys to find anotha place to watch the fight.

Don't make me go get Big Mike.

So tell yo boys at the liquor store

that you gonna need a place to go

I don't care but you gotsta leave

you can tell 'em you broke up with me

I wanted you to massage my toes

but you'd rather play dominoes

So baby get up off yo knees and hands

and gone and tell it to the preacher man.

But first I think you need to call Tyrone

(call him!)

and tell him c'mon help you get yo shit.

You need to call Tyrone

(call him!)

Hold up--but you can't use my phone.

If nothing else, give us a Dolce & Gabbana ad to look at. Let men become over sexualized objects for once.

Hometown Glory....

2009-02-26T02:56:00.004-05:00

Round my hometown, memories are fresh

round my hometown, oh the people I've met

Are the wonders of my world

Are the wonders of my world...

Adele couldn't have crooned truer words. I have lately been swept with a confusing mix of emotions, ranging from astonishment, pride, jealousy, anxiety, anticipation, and excitement when it comes to thinking about my hometown. I am overwhelmed by the sick amounts of talent coming from the 716, and while I started off, as many kids do, happy to step outta my dinky Western New York pond, shake myself of its scum, and dive into a bigger ocean, I now can't help but to be incredibly excited and proud to come from Buffalo, NY and to particularly be a graduate of Nichols.

The journey to this revelation started last August when Lulu, a classmate of mine, tossed me the myspace link to "Passion Pit, Mike Angelakos's band!" Angelakos was a senior at N-high when I was a freshmen and had been one of the school heart throbs for the longest. We shared the stage, we shared the halls, and every other morning meeting or so Mike and his oh so cool senior comrades would makes us laugh and steal our hearts. Fast-forward about 4 or 5 years and he's still at it, except this time its on an international level. It seems like almost over night his band has blown up, landing a spot at the CMJ Festival in NYC this past fall to headlining an a national and international tour this winter, releasing a CD on Frenchkiss Records, and recording another one to be released this Spring. However, it was only until I experienced the religious experience of a concert earlier this month that I truly became moved by this story. For those of you who get a chance, I recommend you participate in the Passion of the Pit in some fashion, live or recorded.

The next step to my enlightenment came one late afternoon while I was Facebook surfing/stalking as a way to kill time between classes. I stopped on the page of a girl I went to school with form Kindergarden to 8th grade and discovered she's dating Pat Feeley, a skinny kid who had been a part of her gang for as long as I remembered. Turns out Pat became the lead singer of Crush the Everlasting. While the music may not be revolutionary, I was impressed by Pat's vocal and lyrical skills, things I never thought he or any other typical St. Joe's guy would pursue. Boy was I wrong...

But that didn't really set in until I rediscovered Sean Seabass Heidenger's facebook page, the final straw. Sean's class was a year ahead of mine and not the favorite of anyone. Still, he and a few of his buddies sometimes amused us with their band No Mo' Napkins, which you could call the crude, spoiled, over priveledged, sometimes unfunnily ignorant, younger brother of The Lonely Island, but this wasn't all Seabass had up his sleeve. Napkins often opened for local band hero at the time Cute is What We Aim For, and today I found out Seabass stuck with Cute, and currently works as their Road and Tour manager, sometimes contributing to their songs. Not to mention that at the same time Seabass was No Mo' Napkining and "Cute is what we mothafuckin aim for"ing it up, he was also creating his own fasionline; Dazzle Me Formal. Back then I thought the dirty dazzle was just the name that his cocky senior class came up with for a party to be cool, but it's much more. It's a legit line, supported by Cute and Crush (who play with Cute and have their own tour) and run by Seabass and his local friends. Dazzle has been getting hits and recognition from the Buffalo community and national and international scenes as well.

Enough. I can't handle anymore. While it's easy to get jealous or regretful that I didn't become bffs with the super skinny boys, the older artsy seniors, or the douchebag upperclassman, I can't help but to feel encouraged. Buffalo kids spend a lot of time beating their city and situations down, and consequently get caught up believing nothing cool comes out of it, and therefore nothing cool will come out of their lives for being from it. So we do things like run away, shake it off, denounce it, and go somewhere else to make things happen, but these guys are all examples that you don't need to do that. Even though Mike's band started in Boston, the music in his heart which led to the formation of the band started in Buffalo.

On a more relateable scale, I think everyone needs to know, wherever they are, that you can do what you want as long as you put the work in and believe in it. I think all of these guys just have a lot of heart, and it's paid off well.

The world is small, so play your cards right and you could win a hand.

K kids, its 3:45. I'm off to bed so that tomorrow I'm ready to work and figure out how to make dreams happen. A tip of the hat to the dirty buff. G'nite.

What did the five fingers say to the face....

2009-02-21T18:44:00.000-05:00

Well well well. The pictures have finally surfaced and the results are in: Rihanna's face is JACKED up.

While I already didn't need to hear about Chris Brown and this guy to know the safest place for a woman is NOT in a house with a man, the emergence of the police report photos really makes me want to know exactly what transpired.

I know, I know, what had happened was Chris Brown beat Rihanna's ass, but what was the actual scene that ended with the lovable, dancing, half-singing, spearmint gum chewing Brown turning this into this?

Hmm, I don't know, but I'm sure it has something to do with apimpnamedslickbackism. Begin at 2:47 if you will.

"Some niggas can't cross bridges, you can't go upside a bitch's head"

Yes you can Chris Brown, yes you can.

But seriously....I hope that with all this public attention people actually start talking about domestic violence....It's kind of a problem.