Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds

I've been struggling silently for about a week now with a terrible tragedy that has befallen someone very close to me, Lucy. Her untimely death on September 4, 2004 came as such a shock to me that I've been unable to express just how deeply my sorrow and my woe run through my bleeding heart. She wasn't really my girlfriend, but she was definitely like a best friend to me, and the void she now leaves in my life will never truly be filled. It has taken me this long to even be able to begin thinking about it and talking about it.

I will always remember how we first met. I was really nervous. I wasn't sure about myself at all, but the moment I saw her, I knew she was the one. Her long, slender neck (this is so difficult), her beautiful curved body... she reflected the light in the room so gracefully, like an angel. I fell in love immediately, and I decided right then and there that I would take her home with me.

Our first few months together were pretty rocky. It was a tumultuous time of feeling each other out, trying to get to know each others' quirks, each others' personalities. She was a lot more rigid than I thought she would be initially, and I discovered just how much of a bumbling idiot I could be, but we learned to cope with each other, you know? We grew to like each other and need each other. We depended on each other. Over the years... she really came to need me as much as I needed her. Our last days together were the most beautiful times of our budding relationship; things were so new and exciting, and it seemed like anything was possible.

Lucy, my acoustic guitar, died the day I moved back to Penn. I opened up her gig bag and took her out, hoping to just relax with her. Being with her and playing her was a real calming influence on me, and I was hoping Lucy was up for it. The moment I took her out, I knew something was wrong. She didn't look right. She sounded sick. Finally, my eyes fell on her slender spruce and mahogany neck: there was a large, irreparable crack in the polished gleam on the back of her neck, revealing rough wood. The wound was covered in sawdust. I felt like screaming and crying at the same time, but I didn't make a sound. I just sat there, holding her, hugging her tightly, while I gently wept over my guitar.

I will always remember you, Lucy. You were my first. You stuck with me through very rough times in the beginning, when I didn't know what I was doing, when you could have easily abandoned me. You believed in me, then, and so I will always love you. I will never forget your beautiful body, your graceful neck, your angelic, six-stringed voice... (Oh God! Why did you have to take her away from me? Please just let me hear her voice again one more time! Please just let me pluck her strings and her music again! Please!) You were always there for me, encouraging me to become better, to learn how to love you better. I will truly miss the happy times we had. You will never be replaced. Even if I do buy another acoustic guitar, which is what I know you would have wanted me to do, you will never be replaced.

But in all my sadness, I do have one hope, and it is my confidence that you are happy up there on that Stairway to Heaven. You are finally what I named you after in the first place. You are Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds, and you are smiling down on me. You are where you belong now -- where you always belonged -- that jewel-studded place in the heavens you left for a brief moment to illuminate my earthly, terrestrial life. I will always love you, Lucy. Thank you for everything that ever happened between us. And rest in peace.

R.I.P.
Lucy Fender
January 7, 2002 - September 4, 2004

Free Form, or An Ode To Estlin, or E.E. Cummings Homage/Rip-off/Tribute

thisis )anode( a Song for

every little breeze
--going through the trees

& mi fyckle frend;;
the ottum wynd ~~~~~~~~~~~ flyng
leevs throo yur heyr
may king & mick sing
evry thing to get her
sophly wisprs ( ( ( { ( ( (
) ) ) } ) ) ) just kiss her

i'm sorry I'M AN A
MALG
A-----MATION]
an amorphous manifestation--

a magnificent
moaning
mess.

So good night to you,
I will see you soon,
In verse and in rhyme,
In five syll'ble time,
When I am ready,
To better be me.

To Speak like Shakespeare and Feel like Young Love.
To let Autumn pass and give Birth anew.

The Party Song Of Alan D. Zimmer

The Party Song of Mr. Zimmer was a majestic thing--
It floated like driftwood on a surfing wave,
*****Floated over a girl afraid.
She says she'll never make that mistake again,
She's had her share of honey and rusted nails--
*****She's lucky she survived.
It was the saddest song with a happy melody,
Bittersweet like wine, sounding half-a-world away.
The sound from so far took her away,
And she didn't even think of you at all.

The Party Song of Alan D. Zimmer was engulfing;
Swimming in its wake, she choked on the tide/
Colors swirled away and faded to white.
She fell apart by herself, running away upstairs
To the sound of the guitar, the silence,
*****And the black hole.
She just couldn't keep it on the inside anymore--
Stupid bitch--want to get lost, but don't know why--
Sat inside the dark--your life is getting better--
--What's that noise--what are you doing--what's that--?
*****That dream, that movie, that song...

Laughing. Yellow light. Curtains open. Headache.
Oh my God. Was it a dream? Oh my God. Lord.
There is an alarm going off somewhere far away,
And an alarm going off in her head too.
Nothing's done. She feels numb. It slips away.
Walk home. Don't forget your things. Nice to meet you.
*****Fuck you.
Because you're young--she's your gun.

The Party Song of Alan Zimmer doesn't add up.
The sound is pounding, pounding, pounding,
Like her pulse, something's wrong with her--
*****She tastes copper in her mouth.
She just wants to be a kid again--break off this misery.
I wonder how things could have been--everything is fucked.
Dangerous. Never go back. Never the same.
Today has come too late. I think it's today.
The girl is going away. Tickets booked. Don't care.
*****She will never be free.
Ticket to Summerland. Smalltown. Montauk.
*****She will never be free.

But there will always be the song of Mr. Alan D. Zimmer,
Chasing down her heels like a screaming flower.

"The Good Life" by Weezer

'Nuff said.

The Homosexualization Of Britpop

Britpop has evolved since the early 90's from its macho guitar-rock origins to what is now most assuredly very wimpy rock, if rock at all. It all began with Blur, who played their guitars boisterously loud, and weren't afraid of a little distortion. Most of you should remember "Song 2" and its visceral, metal-punkish sound, used in at least two separate SUV commercials. Their music wasn't exactly "hardcore" by any stretch, but its sound had an edge to it. The vocals sung by Damon Albarn were sometimes unintelligible, a la British punk influences the Clash. Very soon, in the mid-90's, this new Blur-based Britpop sound phased into the band Oasis. More concerned with trying to attain the mass, worldwide appeal of the Beatles, they wrote unconcealed pop songs played loudly like arena-style hard rock at concerts. There was no hint of punk or metal, just straight, generic, radio-ready alternative pop/rock. The vocals of Noel Gallagher were much whinier than Blur's, but they were good at what they did, and were incredibly popular, more popular than Blur. This was the intermediate stage. And so that brings us to the Britpop of today, exemplified by Coldplay and copy-catted by bands like Keane. This is wuss-rock, or just straight pop, with the high falsetto vocals of Chris Martin, prominent use of piano melodies, and clear, soft, non-buzzing guitar playing. All vestiges of machismo have been removed. Britpop has been homosexualized.

Finally: please understand that I am not condemning this as a bad thing. I am, in fact, a Coldplay fan.

See You When I See You

Something has happened to my family. I don't think I'll have anything to write in here for a while that's suitable for a public blog.

See you.

A Reminder

Stumbled on this today, liked it very much. Should serve as a reminder to just think for and be yourself.

Despite your pseudo-bohemian appearance and vaguely leftist doctrine of beliefs, you know nothing of art or sex that you couldn't read in any trendy new york underground fashion magazine... proto-typical non-conformist. You are a vacuous soldier of the thrift store gastapo. You adhere to a set of standards and tastes that appear to be determined by an unseen panel of hipster judges - bullshit - giving your thumbs up and thumbs down to incoming and outgoing trends and styles of music and art. Go analog baby, you're so post-modern. You're diving face forward into an antiquated past, it's disgusting! It's offensive! Don't stick your nose up at me. Yeah, what do you have to say for yourself?

You spend your time sitting in circles with your friends, pontificating to each other, forever competing for that one moment of self aggrandizing glory in which you hog the intellectual spotlight, holding dominion over the entire shallow, pointless, conversation. Oh we're not worthy.

When you walk by a group of quote, unquote, normal people you chuckle to yourself, patting yourself on the back as you scoff. It's the same superority complex shared by the high school jocks who made your life a living hell, makes you a slave to the competitive capitalist dogma you spend every moment of your waking life bitching about. Yeah, what do you have to say for yourself? You're free to whine. It will not get you far. I do just fine, my car and my guitar. I'm proud of my life and the things that I have done, proud of myself and the loner I've become.

Thanks TwelveImmaculateYesterdays's Xanga.

This Is Incredibly Interesting (Maybe)

This is incredibly interesting. My blog, I have just discovered, is on something called BlogShares (http://blogshares.com/blogs.php?blog=http%3A%2F%2Fmyspotlessmind.blogspot.com%2F), which is a fantasy market where you can buy and sell shares of many, many blogs, in many, many different industries, ranging from art to sarcasm. Of course, my blog is not exactly a blue chip, nor will it ever be. I serve a very small, distinct market. It's a niche blog, I suppose. Anyway, it appears I could waste another huge chunk of my life on this new diversion, but I'm going to try not to. However, if you are interested in owning a little bit of "Chewing Gum, Coffee, & Slim Jims," do not hesitate to purchase some shares. Analysts say the stock is underpriced. I'm just mad I wasn't invited to the IPO!

Hahaha!

The mental image I got from this made me laugh uncontrollably for a good 30 seconds. And then I got a grip on myself. Try it though, and let me know what you're most likely to utter during sex!

What Are You Most Likely to Utter During Sex by UMAJohnnie
Name
Sexuality
Age
Most Likely to Say	"I'm covered in BEES!"
Quiz created with MemeGen!

The Death Of Indie Rock

The death of indie rock is happening right before my very ears. The MTV-ization of emo, an increasingly popular style within indie rock, is clearly obvious to even the most casual observer. The success of Dashboard Confessional on modern rock radio stations and MTV has done most of the work, and their inclusion on a major Hollywood action blockbuster soundtrack like Spider-Man 2, as the lead single, no less, completes the process of "selling out." Is there still legitimate emo out there? For sure. But soon, the emo bands that completely lack indie cred and are in it for the money will so saturate the market that the genre will become a joke, a la grunge. This is an apocalyptic vision of mine that is already being played out if you pay attention. This is not my worry, whatsoever. I've already come to accept the corporatization of emo.

Unfortunately, it's happening in other areas of indie rock as well, namely, the garage sound made so popular by indie rock darlings the Strokes. I don't know what to call it, or if it even has a snappy name like emo, but this is most assuredly another style within indie rock, and I can already see the copycat signs from big corporations. First, it was Franz Ferdinand, who are a good band and make good music, getting a bunch of corporate support, being all over the radio, and having tons of CD's on display at the very front at Best Buy. This is not Franz Ferdinand's fault; this is simply a sign of recognition from Corporate Music, Inc. They have spotted their new style/victim for MTV-ization. Soon, the good bands with corporate backing will give way to the bad bands created by and for money-making machines. There's already one out there. I don't know what they are called, but I heard them on the radio today, singing with Strokes-like vocals, but with a little less edge and a little less care, strumming on their guitars that Universal or Capitol probably bought for them. They definitely weren't the Strokes, and they definitely weren't Franz Ferdinand; the song had that corporate feel of death about it. I can only expect that I will be hearing more and more such bad bands on the radio, as the garage style of the Strokes is easier to replicate than the pain and suffering in emo music. So that's two styles of indie rock that are being shot down by MTV already.

It's coming, inevitably. The death of indie rock. There will have to be another way for everyone to try to pretend to be hip and cool now...

Thanks Jason Mulgrew (He Said Sarcastically)

OK, so I totally got this idea from Jason Mulgrew's blog, but for the last couple of days, I've been using that "Next Blog" button at the top to browse other people's blogs. I commented only on the ones I had something to respond to, except for the blogs that were written in a completely different language. For those, I ALWAYS left a comment, something really stupid like "totally" or "sweet" or "fo shizzle," even though I couldn't understand a single word most of the time. I thought this was really funny, and it got funnier the more I did it, just as Jason Mulgrew said it would, and all was fun and games and happiness...

But I never realized that Jason Mulgrew's blog did not allow comments back! And mine does! So now I've been getting comments from foreign bloggers who are all confused, asking me who I am! This little side-effect has been great for site traffic, but terrible for me personally; it's like getting caught TP-ing somebody's house. I don't know what to do. I am thoroughly embarassed by their presence, but I'm also totally stoked about the extra site traffic. And it's still a funny joke.

So from now on, if you are a foreign blogger who has received a comment from me that makes no sense to you... err... just kidding? Heh heh?

This Blog Is Rated G For G A N G S T A

Just kidding.


What rating is your journal?
brought to you by Quizilla

General Audience. All ages admitted to your journal. This signifies that your journal contains nothing most people will consider offensive. Nudity, sex, and talk of drug use are basically absent; violence is minimal; snippets of your journal may go beyond polite conversation but do not go beyond common everyday expressions.

Oh wait, I almost forgot. Today I went to a nude beach where there were a lot of naked boobies, had spontaneous, unprotected sex with three random women at the same time, got a mixture of coke, smack, weed, acid, speed, ecstasy, Budweiser, shrooms, glue, Nyquil, and coffee injected intravenously through my testicles, ran around smashing people's faces in with a Louisville Slugger and shooting their toes off with a rifle, and then screamed really loudly:

"FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!!!"

The Triumvirate That Rules My Brain

NOTE: This is not some twisted version of "Aqua Teen Hunger Force," which is an awesome show. This is actually rather personal, despite the ruse...

Chewing Gum: omg, so like, today, i like, totally was like what the hell, i dunno, maybe we should stop writing these stories you know? like totally just start writing about ourselves man, because writing about ourselves is so much easier, right?

Coffee: Easier is not necessarily a good thing, Chewing Gum. The artist can only truly create something compelling and meaningful through intense, genuine struggle. Look at "100 Years of Solitude" by Garcia Marquez. All about struggle. All beautiful. If we want something meaningful, we will continue to struggle in the recent vein of writing not about ourselves, but writing things that are completely made up. Unless, of course, we write about me. I am the artistic part after all, so if we only write about me, it'll also be meaningful.

Slim Jims: Coff, you're such a snob. Chew, you're such a ditz. Both of you are wrong. I hate living with you two, you guys are the shittiest roommates ever, you know that? We should just write whatever we fuckin' wanna write, whenever we fuckin' wanna write it. We can fucking take turns. No one has to dominate. The blog has all three of our names in it, it belongs to all three of us. So it should alternate among all three freakin' voices. Coff, you can keep writin' your story, or poetry, or whatever, I don't care. Chew, you can write whatever you want about what's going on in our lives, too, I don't care, as long as it's not too long. And I'll write whatever funny or sarcastic or profane or meaningless shit I'm supposed to represent, whenever, too. You know, I can't believe you two are both males, you both act like fuckin' bitches all the time.

Coffee: That is actually a very profound idea for our blog, Slim Jims. It would add a lot of fluidity to the writing process. My only reservation is that the division of voices not be so explicit next time, like it is here. This is extremely coarsely done, way too overtly obvious, and, quite frankly, somewhat juvenile. I can tell this was Chewing Gum's idea to do this... play dialogue thing...

Slim Jims: No, it was my idea. So fuck off, cockass. Then we're all agreed?

Chewing Gum: sooo... i get to like, talk about myself and stuff then right?

Slim Jims: Yes. Try to use capitalization, though. This isn't AIM.

Chewing Gum: omg totally awesome. ok i'm in.

Me vs. Blog, Round 2

Quoted from http://professordyke.blogspot.com, who is a very interesting read:

"My reasons for blogging (both pseudonymously and otherwise) are numerous and complicated, but in either case, I do know that I blog to engage in a public and informal mode of writing, to interact with an on-line community, and because it's fun. To be allowed a glimpse into other people's lives through the window of their blogs is endlessly fascinating to me. (Especially since I'm a writer, and therefore, a bit of a hopeless voyeur).

"And while I'm comfortable and pleased to have readers look inside the window of my blog, I certainly wouldn't want them actually standing around my real-life house, peering into the windows, and perhaps it's this metaphor of internet vs. real-life windows that best articulates my desire to blog pseudonymously."

Other things she writes are also pure genius. I am now currently battling an internal struggle of sorts concerning what to do with this stupid little blog of mine, again. In the end, all I want to do is write well, and the reason I stopped talking about my own life and myself was because I felt like that kind of self-indulgence wasn't allowing me to write well, and was causing the imagination-muscles in my brain to atrophy. But then I read these other blogs where the writers write about their own lives so easily, simply, elegantly, interestingly, and articulately, that it just blows my misconception of what writing "well" is out of the water.

So now I don't know what to do with this blog.

This Is Not A Test

This is not a test. I interrupt this irregularly scheduled program to bring you an important public service announcement: DOWNTOWN DALLAS SUCKS. Thank you for your cooperation. This is not a test.

For Joyce

"It was a bright, sunny day. I couldn't believe I was on a farm. And then I stepped on a pile of horsement and knew right then and there that it had to be true."

Chapter 2

If there was any doubt in the reader's mind, let it all be laid to rest here and now: this novel will not lie. Clearly, the book continues in Chapter 2 as promised. The reason this novel doesn't lie, incidentally, is because it hates liars. Once, when it was four, its mother told it that if it ever, ever lied to her, she would Fahrenheit-451 it in the furnace. She would know whenever it was lying to her, of course, because all mothers can read their children like open books, especially very young, inexperienced four-year-old children. (Remember those clips on America's Funniest Home Videos, formerly hosted by Bob Saget, where the kid has a face full of a chocolate but denies ever eating a single brownie?) From then on, it decided it would never lie, and has stayed true to its charge. The infallible, unfailing honesty of Mr. Thomas Woerth was also decided in a much similar manner at the age of four, due to an equally impressive mother, so instead of dwelling on this point, the narrative shall now focus on the incredible oddness of Mr. Woerth.

In the history of all men, there would be no one else quite like Mr. Thomas Woerth; those are the kind of men, after all, that are interesting enough to land themselves in novels. Thomas's understanding of human nature was so profoundly misguided and fundamentally flawed that every single dialogue he ever shared with another human being was a moment of utter bewilderment and befuddlement for both parties. It never came to pass, despite his constant confusion, however, that Thomas tried to avoid human contact or social situations; in fact, the more flat-out wrong he was about a person or situation, the more he seemed to want to talk or act, and the less he seemed to realize how wrong he was.

Let's have an illustrative, graphic example. On a cold December night, Christmas Eve to be exact, Little Thomas lie in bed awake, the covers pulled up to his chin, his eyes and ears as wide and attentive as the five-year-old could muster. Like most normal children, he had been fed the story of Santa Claus. However, unlike most children, he was not lying in bed awake, waiting for the slightest sound or hint that Santa Claus had arrived, so that he could clamber out of bed to catch a glimpse of this incredible legend. Thomas had no desire of the sort to catch a glimpse of Santa Claus. He didn't really care for the man at all. As far as he was concerned, the bloke could waste his time trying to stuff himself through their chimney as much as he wanted. The Woerth's didn't have one. No, on this cold December night, Christmas Eve, it was not fanciful thoughts of Santa Claus that were keeping Little Thomas Woerth awake. It was the rhythmic squeaking coming from his parents' bedroom next door. He listened to the squeaking getting progressively louder, faster, and more urgent for a good fifteen minutes before deciding that he couldn't just lie there listening and doing nothing. He had to take action.

Climbing out of his twin-sized bed, he surveyed his room for a moment in the gray-blue dim. He knew exactly where the door was, and could stride right to it confidently even in the dark, but he was hesitating right now because he couldn't remember if he had left a toy of some sort in the middle of the floor. He usually never did, because he was an extremely neat child who always put his toys away after he was done with them, but for some reason, tonight, a lurking doubt struck his brain softly like so many feathers. Had he put that yellow and black bulldozer truck away after playing with it this afternoon? He couldn't remember. He took one tentative step forward in the darkness. It was not pitch-black. He stared with wide eyes as hard as he could at the center of the carpet in his room, trying to see if he could catch a flash of something, some darker mass lying there, but it was impossible to see for sure. Finally, he decided that whatever was happening in his parents' bedroom was far more urgent than this worry, and strode quickly to the door. His carpet was clean.

He made his way swiftly down the hall to the other end, where the door to his parents' bedroom was firmly shut. Without thinking, he grabbed the doorknob, turned, and burst in on his father and mother under the bedsheets. They didn't hear him enter, because his father continued to do whatever he was doing on top of his mother, while his mother continued to wear an increasingly pained expression on her face. This must have been the source of the squeaking, thought Thomas. He's trying to kill her!

"Mommy? Daddy?" It would be another year, the moment he started first grade, when he would startcalling them Mom and Dad, but for now...

"Mommy? Daddy?" They had not heard him the first time. Suddenly, Thomas's mother's face dropped its look of pain and turned into a look of horrified mortification. This, Thomas's young mind did not understand, having never experienced shame like that before (actually, he would never understand such shame for as long as he lived), mistaking the look instead for one of extreme happiness mixed with relief. His father's expression, however, was unmistakable.

"Get out of the room, Thomas!" he said angrily, but not loudly.

"No! Why are you trying to kill Mommy?"

Clearly disturbed and confused as to what exactly was happening, his father yelled this time, "Just GET OUT! GET OUT, GODDAMNIT!"

"Never!" Little Thomas exclaimed with incredible gallantry for a five-year-old. And then he rushed towards the bed.

Chapter 1

Unlike most novels, this one does not begin with the introduction of a main character. There is no "Call me Ishmael" here, no Nick Carraway to act as a colored mirror through which the protoganist is filtered, no letters to Mrs. Saville to structure a frame-story within, no psychologically disturbed young man walking out onto a St. Petersburg street one hot July evening; in fact, the beginning of this novel is unlike the beginning of any other novel published because it fails to do what all beginnings ought to do -- and that is, to begin something. This introduction does not set anything in motion. It sets up no climate, no scene, and no character. The reader does not know if it was the best of times, or the worst of times. The reader, in fact, can't even discern whether or not this is fiction at all, except to trust that the work is calling itself a novel, and isn't lying. The author does not even make an appearance here to explain what he is trying to do, preferring to lurk back in the deep shadows of a completely detached third-person omniscient perspective, although his voice certainly pervades the entire work like thick, yellow fog.

However, there is a catch, caught most likely by only the most discerning literary critics, because, contrary to what the words say above, a case can be made that the beginning of this novel does indeed introduce a major character. In fact, the careful reader will realize that this first chapter does nothing but introduce the most major character in the entire book, as long as one is willing to read the word "character" none-too-literally. This character is, of course, the unshakeably self-conscious, self-knowing, and self-reflecting nature of almost every single bit of prose throughout. It is this Oroborus-like "character" of the text, of the language, and of the plot that makes this novel unlike any other, and thus this beginning suffices merrily to introduce that point. (Oroborus, by the way, is the idea of a snake eating its own tail; more generally, it is the ontological concept of self-devouring self-knowledge.)

So, having introduced the novel's first and most important character, Chapter 1 fulfills its purpose and, short as it is, must come to a close. The reader will be delighted, however, that the story appears to continue (or begin anew, whatever) in the following chapter.

Influences: Adaptation (Charlie Kaufman); A Heartbreaking Work Of Staggering Genius (Dave Eggers); The History Of The Adventures Of Joseph Andrews, And His Friend Mr. Abraham Adams (Henry Fielding)

Guess Who's Back?

Hint: not Slim Shady.

I suppose a few words about the trip are in order. However, the last month in China was filled with so many wonderful and terrible things that I don't exactly have the energy to convey anything at this time. I just spent the last 25 hours travelling, after all. You'll just have to ask me on the phone or on AIM or in real life or something.

Well, I'm sorry to say I have nothing important to write right now, i.e. I have nothing to write that doesn't concern my own piddlingly narrow life. So it ends here.

Bleeding

Here's a little ditty for the road. Actually, this could very well be a song, except I don't have any music for it. But let's just say it's a song for now, anyway.

My mouth is always bleeding,
From the words you make me say;
I can't believe you still believe,
That I still want to stay.

You've got your hand real firmly
Shoved up through my back;
With all those knife holes that you left,
You're such a puppet hack.

But I'm tired
So tired
And I'm still here
So tired

My hands are always bleeding,
From the things you make me do;
I can't belive you still believe,
That I'm in love with you.

There's nothing left for me here,
In your living room;
I hate your couch, I hate your lights,
I couldn't leave too soon.

And I'm tired
So tired
But I'm still here
Just tired

My heart is always bleeding,
From the things you make me feel;
I can't believe, I can't believe
That all of this is real.

I don't like you very much,
I think your friends are dumb;
I wanna leave, I wanna leave,
I could really use a Coke and rum.

But I'm tired
So tired
And I'm still here

Actually, I think I do have some music for this. I think it would be hilarious if I set this to a G-C chord pattern, and then E minor-A-D for the "so tired" parts. The clash of these over-the-top bitter/angry/angsty lyrics with the relative calm, kind of nostalgic sound of the G-C pattern (used famously by Van Morrison in the nostalgia song, "Brown Eyed Girl") would inspire a very meaningful, profound sense that you can not get by just reading the lyrics sheet. So if you were just thinking to yourself right now, Wow, that song sucks, Dave, it's because it's missing the whole other dimension of the music. With the music, it becomes genius. You know - because I'm a genius and everything.

And on that note, I'm leaving. For China. FOREVER.

By the way, is "forever" still defined as August 14, 2004, or did they change that already?

A Change

I think I'm going to be implementing a slight change in format from now on. I'm going to stop updating on my life for the most part. Everything here will be a work of fiction or poetry, from now on. I need to work on my imagination. I also need to stop looking internally all the time. There's nothing wrong inside. So yeah. This probably also means updates will become fewer; I am not that creative. On the other hand, I am also going to try to maintain a second blog I've created, http://mtvsucks.blogspot.com, because I have realized that I have a very strong sense of what I think good music is. It's all just my opinion of course, and if you absolutely love MTV, that's totally fine (and extremely sad), but it will be a place where I get to indulge myself a little and just talk about music, instead of trying to be artistic or something all the time here in this blog.

Of course, I will be going to China in 3 days, and since I don't see myself coming up with any epic poetry or novel between now and then, this is most likely the last update until after August 14. Maybe I'll write a short story about the trip afterwards. Of course, you won't know what parts are real, what parts were simply inspired by real events, and what parts I completely made up. That's the beauty of partial disclosure!

I realize that this will probably cause the two or three people who have ever commented to stop commenting, because nobody can relate to anything I try to write artistically. That will make me kind of sad for a while. But comments are for whores/Xanga users anyway. So I'm going to try not to care.

just bein Frank

just bein Frank (2:56:31 PM): and what's up with this buddy icon?
quakerchicken (2:56:36 PM): eh?
quakerchicken (2:56:43 PM): it's a robot
just bein Frank (2:56:43 PM): looks like an aborted fetus
just bein Frank (2:56:46 PM): lol
quakerchicken (2:56:50 PM): LOL
quakerchicken (2:56:55 PM): frank
quakerchicken (2:57:02 PM): your FACE looks like an aborted fetus
quakerchicken (2:57:07 PM): the icon is a robot
just bein Frank (2:57:19 PM): oohhh sorry. sometimes i get robots and my face confused

[EDIT]

Also, I would just like to announce right now that Dear Catastrophe Waitress by Belle & Sebastian, released in 2003, is a beautifully melodic, wonderfully endearing, preciously clever, and readily listenable piece of indie pop. I approve of this album without reservation. Everybody should try to get their ears around this CD. "Asleep On A Sunbeam" is quite possibly my favorite summertime song ever.

I Am 19 Years Old

This is stolen from my friend Lea Chu's blog, because I would try to describe this moment in my life with my own words, but her's are better than anything I could try to come up with. Thanks Lea, hope you don't mind.

happy birthday dear self

so it seems i've reached that awkward teenage year. you know, the one no one talks about. no one knows anyone that age. you're not quite 20, but you've passed that golden age of 18. nothing new..you can already drive a piece-o-crap car, see nc-17 movies (if they existed), buy spray paint and cigars, and you still have to journey into the forest to find a nice acid-addict named marty to buy you some beer. this is a state of limbo where you have to think about making decisions, but you don't actually have to make them yet. you aren't fully adjusted to your new life, but you've become seperated from your old. who are you and what are you doing? no one knows, and no one cares because that's the way it's supposed to be when you're 19....

Are They Allowed To Fart In Space?

So I was farting today, when a troubling thought occurred to me. Are they allowed to fart in space? I mean, I was just envisioning a scenario where you had to be in a space ship for a few months... what if you farted in that space ship a few times every day for like 6 months? Wouldn't the build-up of partial pressures eventually overcome the stress quotient of the space craft, and after one too many farts, cause the space ship to explode? It wouldn't take that many more pounds per square inch from a moderately flatulent man (or woman... admit it, gals, you fart too) out in the pressureless vacuum of space to cause an unfortunate and unseemly cosmic accident. So what do they do? Do they fart out the window and into space using a tube or something? Do they spend billions of government dollars researching special space foods that don't cause flatulence? Do they eat fart-supressing pills? Do they just try to hold it in as best they can and hope that whenever they have to rip one out, it doesn't end up being the fart that broke the space ship's back, so to speak? What does NASA DO about our brave astronauts' passing gas???

Oh, and happy 4th, everyone!

Golf, The World According To Garp, and Fahrenheit 9/11

Today, I played my second preppy white-boy sport of the summer. The first one was tennis with Eric. And today, for the first time ever in my life, I played... golf! Well, not really. Actually I just went with my dad to the Twin Creeks driving range in Allen and laid some 7 iron into the plastic (and grass, when I messed up). I felt very preppy in my white polo shirt and Polo Sport shoes. This must be what it's like to be retired. I'm enjoying retirement before I've even started a career. That can not be good for my future work ethic. This also will not bode well for my upcoming mid-life crisis. I will probably start to have my mid-life crisis around 30 and won't stop crisis-ing until I'm 60. I really don't like... doing things. Can a career be made out of illegally downloading and listening to music, watching movies, reading books, and writing in a blog? If so, I'd be a pro by now.

I finished reading a book last night that I started on my last day in Philadelphia before flying here, meaning I read this book in exactly one week. This achievement was due in large part to the goodness of the book, and in much less part to my own scholarly skillz, kind of reminiscent of that time I read an entire book in one evening (Flowers For Algernon by Daniel Keyes). This time it was The World According To Garp by John Irving, a gift from Frank. I guess the book had a lot to it, but to me, the most important and most riveting thing about it was that it was about writing. It was about T. S. Garp, the novelist, trying to write, and struggling to write. I wish I could finish novels. I wish I had vision, but my writing tends to wander about aimlessly. I need vision, and unification, and, well, I probably need a damn good story, too. Imagination... that's what Garp had. That's what I need. But everything I write just seems to always end up being autobiographical in at least some tangential way... Perhaps it's the effect of writing about myself in blogs all the time for the last couple years. I need to get away from that habit. I must know more than just what I live...

Oh, and golf, incidentally, is not my game. As for mini-golf, however, I OWN. So don't mess.

[EDIT]

Everyone must go watch Fahrenheit 9/11 immediately. It is guaranteed to make you angry. Whether you get angry at Michael Moore or at George W. Bush probably depends a lot on your own personal political leanings, but it will definitely make you angry either way. Which is good. That's what movies should do. And that is my review. Fahrenheit 9/11 does what it should do. So go. Now!

Random Summer Thoughts

- Walking through the mall with my mom today, I realized that Texas girls are pretty hot. However, they also look like they would be mind-meltingly boring to talk to. But who cares, whatever. They are still hot.

- I hate going into a fitting room whose door doesn't lock, or whose lock is broken. What if somebody barges in? I don't want people to know that I wear underwear with chili peppers on them. I also remind people enough of a chicken without showing them chicken legs.

- You'd have to be a really confident, unself-conscious, arrogant douchebag to wear some of those stylish long-sleeve button-down wannabe-retro stripey/designer shirts they sell in department stores these days. Some of them look cool, I guess, but there were a few I saw that just screamed "FASHION WHORE!!!" like the type of guy who would go to a concert but wouldn't dare dance because he'd mess up his perfectly tousled hair. I'm thinking in particular of the LIGHT PINK and WHITE striped one I saw... Most embarassing part of this story: my mom took it off the rack and wanted to buy it for me. Seriously.

- Riding my bike makes me want to fart. And when I do, it ends up being really loud, since it's forced to push its way through an extremely tight squeeze between my butt and the bicycle seat. It's fortunate that whenever this happens, I'm simultaneously speeding away from the scene of the crime, so that nobody really catches a good glimpse of my guilty face.

- After spending almost a year away from radio while in college, I've finally been able to tune in again, while driving. Conclusion: radio sucks. Good god, radio sucks! Outside of the classic rock station the Eagle, there is simply a wasteland of teenage trash. Each track of bone-crunching guitars on the modern rock station the Edge is indistinguishable from the others. In fact, when I tune in to modern rock and hear more generic macho Post-Grunge crap like Creed, I actually change the radio station to Top 40 pop radio like KISS FM. I'd rather listen to Usher take that and rewind it back than hear from Linkin Park again about how in the end, it doesn't even matter...

- BRASH PREDICTION TO BE REALIZED IN THE NEXT 6 MONTHS - 1 YEAR: Emo will transmorphasisatize into mainstream, corporate, commercial Emo-Pop or Post-Emo or some such thing, just as American underground/garage alternative transformed into mainstream Grunge in the early 90's (which synthesized into the even more despicable form of extremely commercial Post-Grunge after the death of Kurt Cobain), or as the legitimately motivated bands of the Punk Revival that reacted against the heavy seriousness of Post-Grunge also sold-out to corporate corporations, changing Punk Revival heroes like Green Day and The Offspring into Punk-Pop radio-hit machines (leaving only bands like Rancid and Pennywise to carry on the torch of hardcore Punk that was free of MTV). In fact, it's already happening to emo with the MTV-ization of Dashboard Confessional, and soon, the other emo indie pop/rock outfits will find themselves choosing fame and fortune over the actual music as well. Having said all that, however, I would do the same thing. I wouldn't want to become some outsider weirdo freak like Ani DiFranco.

- Spider-Man 2 was a smidge-and-a-half below the first Spider-Man on my scale, but that really depends on what size you define your smidges to be.

- Most of this post is of a facetious nature. Ani DiFranco is not that bad. I do, however, own a pair of boxers with chili peppers on them, so please knock before entering fitting rooms. Thanks.

California

Prudence would say to come out and play tonight,
As the sun goes down and the fireflies say hello,
With lime green flashes in the wind,
Children of summer, flashing green with laughter;

A green balloon goes flying by in the sky, it's 1999,
We love to speed down Highway 1 past the palm trees,
Not a cloud goes by, not a day turns night,
The traffic lights always saying go, go, go;

Sunday mornings trying to keep up in town,
Trying to keep still in the breeze,
I'll try the other shoes for a change,
Feels a little strange, this Sunday morning;

Creeping in the sand, on the surf, in the red summer sun,
Body free is a Venice Queen, Queen of Venice Beach,
Where did you come from? Where are you going?
All those dirty brown bags and that shopping cart, but no groceries;

My eyes sometimes get a little rusty,
Just thinking of you, and all that you do,
What will be our anthem for the Year 2000?
When will be the next time I wish I brought a camera?

Taking snapshots of the fires we start,
Drifting upward, gently lifting, lazy on the wind,
Red and yellow sparks, when I stoke the embers,
Turning slowly on my own spit, I burn freedom tonight;

Every day is a Pacific coast party, setting over the waves,
And every day is a holiday in flames in my head,
Nobody can ever take my baby blue away,
The quiet black streets of California, poisoned with purple rain.

First Impressions of Home

- My mom and dad age remarkably slowly... hope it's not Botox
- Don't buy Lever 2000 Body Wash... I'm sure the soap is OK, but the body wash doesn't spread very well... it's like trying to cover your body with congealed jam that's been in the back of the fridge for three months
- I live in a very large house that looks like the house of rich, wealthy people... living in Shithole College House (I mean, Gregory) all year made me forget that my family is somewhat wealthy now
- Please don't come kidnap me just because I said I was wealthy... it was tempered with the qualifier "somewhat"
- The first day I got back, three people recognized me just out on the streets: Will L., Alison M., and Anwei C., thus making me feel both rich and famous
- I need to start getting out and seeing people I haven't seen in very long times
- Not sure what to make of this very new, fancy Blogger look... on the one hand, Blogger has become a much more powerful tool, and coupled with the new "gmail" stuff, I'd say the Blogger/Google collision is producing some magnificent sparks... but I can't shake the feeling that Blogger now looks and feels more and more like Xanga/LiveJournal, and less and less like the underground, web savvy, rock 'n' roll, stick-it-to-the-man weblog tool I fell in love with over three years ago... Blogger used to be indie rock... but now it looks almost like they are... dare I say it?... post-grunge sell-outs...
- The China trip just might turn out to be fun after all, despite the efforts of my parents to, um, exist
- Nobody likes the long hair for some reason, except me
- I could probably waste my entire life on the Internet without realizing it... and so could you

Last Update From The East Coast

The Rundown:

- Went to a Mozart concert on Saturday night at the Kimmel Center. Incredible seats (Frank is the man. The Shit. The Man-Shit.) So close I felt like I could reach out and grab the conductor's ass. None of the players even looked at the conductor doing his thing (something you don't notice from the nose-bleed seats). Exotic Mozart was the theme. All of his Turkish-inspired music. Intense. Beautiful. Almost fell asleep though, too tired. But picked up again when violin soloist came out. Fucking riveting. Then some opera singer came out to sing some arias. Little too pompous. Conductor seemed like a very arrogant jerk the whole time. Part of the job description probably.

- Walked face-first into a locked door a couple days ago and broke my aviators. Not my most graceful day.

- Now have 19.45 gigs of music thanks to Emily. This way safer than BitTorrent stuff. Still a bit wary of anti-piracy winds. Currently rocking the reggae-ska-punk-rock stylings of Sublime. More to them than just the handful of radio hits, for certain. More socially conscious than I had previously thought. Definitely owe a lot to Bob Marley, the first and foremost socially conscious reefer.

- Done with classes today. Not looking forward to home. Will be boring, except for (hopefully) daily basketball and occasional meet-ups with long-time-no-sees. Little sad to be leaving. Eric was an awesome roommate. Next year will totally rock 'n' roll though.

- China soon. First or second week of July. Not sure what to expect this fourth time. It's been seven years since the last time though, so things probably much different. Grandma must be getting old.

[EDIT]

- Watched Junkyard Jazz perform on the street outside Fresh Grocer, right there on the corner of 40th and Walnut. Just a guy surrounded by plastic buckets and metal pans, going at it with drumsticks. Laid down some ridiculously phat beats. (Yes, I did just say that.) Paid 10 bucks for their five-track CD. It was awesome shit. I dug it. That's 10 bucks in support of our underground music artists. That's 10 bucks in defiance of Britney Spears, Inc.

- An empty room is one of the sadder places to be in this world.

And thus concludes the Philadelphia chapters. Texas next.

The Unauthorized Ballad Of Alan D. Zimmer

A fog lurks about this part of town, I know almost for sure.
I heard it through the grapevine.
It's like a wrinkled broadsheet tumbling down Broad Street;
Old ads for a lime green couch and a slightly used second-hand blender;
Things you'd have to hunt for, overshadowed by the screaming headline:
THREE BODIES FOUND DEAD, JEWELRY MISSING.
LAKERS LOSE PLAYOFFS, 4-1. WILL JACKSON LEAVE?

Cold wind always makes things worse;
Funny how the weather changes you and me.

It sprints down the fast lane, fast;
It slows, it rears up, it shakes its head, and keeps going,
but changes its mind before changing direction.
It has a mission. I have a mission too. Never talk to it.
Just keep walking. Pretend you can't hear.
Pretend you didn't see it coming up to you from the right.
You're in a hurry, you don't have time, it's not yours anyway.
It will ruin your life. You will ruin mine. It's life as sunshine;
Life as something you wear from a department store;
Life as something you wash and drive once a week;
Life as something you pick the right colors for;
Life as something you order from a catalog.
That's all I've got in my pocket. Sorry.

But whenever the cold wind makes things worse,
we just laugh at how the weather changes you and me.

And so you've got a feeling now,
and I can't stop myself from remembering my dreams,
and reliving them in living Technicolor.
You're my Technicolor lover;
The world was black and white before you,
but then you had to walk into the room;
And now you're walking out, and I can't think of a single reason to stop you.
You invented "perfect" anyway, not me.
Always hated the word, in fact.
Maybe someday on a subway, I'll catch a familiar face;
But most likely not. I hope not, at least.
So I'll see you around, in black and white, on a lime green couch,
unable to recapture, unable to remember, unable to recare;
Because it used to be that true love was something you wore;
Love was something we washed and drove once a week;
Love was something with matching colors;
Love was something I ordered from a catalog.
And now you're gone.

So why did the weather have to change you and me?
The cold wind just made things worse.

I can't believe it escaped me again the other day;
I was just walking by myself among the night and lights,
the storm of humanity in New York City that swallows us whole.
I had nothing to catch it with and so it went,
and so it goes, and so it always goes, and so it went, and so it goes,
but it could have been a brilliant career;
Something I built in the underground-club circuit of life.
New! Off-Off-Broadway! Seminal talent! A refreshing voice!
I must be off-off-my-mind to still be here tonight,
at the same spot I've walked over now ninety-six times, trying to catch it again.
I always work up a cold sweat (cigarette) doing these repetitive mental sit-ups.
They told me it's why I have so much trouble in the first place.
I told them it helps, so fuck off. In a cold sweat, I'm your marionette.
I should chase it tonight, I should really get after it;
Run around street corners, talk to that girl with black glasses.
What do you read? What do you need?
Do you want to live tonight? (Do I?) Let's do something to this town,
instead of always letting it do things to us.
(Drugs, baby;
Sex, baby;
Blood, baby;
Like magic;)
But I'll forget it when it's over; it's me--
Sorry for your help, thanks for your time.
Look at the clock, we slept it around; isn't that lovely?
And my cold sweat and cigarette walked out the door, lost again.
There isn't a Greek goddess in sight tonight, not even a Helen,
not in the usual places anyway--too tired for it--
no street corners or dark one-mattress rooms,
no coffee shops or balconies,
no jazz clubs or cigarette stores,
neither your place nor mine.
Not tonight, darling; New York isn't Kalifornia.
It's not even art, anyway--art isn't inspiration;
Art is something I wear from a department store;
Art is something I wash and drive once a week;
Art is something I pick the right colors for;
Art is something I order from a catalog.
It's not you, though, baby, it's me.

Cold wind just makes things worse.
Funny how the weather changes us.

Non Sequitur

I suddenly realized something while listening to Thelonious Monk's "Honeysuckle Rose" just now. Computers are really incredible. I mean, they are seriously really cool and amazing. But in a way, they are also kind of scary, with the whole--oh man, I just got a phone call asking me if I wanted to hang out. This never happens. Have I graduated from Nerd School? Am I a popular kid now? I dunno, but I better go do this hanging out business and find out!

OK Computer

Oh, man. I just got OK Computer by Radiohead. Not "got" as in purchased or acquired, but "got" as in grasped, comprehended, understood, and appreciated. What an amazing album. It is and does so many things at once. I was just listening to it tonight, and it hit me. BAM! This is an incredible work of genius. Perhaps I was never able to fully appreciate this album before because I wasn't aware of its scope within the history of rock 'n' roll. But now, with all the classic rock I've been listening to and stuff, with a sense of the span and history of rock inside my head, I listened to it again and realized that OK Computer changes rock music forever. Here I am, with my favorite band being the Beatles, and Radiohead with this album has made them, and all other rock bands more or less irrelevent. OK Computer is a quantum leap forward in sound because it makes all other guitar rock, even the rock from their own previous records like Pablo Honey, sound odd. It makes them sound antiquated. Radiohead makes Beatles songs sound quaint, childishly amusing, and slightly irrelevent the way the rock & roll revolution made jazz sound quaint, amusing, and slightly irrelevent. Radiohead's music reveals the standard electric guitar sound as antique, the way the electric guitar revealed the acoustic guitar sound as antique in the late 1960s. OK Computer truly changes rock music. I can't believe they did it in 1997, and it took me this long to realize. I guess when I am an old grandfather, I will be trying to show my grandkids CDs of the Beatles or something, and they will listen to it oddly, in the way your grandmother might try to get you to listen to some Louis Armstrong right now.

Man. I need to listen to this album again.

Good Writing

Some people wouldn't know good writing if it slapped them in the face and fucked them in the ass. Wake up.

Untitled

It gets light way too fast outside.

?, a Question Mark

As I stare at this blank screen in front of me, a dozen of the same exact thoughts zoom through my head over and over at sixty-six thousand miles an hour, racing each other like it's the Kentucky Derby and nobody has a clue who's going to win. They jostle and fight and snarl and snap and bite as they stampede down the lanes for primary position in the twists, turns, and wrinkles of my brain. They zap around like lightning bolts of neurotic electricity, leaping over firing synapses and trampling over the frayed ends of my neurons. Who will make it? Which thought will win this race, bursting through the escape hatch at the bottom of my brain, tumbling down my spine, splitting itself at the shoulders and rushing through the length of my arms? Which thought will whip around the corner of my elbows, speed triumphantly past my wrists and into my ten fingers, splashing over this keyboard here? - and filling up my computer screen with words!

"Words, words, words!"

Will it be the recent full-frontal invasion of MATH into my life?

Will it be the recent, devastating Laker loss, and my new hatred for Kobe Bryant and his arrogant ass? (Make no mistake, the Lakers will always be my team, but Kobe... you're a jerk.)

Will it be some ruminations on angst?

Music?

Summer?

High school?

Grammar school?

One of my friends? All of my friends?

Love?

Will it be something funny? Or serious? Or both?

A poem?

A fictional story? A real story?

Or will it, like all things, simply end... in a question mark?

Who knows?

Dave Contains Explicit Lyrics

I'm updating too much. Oh, well, it's summer. I'm that bored, and I'll admit it.

PARENTAL

ADVISORY

DAVE CONTAINS EXPLICIT LYRICS

Username:

From Go-Quiz.com

Check It

This is the definition of hardcore.

SURVEY MADNESS! (My Blog's Integrity Has Just Been Cheapened X1 Million With That Title)

1.) Grab the book nearest you, turn to page 18, find line 4. Write down what it says: "to the English poet Elizabeth Barrett, whom Poe" [from The Complete Poetry of Edgar Allan Poe]

2.) Stretch your left arm out as far as you can. What do you touch first? My dresser

3.) What is the last thing you watched on TV?: Mad TV reruns on Comedy Central

4.) WITHOUT LOOKING, guess what the time is: 10:04 pm

5.) Now look at the clock, what is the actual time? 10:00 pm

6.) With the exception of the computer, what can you hear? A/C, my roommate's AIM notifications

7.) When you last stepped outside, what were you doing? Coming back to my room

8.) Before you came to this website, what did you look at? My math grades on Blackboard

9.) What are you wearing?: Long sleeve button shirt, shorts

10.) Did you dream last night? What about? Yes. I don't remember.

11.) When did you last laugh? About ten minutes ago

12.) What is on the walls of the room you are in? Bob Dylan poster, Chinese New Year banner, "Go Quakers!" Thundersticks from last year's football game against Princeton

13.) Seen anything weird lately? An episode of "Kids Show" last night

15.) What is the last film you saw? Shrek 2

16.) If you became a multi-millionaire overnight, what would you buy first? A bigger iPod

17.) Tell me something about you that I don't know: I used to be able to swim a lap at the pool in 20 seconds

18.) George Bush: Not voting for him

19.) Imagine your first child is a girl, what do you call her? Either Summer or Sarah

20.) And if it's a boy, what do you call him? Either Forrest or Ethan

Name four bad habits you have:
1. Making caustically sarcastic jokes all the time
2. Staying up late
3. Not eating meals on time
4. Procrastination/apathy with schoolwork

Name four things that you wish you had:
1. A 40 gig iPod
2. A 3CCD Digital Video Camera
3. A vinyl record player
4. An electric guitar/amp

Name four scents you love:
1. Soap
2. Girl hair
3. The ocean
4. Cherry blossoms

Name four things you'd never wear:
1. Abercrombie & Fitch
2. Thong/G-string
3. Doc Martens shoes
4. Make-up

Name four things you are thinking about right now:
1. Math test on Monday
2. Need to go to the bathroom
3. Can't wait to go home, even if it's Plano, TX - it's still home
4. I want to get a turtle and name him Alexander

Name four things that you have done today:
1. Woke up late
2. Messed around with some film editing on the computer
3. Went to Andrea's and did a lot of math problems
4. Surfed on the web and decided to take this survey

Name the last four things you have bought:
Besides food, which happens everyday...
1. CD: "The Clash [U.S. Release 1979]" by The Clash
2. Green Converse All-Stars shoes
3. 60 Watt computer speakers
4. Books for classes

Name four people you would like to spend more time with:
There are a lot more, so this is unfair, but...
1. My dad
2. William Lo
3. Prof. Mark Stein, my English teacher last semester
4. Any nice/cool girl

Name four bands/groups most people don't know you like:
1. Weird Al Yankovic
2. Hanson
3. Kid Rock
4. Sugar Ray

Name four drinks you regularly drink:
1. Water
2. Coke
3. Gatorade
4. Orange soft drinks

"Falling Down" by Dexter Freebish

Watching people fall down over and over again is really, really funny - especially when limbs are flailing. Flailing always makes everything funnier. It worked for pre-Eternal Jim Carrey, after all.

The city looks beautiful tonight.

I'm struggling with a little bit of writer's block right now. In fact, it's been this way for the last several entries. I've had to really prod myself for things to say. I had a good conversation with Frank today about American internationalism/unilateralism/isolationism/economic globalism. I got a little mad at one (but representative of many) Whartonite's insensitivity towards other's misfortunes, and ingratitude for his own privileged life. I edited film, bringing to life the characters of Awkward & Jerkface...

This is so pointless. I'm enumerating meaningless actions rather than meaningful ideas. I'm not writing, I'm recounting. Nobody gives a shit about the stupid things that make up other people's lives, but they give tons of shit about the stupid things that make up their own lives. I am no different. I could care less about you, but today, I edited film! Wow!

I'm going to stop. Clearly, there is nothing here for you or me, tonight. There was no point in even starting. I will probably delete this post later.

Off-the-Cuff & On the Record: White-Washed Pride

There is not much on my mind right now. The deep, soulful voice of Otis Redding has gripped my spirits and arrested my brain. He is a master of Southern Soul, of the jazzy-bluesy ballad. A true master.

I think I've seen a couple movies recently that I've forgotten to talk about. I'm not going to bother trying to remember them because I don't think they were worth reviewing. That's not to say that they were bad movies, it's only to say that I can't come up with anything particularly unique to say about them.

People have pointed out to me that I'm not "very Asian." In other words, I'm "white-washed." Now, I remember getting fairly mad about being called white-washed once back in 10th grade. I found it insulting, and it was meant to be insulting, I believe. I've always carried somewhat of an identity crisis throughout my life, being an American-born Chinese person - you know, the kind of identity crisis that people write fantastic college essays about (something I probably should have done instead of my, uh, "experiment"). The kind of identity crisis where I'm always going to feel like a foreigner whether I'm in America or China. All that "no-homeland" bullshit. I carried that sense with me, ever since kindergarten. So when I was called white-washed in 10th grade, I wasn't sure how to respond, except in anger/frustration/offense. I felt like it was yet again another sign that I would never belong anywhere on this earth.

And now? Now, I'm proud to be white-washed. I'm glad I'm not very Asian. I embrace being an American with a Chinese face. Whites can tell me I'm not really American. Asians can call me white-washed. Mexicans can mock me chinito and pull at the corners of their eyes. Blacks can think I'm Japanese. I don't really care. I don't want to be anything but who I already am right now, which is a natural citizen of the United States of America, with Chinese-born parents who are also American citizens, and who despises and defies the "Asian-American" culture that likes to spike/dye their hair, drive souped-up "Rice Rockets" and listen to Korean pop music. I like white music. I like European cars. I like my hair long and ungelled. I like NOT flashing the peace sign when I'm taking pictures. I like white-people food like cheeseburgers. I like white-people TV and white-people movies. I hate watching Cantonese soap operas. I hate all soap operas, actually. I don't wear anything from Banana Republic or Armani Exchange (or Abercrombie & Fitch on the other hand, for that matter). I am glad and proud that I am/am not these things. I think the "Asian-American" culture I've been describing is stupid and boring and often superficial. I enjoy white culture. I don't care what other people think I should like or what other people think I should be. I'm just David Xilong Liu.

And I simply "belong" wherever I am.

How Pathetic Is Pathetic?

Is it worse to want to marry a 14-year-old wizard girl or be in love with a computer-animated cartoon princess woman?

What A Productive Day

First and foremost, today shall go down in history as the day that I, David Liu, earned my stripes as an Ivy League student. Yes, that's right, I finally played a preppy white-boy sport! (Albeit, with all Asian people.) It was tennis, and preppiness aside, it was fun. In fact, I would willingly and gladly do it again tomorrow. However, I'm not going to start wearing white sweater vests and pressed white khaki shorts. I am not Hugh Grant.

Other productive things that happened to-day (sidenote: productive is defined as any activity that does not involve sitting on my ass, being on the computer, and/or doing nothing) include the following:

- played basketball and ping-pong, thereby completing a triumvirate of sports I accomplished today, this day being some sort of super cosmic athletic sports day for me

- didn't miss a minute of class (unlike yesterday)

- actually did homework on pure self-motivation for about an hour after class, even though it's the weekend

- learned more guitar, like the song "When I Come Around" by Green Day, and some other things, and just played for about half an hour

- withdrew money from the ATM (I've been broke for about a week)

For a slow summer day that could have just come and gone without notice or event, I think that's pretty damn productive. I really carpe'ed this diem.

A Life In The Day Of Alan Zimmer

Rum. Green. Bitch. Gait.
Happiness is a warm gun.
Mustard. Tennis. Curve. Death.
Thanks for revealing to me that I'm a pathetic loser when it comes to women, Mommy.
Table. Sleeve. Planet. Box.
Running to stand still.
Paper. Coffin. Tower. Wrist.
Let's go where all the people flow to and fro, speaking of my Juliet and her Romeo.
Car. Art. Drool. Cellar.
While my guitar gently weeps.
Gum. Camera. Pick. Love.

Revival

Finally jammed on the guitar today again for the first time in over a month. Finally can call it "jammming" since Eric and I played a couple two-guitar songs, and they worked. Not gonna say what they were, since I'm not that proud of my indefensibly gratuitous interest with Pop-Punk Alternative Rock. If I were to ever start a band, I'd want it to be more along the lines of Alternative Indie Funk-Rock-Blues Pop. Maybe a little occasional Punk or Hard Rock. But no Grunge. Oh God, never Grunge. Go away, please, Mr. Grunge, and Mr. Post-Grunge.

Back to reality though, I watched School of Rock today and I loved it. Yes, that's right. I loved a stupid Jack Black movie. Why? Because of the rock, man! It inspired me to learn as much as I could about the history of rock. Because rock is awesome. So I spent the rest of the day reading all about rock from http://www.allmusic.com, which is a great site that tells you everything you need to know about artists and genres and shit. They seriously have a bio of almost every artist that I have in my 17+ gigs of music. So I re-categorized all my music, and learned the differences between Alternative Rock and Indie Rock, Ska and Third Wave Ska Revival, Hard Rock and Heavy Metal. I know Bob Dylan's original name was Robert Allen Zimmerman, and that the phenomenon known as Britpop was begun in the 90's by a band called Blur. The Ramones were the first ever Punk band, and Guns N' Roses brought Hard Rock back to its roots in the 80's when rock was beginning to consume itself with glamour and excess. Oh, and The Ataris are not Punk. They are Punk-Pop.

I also sort of figured out the major parts of rap too, how the Beastie Boys belong in Hip-Hop, Kid Rock is Rap-Metal, DMX is Hardcore Rap, 2Pac is Gangsta Rap, Chingy is Dirty South, and Dr. Dre pioneered his own sound called G-Funk.

I divied up my jazz collection too into Swing, Big Band, Dixieland, Bebop, Post-Bop, and Fusion. It's not all just "jazz" now.

The only stuff I haven't really figured out is my electronica collection, since I don't really give a shit about the differences between Techno and House, although apparently, the former was pioneered in Detroit, and the latter was pioneered in New York/Chicago.

And all of that is off the top of my head. I learned a lot today.

Screw the math test on Tuesday.

[Edit]: I just differentiated my classical music into Modern, Baroque, Romantic, Impressionist, and Classical. Maybe I WILL get around to figuring out my electronica, too. Or maybe I will still just continue to hate that genre too much.

Ah, Facking Shat

Fucking shit. I just got a notice from the ITA people that Universal has filed a complaint against my IP for sharing 21 Grams. I totally deleted it last week after watching it, but I guess that's not enough. I am now OFFICIALLY a copyright infringer, since I have now been caught. Well you know what I say?

Hah! Bring it on, bitches. *scoffing laugh*

Well, this notice did serve to remind me that I completely forgot to review 21 Grams, and the two movies I watched last night, Along Came Polly and The Life of David Gale, so here it goes:

21 Grams:
- Structure. That's what this movie is really all about. It'd be kind of a mundane, melodramatic, almost soap opera like story of organ donors and heart transplants, and hit and run murderers, and lost children, but for the unique structure the movie is told in. It's even more hard to follow than Memento. At least in Memento, everything was still linear, but just linear in the backwards direction. With 21 Grams, there seems to be no rhyme or reason between the first scene and the next, except to slowly unravel and reveal the story with constant jumps back and forth in time. It's effective, though. The structure (and some good acting by Benicio del Toro, Sean Penn, and Naomi Watts) make the movie more than it really would have been otherwise though.

Along Came Polly:
- Jennifer Aniston is hot.

The Life of David Gale:
- Kevin Spacey is still my favorite actor, despite an ending that I had predicted about 40 minutes into the movie, when Gale gets cornered on a talk show by the fact that he can't prove that an innocent person has died on death row before. It was just so easy to see, I don't feel bad that this review might be slightly "spoiling" the ending. The movie itself does a good enough job of that. Spacey is still awesome, though.

The Big Nothing at the ICA

Spent the afternoon at the ICA (Institute of Contemporary Art). A few coolstuffs; however, a disappointing amount of junk, too. Definitely lesser of an experience than their last exhibit in February. Will have to go back to look at the three or four cool things again, though, with my Moleskine notebook. Was inspired by thoughts unwritten that have then since been forgotten. No apologies for such artistic plagiarism either; I've long since resigned myself to the notion that there's no such thing as an original thought anymore. I have no remorse for acknowledging influences and inspirations. They were really good. Two good ones with two dichotomatic ideas: angst and infinity. One mundane and one extraordinary. Both struck me. I want to start making films again. Goddamn mom never let me bring my camera to school. Thinking in fragments today. Three last, tangentially related thoughts:

- Green is my favorite color, followed closely by a very deeply rich orange color I saw in one of the pieces at the museum today.

- Girls who hang out in modern art museums are hot. (But you're pushing it when you chatter like that. Please come by yourself next time.)

- I need a more portable Moleskine that I won't forget at home.

"How Bizarre" by OMC

Brother Pele's in the back
Sweet Zina's in the front
Cruising down the freeway
In the hot, hot sun

Suddenly red blue lights
Flash us from behind
Loud voice booming
"Please step out onto the line"

Pele breathes words of comfort
Zina just hides her eyes
Policeman taps his shades
Is that a Chevy 69?

How bizarre
How bizarre
How bizarre

Destination unknown
As we pull in for some gas
Freshly pasted poster
Reveals a smile from the pack

Elephants and acrobats,
Lions snakes monkey
Pele speaks righteous
Sister Zina says funky

How bizarre
How bizarre
How bizarre

Ooh baby, (ooh baby)
It's making me crazy, (it's making me crazy)
Everytime I look around
Look around
Everytime I look around
Everytime I look around
Everytime I look around
It's in my face

Ringmaster step out
Says the elephants left town
People jump and jive
But the clowns have stuck around

T.V. news and camera
There's choppers in the sky
Marines, police, reporters
Ask where, for and why

Pele yells "we're outta here"
Zina says "right on"
We're making moves and starting grooves
Before they knew we're gone

Jumped into the Chevy
Headed for big lights,
Want to know the rest
Hey, buy the rights,

How bizarre
How bizarre
How bizarre

Ooh baby, (ooh baby)
It's making me crazy, (it's making me crazy)
Everytime I look around
Look around
Everytime I look around
Everytime I look around
Everytime I look around
It's in my face
It's in my face

Ooh baby, (ooh baby)
It's making me crazy, (it's making me crazy)
Everytime I look around
Look around
Everytime I look around
Everytime I look around
Everytime I look around
It's in my face

Ooh baby, (ooh baby)
It's making me crazy, (it's making me crazy)
Everytime I look around
Look around
Everytime I look around
Look around
Everytime I look around
It's in my face

There's nothing like blasting one of the biggest one-hit wonders to ever grace 90's radio to spice up a weekend. Bring back OMC!

The Music Never Stops

Thanks to the incredible, illegal, and immoral technology we have available, I now possess ridiculously massive amounts of mp3's by the following artists:

The Beatles (16 albums)
Led Zeppelin (9 albums)
Pink Floyd (15 albums)
The Pixies (10 albums)
R.E.M. (15 albums)
U2 (8 albums)

And the piracy continues. Arrr!

I Like Rock

I like pop
I like soul
I like rock
I like blues
I like jazz
I like folk
I like punk
I like rap
I like funk
I like disco
(But I never liked techno)

Reverse! Reverse!

I'm doing this whole thing all wrong. I gotta turn this shit around -- or else pretty soon I'll be like, whoa. G A N G S T A.

Insomnia Strikes, Part 1

I have failed to bring myself to sleep tonight. Perhaps I shall fairly soon after this post, or perhaps I will be awake for another couple of hours. I can't see Center City right now from my window. Philadelphia is shrouded in fog tonight. Even Huntsman Hall, just a block away, looks a little bit hazy and mysterious. It's an empty, lonely, lifeless building. I will never understand how these hardcore Whartonites can come to embrace such a building, such a culture, such a life. It's a sad and empty world out there only if you make it so. If life has taught me anything, it's that nothing can overcome human will. If God himself were to oppose mankind one day, I would like to think humanity would survive. That is the power of the human spirit. Holocaust survivors smile with a pure heart, without hatred for Nazis or anyone. They are filled with love, not sadness, madness, or anger. How beautiful is that?

The fog is growing thicker as the dawn approaches. Perhaps Huntsman Hall will disappear by morning. Life is incredibly mutable, people. It can be everything you want it to be, if you want it to be so. And it can be everything you don't want it to be, if that's what you turn it into. You just have to decide if you want what you want or not.

The little things make me happy. A sunny day. A good song. Finding treasure in trash. Fire flies. Just sitting around with friends. The shade from a nice tree. An ice cold Coca-Cola on a hot afternoon. Weekends. Taking pictures of things. Jesse Bear, my 15 year old teddy bear. Clean socks. Naps. Walking. Breathing. Shrimp pizza.

But do they add up to overcome the big things that make me sad?

Do I have an original thought in my head? My bald head. Maybe if I were happier my hair wouldn't be falling out. Life is short. I need to make the most of it. Today is the first day of the rest of my life. I'm a walking cliché. I really need to go to the doctor and have my leg checked. There's something wrong. A bump. The dentist called again. I'm way overdue. If I stop putting things off I would be happier. All I do is sit on my fat ass. If my ass wasn't fat I would be happier. I wouldn't have to wear these shirts with the tails out all the time. Like that's fooling anyone. Fat ass. I should start jogging again. Five miles a day. Really do it this time. Maybe rock climbing. I need to turn my life around. What do I need to do? I need to fall in love. I need to have a girlfriend. I need to read more and prove myself. What if I learned Russian or something, or took up an instrument. I could speak Chinese. I'd be the screenwriter who speaks Chinese and plays the oboe. That would be cool. I should get my hair cut short. Stop trying to fool myself and everyone else into thinking I have a full head of hair. How pathetic is that. Just be real. Confident. Isn't that what women are attracted to? Men don't have to be attractive. But that's not true. Especially these days. Almost as much pressure on men as there is on women these days. Why should I be made to feel I have to apologize for my existence? Maybe it's my brain chemistry. Maybe that's what's wrong with me. Bad chemistry. All my problems and anxiety can be reduced to a chemical imbalance or some kind of misfiring synapses. I need to get help for that. But I'll still be ugly though. Nothing's going to change that.

--Charlie Kaufman

"Welcome To The Jungle" by Guns N' Roses

I just bought 60 Watt speakers for my laptop, the first set of speakers I've ever owned that came with a subwoofer. Just finished blasting "Welcome To The Jungle." I can not describe how great music sounds on speakers like this. Rock on.

"Bob Dylan 1965" Poster

There's nothing better than finding amongst the hallway trash a giant, black and white, larger-than-life sized poster of Bob Dylan in 1965, with a cigarette in his mouth and a harmonica around his neck. The creases and tattered edges just make it look that much more vintage. With that poster up on my wall, I have now officially fallen in love with my own room. Legalizing gay marriages may be the fight of today, but legalizing marriages between a man and a dorm room is going to be the fight of tomorrow, and I will be at the front lines of this battle. I love you, Room.

Huh?

I don't understand how monstrous cockroaches make it up to the 24th floor. I am confounded.

Otherwise, I love Hamilton College House. I love looking out my window and seeing the city. The lights at night are a beautiful sight. That sentence had a lot of rhyming. I love how everything is new, too. Our toilet is so white and clean.

In other news, I apparently have a Boston accent when I say the words "Boston" and "caught." Frank imitated me the other day, and told me I said them like "Bahhstin" and "cahht." I say every other word in the dictionary with Standard American English. Maybe that's what happens when you combine the Southern California tone (it's not really an accent) and the Texas drawl. You get Bahhstin.

I kind of wish I had the whole Boston accent, and not just those two words. It would make me more interesting. Accents are cool.

OMG DEREK FISHER OMG

OMG LAKERS OMG FOUR-TENTHS OF A SECOND OMG DEREK FISHER OMG LAKERS WON OMG I CAN'T BELIEVE THAT JUST HAPPENED OMG HAHA TIM DUNCAN OMG FISHER OMG LAKERS ACTUALLY WON OMG THAT WAS THE BEST GAME EVER OMG LAKERS OMG FOUR-TENTHS OF A SECOND OMG OMG OMG

Connecticut

The part of Connecticut I'm staying in with Frank is extremely picturesque. There are hills and forests and grass everywhere, and we drive down little winding New England country roads. This is an incredible contrast to where I am from, Plano, Texas, which is the Levittown of the new millennium: flat land, straight 90-degree-angle roads, and rows and rows of endless factory-manufactured cookie-cutter houses that come in only three different colors, packed tightly together, with a grocery store and/or Starbucks at every major intersection. I guess that's picturesque too, in a creepy, bare, empty, Stanley Kubrick kind of way. I haven't even so much as seen a McDonald's here yet. Apparently the closest one is 4.3 miles away, in another town.

And that's what I love about Connecticut.

One of Those Long Ass Annoying Quizzes Nobody's Gonna Read, But Successfully Waste MY Time, Which is All That Matters

Last word you said: "Bye," after getting off the phone with Eric
Last song you sang along to: Who's Johnny by El DeBarge (yeah bad 80's music!)
Last person you hugged: Chrissy (sympathy hug - I still had four exams left at the time)
Last thing you laughed at: Kill Bill Vol. 2, when Uma ripped out that chick's eyeball
Last time you cried: A couple days before Spring Break, long story
What's in your CD player: Slow Motion Daydream by Everclear
What color socks are you wearing: White, Gold Toe
What's under your bed: Suitcase with winter sweaters, shoes, dust, possibly Donald, the local mouse
What time did you wake up today: 8:00 AM (I had an 8:30 exam)
Current taste: Sweet, carbonated cola
Current hair: Dry and weighed down by the day
Current annoyance: Dust on my fingers
Current desktop picture: Default blue (blank)
Current worry: Will I be able to move out all of my stuff successfully?
Current hate: Packing shit that I didn't realize I had to pack
Favorite physical feature of the opposite sex: Eyes that flash with life
Time you wake up in the morning: 10 am on a good day, noon on a bad day
If you could play an instrument, what would it be: Drums
Favorite color: Green (maybe)
Do you believe in an afterlife: No, but if I had to, it would be of the reincarnation type
How tall are you: 5'11"
Current favorite word/saying: "Fascinating..."
Favorite season: Autumn (maybe Summer)
One person from your past you wish you could go back and talk to: Hien Pham
Favorite day: Tomorrow
Where do you want to go: Paris, France
What is your career going to be like: As hassle-free as possible, so that I have time for real life
How many kids do you want: 2, a boy and a girl
What kind of car will you have: Porsche Boxter, convertible


[have you ever...]

Have you ever said "i love you" and meant it? Yes
Gotten in a fight w/your dog/cat/bird/fish, etc? The only pet I've ever owned was a turtle named Mike, and we got along famously
Been to New York? Yes, three or four times
Been to Florida? Yes, twice
San Diego, California? YES, more than I can count
Hawaii? No, but I'm working on it
Mexico? Yes, a couple times
China? Yes, three times (fourth is upcoming this summer)
Canada? Yes, quite a few times


[random]

Do you have a crush on someone? No, I don't think so
What book are you reading now? Ulysses by James Joyce
Worst feeling in the world? Wanting to throw up
What is the first thing you think of when you wake in the morning: "Did I oversleep?"
Future son's name: Forrest
Do you sleep with a stuffed animal? No, I make him sleep on the shelf
Are you a lefty, righty or ambidextrous?: Righty
College plans: Continue at the University of Pennsylvania
Piercings: None now, and most likely never


[ the extra stuff ]

Do you do drugs? No, nothing illegal
Do you drink? Only a couple of times in my life
Who are your best friends? Frank, Chandan, Catherine, and Eric (that's the order I met them in)
What kind of shampoo and conditioner do you use? Herbel Essences Shampoo, no conditioner
Who is the last person that called you? Eric Chen
Favorite number: 7, since the day of my birth
What type of automobile do you drive? 1990 Pontiac TranSport Minivan that looks and smells like shit
Have a job? No, but I used to work in the office at Karen Dillard's SAT College Prep School
Do you like being around people? No, but I like being around persons
Best feeling in the world? The relief of peeing after holding it in for a long time
Are you for world peace? Yes, but not if the cost is world war
Are you a health freak? No, I eat and do whatever I feel like
Do you have a "type" of person you always go after? The "female" type generally suffices
Want someone you don't have right now? Is that an offer?
Are you lonely right now? A little
Do you want kids? Yes


[ in the last 24 hours, have you?]

Cried: No
Bought something: A 20 oz. bottle of Coca-Cola Classic
Gotten sick: No
Sang: Yes, while cleaning my room
Said I love you: No, but I mumbled something about "You too" to my mom when she said "I love you" on the phone
Wanted to tell someone you like them: No
Met someone new: No, although I viewed some people new to me on thefacebook.com
Had a serious talk: Yes - several goodbyes were of a half-serious-or-more nature
Hugged someone: No
Kissed someone: No
Fought with your parents: No, but I did lie to them about when I was going to go to bed

Fascinating...

Thefacebook.com is absolutely fascinating. I'm sorry I was so skeptical and anti-facebook for so long. Although I still look down on the practice of trying to see how many friends you (think you) have, overall it is quite a powerful technology. For example, I decided to do a global search with NYU to find this girl I had sat next to on the bus from Boston to New York over Thanksgiving break. All I remembered was that her name was Maggie, she was a freshman from Louisiana, she liked Adaptation, and that she was studying film. I typed in her name, and *BAM* Maggie Langlinais. So I wrote her a short message. Isn't this facebook technology incredible?

At Age 4...

At age 4...success is...not peeing in your pants.

At age 10...success is...making your own meals.

At age 12...success is...having friends.

At age 16...success is...having a drivers license.

At age 20...success is...having sex.

At age 35...success is...having money.

At age 50...success is...having money.

At age 60...success is...having sex.

At age 70...success is...having a drivers license.

At age 75...success is...having friends.

At age 80...success is...making your own meals.

At age 85...success is...not peeing in your pants.

Sadness

For some reason, this last email sent out by my GA made me extremely sad. I still have two final exams to take, so I don't think I'm due, yet, for that "Goodbye, freshman year" retrospective-introspective post I'm obligated to write, but I just felt like sharing this email. It's wonderful and beautiful in my GA's own, quirky way...

And, finally, an absolutely fabulous greeting!

So, here we are: our tether's turned to seeming ether, our wick has willy-nilly burned to a nibly-nib, our credits are rolly polly on the river, and our sighs are pretty much sayonara. So, while they are striking our academic set -- that doesn't contain itself or Bertrand Russell or Jennifer Aniston -- and rolling out the Bonofied baccalaureate big top brouhaha, ask not how-why the study break bell tolls, for you know it tolls Gregariously!

Whether or not you are losing your feckless Friends 2-nite, whether or not you could care less about these funny-froed Friends, whether or not you find yourself decidedly post exam-paper rough-and-tumble or very much smack-dab encompassed by the study compass, consider hitting the VP Piano Lounge, say about 10pm, the hour of true Friendslessness. A bit of India will appear there as your tasty pot of gold, thanks to gravity's and the semester's rainbow.

wtfwtfwtfwtfwtfwtfwtf: Indian food - fabulous samosas, delicious Chicken Teeka, succulent Korma, bountiful Biryani, not to mention Paneer, Nan, Goolab Jamin!

wherewherewherewhere: VP Piano Lounge

whenwhenwhenwhen: 10pm, 2-nite

I wish you all continued success, peppered with surprise and curiosity.

Paul Grant,
Gregory College House

"Meh... I guess...?"

You're an INDIFFERENT AIM-ER. Meh.


What kind of AIM-er are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

Haiku

Feel the cool night air
Brushing against your soft skin?
So do the tree's leaves.

The moon looks so fucking beautiful outside my window right now, shining in the black sky like the flashing eyes of vivacity herself...

Oh, yeah, and I've added a commenting feature, for no particular reason. Use it freely, I guess.

Insomnomadic

It's been 42 hours and 15 minutes since I last slept in my bed.

Hien Pham

I wonder where Hien Pham is right now, and what he's doing. He was my very first best friend. We met in the 1st grade, and became friends because we were both Asian boys living in the Mexican ghetto. We were best friends until 7th grade, when he started wearing baggy pants and kissing girls, and running around with a Vietnamese gang called "Azn Pride" or "Azn Pryde" or something. He changed on me, while I stayed the same, and so he disappeared from my life. I wonder where he is now. I know so little about him post-elementary-school, that he could be studying Electrical Engineering at UCLA or be dead in a gutter in El Monte right now equally easily, in my mind. We used to have so much in common, too, like Power Rangers, being good at our multiplication tables (i.e., being Asian), wanting to learn Kung Fu -- and Vivian Huang.

She was beautiful, the most beautiful 2nd grader on the playground. I had a crush on her that I never told about to anyone, not even Hien. And then one day in 4th grade, I heard Vivian and Hien had feelings for each other, and I saw them hang out together more. I still liked her until the 5th grade though, and I still never told anyone. I was happy for Hien. She was beautiful, after all. But she moved in the 6th grade to Irvine or someplace like that, and I kind of got over it. I can barely recall what she looked like now, but she definitely doesn't seem as beautiful as she did when I would watch her on the playground playing on the swings. The swings were her favorite.

So I wonder if Hien remembers me, and what memories come up when he wonders where I am today. I wonder if he'd be surprised about where and who I am. He probably has no idea that I moved to Texas. He probably still thinks I'm in California. I don't even know if we would recognize each other if we passed each other on the street now, two adults, basically, living our adult college lives.

I miss the simple times. I miss you, Hien. You were my best friend.

How Shall I Express Myself Tonight?

Beautiful Overdrive

She's dressed up like a car crash--
the wheels are turning, but she's upside-down.
She took a green light to a pack of cigarettes;
but she doesn't smoke, doesn't even want to.

I took a red light into the gray morning,
trying my best to stay as faraway as you stayed close.
I slept with a friend who came back for more,
before I realized I had overstayed my while in exile.

Driving under the bridges that man built,
symbols of hope that there's somewhere to go to,
we saw the darkness of the underside.
She's my companion, just for tonight, like store-bought love.

You really shouldn't give me that drink, Barkeep;
There I go! not even old enough to hold
the glass in one hand (Bartender, please).
Set me free with the wine you gave Jesus (after three days in the ground).

You've got me by my guitar strings,
played melodically, beautifully by the shine in your eyes.
It's love--will you be there when it happens?
I'm blown over by every breeze and every short breath...

Yet there's a deepness to the purple tone of her voice,
carried away by the sounds of reality, and the mad day.
I can hear you--I can hear the sadness when I drive alone,
Driving another moonlight mile without you.

I'd rather not get stuck in the practical. The kids all say,
"What a drag." I'll sing for you if you want me to. (Or maybe I'll just turn up the radio.)
I knew happiness once, but once stolen, could never be found again...
Unless returned. The guitar just needs a little tuning. Scanning.

But now she's accelerating from the darkness in the night,
Moving just to stand still--what a girl--what a world.
She only sees one way out: got to cry without weeping,
talk without speaking, scream without raising your voice.

I'm only watching my own rearview, looking inside the walls of my skull.
I'm looking back in anger at the cortex of wiring;
since when did everything get so tangled up inside my head?
She knows it's too late as we're switching lanes, passing on by.

So I'm hanging around downtown by myself, thinking.
Why is here no? Here is no why? Is why no here? No here why is!
Streetcars and redlights float by like silence, the world turns,
as I sit still at a table on the sidewalk, a cup of coffee sipping me.

Looking up through the open moonroof is like watching the world disappear,
and staring God in the face. Pleased to meet you.
How are things running? Everything's going smoothly I take it.
Glad you could spare a minute. Thanks for everything.

All of it happens to us at this intersection of our lives,
where Highway 61 crosses Main Street; you pulled up your car
next to mine, red in your eyes, 3 a.m. Through tinted windows,
we understood how much we get wrapped up in the pleasures of the world.

But your light turns green, and I slide slowly back in silence like a shadow,
As the world passes you by, blurring lights off into the night,
A swirling starry night.

Look how they shine for you.