plastic squirtguns

The Weather

2011-05-06T21:48:00.000-07:00

it is magic
you see them walk across the lawn or
unload a meaty and white graffit-strewn box truck
at that, you know their age
you are close
you may be or are almost them
and its all so possible
oh, perhaps love!
or not; they may hate you
and your piss pants
your uninformed race jokes
you dont know
but suspect its wrong
but that box truck moved in and its new
So New
that you think
maybe
just maybe
no one will remember that terrible joke
of jackets and cold and weather
and a new person may bring with her a new season.

Blue Eyes

2011-04-19T16:03:00.000-07:00

a nap is painful desperation naptime it is is it not? no. its a photo. it is translucent paper a wedding albums paper soft and thin as ladies hands and skin.

time to think and stare into my kittens light blue eyes.

but what of this time thats lost. its not time lost, is it? its this sheet of white linens tickling skin with kitten whiskers.

(eyes stare back. tongue licks tooth)

no nap today.

oh!

2011-01-31T16:30:00.000-08:00

i was feeling like a dad,
yeah, a daddy
and i realized i was
oh yeah yeah yeah

then i thought about so many lovers
and the endless hours spent
spent spending time between them
oh yeah yeah yeah

being a student, yeah and studies
coulda been a real bad time
but for lovers
oh yeah, so many lovers
so studious of smooth heavenly bodies
small breasts and round asses
i think of that and i smile
oh yeah yeah yeah

pouring pretentious beers and wine
to some whiners, some not
goodness knows some were good friends
yeah, that couch has some stories
some summer and wintertime stories
of sex and spilled beers
oh yeah yeah yeah

His Dreams were Made of Lilting Mexican Hairs

2011-01-30T10:42:00.001-08:00

of dense brown and smelling of strawberry scented hair product. Each moment in the dream is one thick and perfectly highlighted hair that is heavy in its sadness, and lost and drifting along the floorboards and sliding beneath Victorian chairs in a cool room in San Jose, California.

But, its not a sad dream, and the hairs themselves are not sad in their singularity. Each hair, as mentioned before, occupies a specific and smooth moment and fills the space in the dream as though the dream were a neverending forest of highlighted warmth, some trees chocolate and some trees vanilla. All delicious dreamy moments each of wispy highlighted hair.

For one moment, each hair was in itself a lucid moment and aware of its dreaming self. They bent upon themselves and held sleepy dream hands and whispered about the man dreaming dreams that were made of them, lilting and heavy, lucid Mexican hairs.

2010-12-03T16:38:00.001-08:00

stack them up right next to one another
onto one another
into one another
they are all in you.
they are stalin's personal poet
8 to 800 times a compadre
a culprit
a sharer in complicity
the stacks are memories
less of mass than mind
and memory
and then we meet our wives
less stacks; softer
edges
higher resolution
more clear and clean in edges
and voluptuous threading.
the makers of men so much more.

Danny

2010-10-25T22:12:00.000-07:00

You were an excellent neighbor, and a great friend. Your babies, oh man, your beautiful babies... so perfectly precious. Corey and I were watching garbage television the night that your body decided to quit. I was lying on the floor, slightly drunk, feeling the buzz of passing out candy, and some beers, maybe some whiskey.

Slams on the door knocked us out of our warmth. Your wife, panicking, told us you were on the bathroom floor, unmoving. Running to the house, I had no mind for leaving my own future family lying in my bed.

You would hardly breathe. Your body would not move. We moved you into the living room and shoved ice into your pants. The police were called, and the EMT's arrived first; they were poorly dressed and had lazy speech. We were breathless, and wondering why ou friend's breaths sounded filtered through a wet sponge.

I think (hope) you died on that rug. I did everything I could. I hope you know that. I remember feeling self-conscious about giving CPR. That's so ridiculous to me now. I never admitted that before. I did it because I was trained, and because i wanted you to live. I wanted to think you had maybe hit your head, but I saw by your slack you had lost something, and still I put breath into your lungs. .... and I had hoped ...... to your brain.

You died several months later, after your heart had been kept alive, but I remember you as my friend next door, with the huge laugh, wide smile, and wonderful family.

I miss you. I wish you hadn't have died. I wish that your dying didn't start in my arms, and I wish for your family to stay strong though they have lost such a good man.

2010-09-01T20:43:00.000-07:00

it haunts my days, this goddamn song
and sons of songs which i am and sing
a student says, "you sing?". laughingly
i reply seriously, yes
yes i fucking sing!
i will sing and sing and sing
until you get it!
oh?
oh?
(stop being my grandparentstalkingtalkingtalking)

oh?
we keep hearing the same bogus shit. it hurts my ears.

please sing sing sing sing!

It's Just As Easy To Fall In Love: A Picture Story

2010-05-28T13:05:00.000-07:00

havent much felt

2010-05-13T21:11:00.000-07:00

like doing any new writing
and there are reasons.

a friend bought me a book:
the art of forgiving or some such
luck or haberdashery
to get through the trough

tough
it is to get through the muck

there are other friends
got some good ones
on guitar, and bang skins
on leaflets and film
on long leafs, on grape vines
on dime bags, on rewind

some others too, like yous
to sit in the living room
watching clues that are blue
so few

you know, we are some LUCK
we are some (through the wall)
tattoos that make us look
awkward and tough,
we hear it, a scuff
a scour, for a page in an hour
for a post in a minute
decided updates per hour
its important, i guess
to share all of the mess
pouring murky clear jameson
relieving the stress

and we work
work works work
and the burn of the sun
the sand in my ears
the healings begun.

This Is A Heart

2010-05-13T20:35:00.001-07:00

This Is A Heart

There isn’t so much of lovely drunk and
Drunk love to ever make it awakened, wide
Awake at wakes awakened more.

A more precise plan would be
Some sanctity, some tea, a few
Good old fashioned tumblers full
Of country songs, some yule
A wake, a tide to see.

Pluck them chords, brother
Lay skulls upon tablets, mesas
Lay silver knives in eyes electric
Lay slow melancholic kisses, others
Lay wide awake, a wake and tether.

all i can say is this

2010-03-25T19:57:00.000-07:00

there are some teachers that get it, and some that dont.

i got a shitty email today because i gave a student a pass. she was working on her project to pass 8th grade, but apparently her decision to figure that shit out got her and me in trouble. honestly?

i dont even have confidence in a job year after year, yet alone the hubris to claim my subject is more important than another, so when someone says that keeping a kid for 5 minutes is a problem, i say, "fuck you". this will never contribute to faculty popularity, but honestly, i give less than a shit.

i will remain acquiescent, but only so that this person in question can feel in order and control. but fuck that. MY student needs help and you know what? it doesnt come from some bullshit schedule.

obtuse, ignorant, but perhaps just plain and ignorantly selfish. all that equals is ego and an inability to see whats really fucking happening. to me, its not our kids, sometimes, its our teachers.

just dont replace me and keep these assholes.

Este Semana

2010-03-21T15:19:00.000-07:00

last sunday: awesome day! god decided that it was the first day of spring, so although we "lost" and hour of sleep, we gained an hour of sunlight. with this hour of light, addie and i went to roosevelt park and traded off swining, sliding, skating, and biking. i hadnt skated since the weather turned foul (about 4 months ago), and was excited to be back on my board. i skated well and decided that i would be getting back out every day after school when it was possible and the sun was shining.

monday: exhausted at work, but excited to begin my new unit with the kids. i had previously planned out a 6 week curriculum calendar with a colleague and was ready to begin. later that evening, i went skateboarding, and within a half hour, i set up, front-side 180 to 50-50 on a four foot ledge, three foot grind to front side half-cab out and down onto flat....... and landed with my board at about a 30 degree angle, rolling my ankle and tearing ligaments, fracturing my foot. i was not wearing my brace, and before i left the house i consciously considered putting it on, and didnt. now i am in traction for at least a month + physical therapy. this is a painful reminder that i must recognize that being fit and truly taking care of my body is of maximum importance.

tuesday: stayed home from work. felt sorry for myself. hid my bicycles under sleeping bags on the veranda. decided to quit skating for good. dark day.

wednesday: couldnt stand another day like tuesday, so i went to work and my kids took care of me; it was really very sweet of them and i felt in good spirits knowing that i would be drinking some jameson later that evening for st patty's, and finding out the next morning if i needed surgery or not for my foot. fingers crossing.

thursday: podiatrist said not only did i not need surgery, but the fracture was not severe and i would be able to skate within a month or two, and bicycle within 4-6 weeks. left office ecstatic.

friday: woke up with 6 text messages from and "ex". found out it was her, and was confused. it had been 9 months and she just got married a week before. clearly this person is emotionally and psychologically damaged, and i hope she seeks counseling for herself, her husband, and her substance abuse issues. back at work, the sub left a note that she had been stolen from. sigh. one of my students stole from a teacher. disheartening to say the least. reacquainted students with rules and consequences.

later in evening, kicked it with addie and made art!

saturday: feeling better, and was on computer most of the day, just writing and talking to friends. had an awesome conversation with my friend T about feminism, "ironic sexism", and roller derby. it was rad and its rare that i get to have conversations like that with someone who is passionate about their thoughts and feelings, but also willing to, at the very least, consider someone elses point of view. turns out we were in almost complete agreement.

a surprising, lovely, brutal week.

...

2010-03-17T20:33:00.000-07:00

shit. this monday i broke my foot. not really, but really. when i was nineteen, i tore the ligaments in my left ankle; last year i sprained the same ankle (hey, at least it took a shedload of years). all of this has happened due to skateboarding, inebriation at bachelor parties, or skateboarding. i cant blame hip-hop. shit, i was listening to punk this time.

my life centers around a few things: parenting, teaching, and physical activity. if it wasnt for the last bit, i would feel less equipped to do the other bits as...

you know what? fuck this.

happy saint patricks day. i am happy to be alive, and i am happy that my loved ones are alive and well.

This Week

2010-03-14T17:02:00.000-07:00

strange dreams this week, and exhaustion.

sunday: bicycle ride from downtown through west-side and up los gatos creek trail (http://www.sjparks.org/Trails/LosGatos/LosGatos.asp); addie in burley trailer behind and r.w. on blue. sunshine and shelled sunflower seeds. an easy evening at home after beers at cinebar.

monday: back to work and very tired but lesson planning at cinebar night before helped. decided to turn womens suffrage and other reform movements chapter into "feminist perspectives" unit. sojourner truth, billie holiday, ani difranco all got representation. solidified my old age with my students by playing music that pre-dates their birth (a whole 14 years ago).

tuesday: found "paper source" in san jose; purchased new papers and book-binding materials. now i just have to not procrastinate.

wednesday: in service day at work. helped design 6 weeks of lessons planning. never have i had such a productive department meeting. stopped by derby that evening and fell asleep around 8pm that night. you probably dont give a shit. neither do i, really.

thursday:i have no idea what happened to this day except that work was hell with two meetings, a baby mama kerfuffle, and some fucker took away my soccer ball.

friday: ah, friday. hung out with new friend and didnt watch movies.

saturday: first day teaching new gig at san jose state. cool young people that may be the first in the entire family to go to university. i will help them get there.

starting to feel ready for something new once again...

Blatant Rip-Off #1

2010-02-19T11:10:00.000-08:00

i am calling this "blatant rip-off" because i just read my new friend reese's blog and i am going to use a similar format for a weekly posting (thanks reese!).

without further ado (can't believe i havent written in this thing since 2009... i am slippin):

saturday: zachary, owen, keen and callie all came from their various locales (oakland and santa cruz, respectively), so do saturplay with adelaide and i. after quite a bit of imbibing during the day, sean came over to watch adelaide and we all went to see the thermals. the show was high energy, and the opener had the hottest japanese singer/guitarist whose playing was spirited and danceable; small girl, big boots, mean chops = success. also, i got the digits of this super-hot black girl named genevieve, but turns out she lives up in the city... after another strange taxi-cab conversation on the way home, we arrived at the house. i felt stupid because i forgot to get extra money to pay sean, and i still owe her. fail, mr fay, fail.

sunday: dollar tacos at el grullense -- i had a five-pack of carnitas; so delicious! i feel so awful for those who dont live in the west and have the opportunity to eat our delicious mexican food. sucks to be you. after $1 tacos, i dropped baby off with her mama and went home. as i was nursing my delightful hangover, i decided to stay in bed for literally 7 hours, only getting up for a bottle of wine, one beer, and some pasta. god bless netflix watch now.

monday: this was an amazing day. a new friend, whom i stole this idea from, mapped out a 20 mile ride down the san francisco bay. we met at the caltrain station downtown san jose, and since i am a total dumbass, i bought the wrong tiicket that would have taken me roughly three miles away before i would have to turn around. after the conductor laughed in my face and told me what i did wrong, i ran down the ramp, bought a new ticket, ran back up, threw my beautiful '73 root-beer continental on board, which was, incidentally, the incorrect bicycle car.... and made it on in time. reese came and rescued me and at the next stop we ran outside of the train and made it onto the correct bike car to meet luke. sheew! up the bay we go! then, off the train, met coy, and down the bay from millbrae to palo alto on one of the most spectacular days in the bay in quite some time.... all in all a wonderful day with new friends, awesome weather, and my gorgeous bicycle.

tuesday: lazy day. adelaide and i watched movies, played and colored ALL day! daddy daughter day to the fullest yo!

wednesday-friday: made it up to clearlake in three hours exactly, which is a damn miracle, and have been taken care of by my parents, chilling with adelaide, playing pool downstairs with dad (mom even played one last night!), having a touch of scotch, killer burger down at richmond bar and grill, and maybe this afternoon walking a local nine-hole with dad if the weather permits. combine this with the fact that i am getting my first real paycheck since last july in about 10 days, and i am one very fortunate fellow...

The Dead and Dying Dust

2009-12-05T12:33:00.000-08:00

"NO!
- Whining
- Cussing
- Eating
- Drinking
- Technology
- Sleeping
- Fighting
- Games
- Talking"

This is what is written on the whiteboard in a small brown portable trailer, covered windows obscuring light from penetrating our sleepiness, a thin red fire-blanket dangling flaccid from the wall, neat rows of solid black tables lined up with one chair at each resembling collapsed and soot-stained rectangular columns, noxious purple surface cleaner an arm's length away, and a heater which shakes the entire building when it abruptly comes to life and as equally abruptly dies.
On the whiteboard a teacher has written "Did You Know" facts in impossibly uniform print, as though the teacher's hand was made of typewriter keys and he bolted each word to the board. One of the facts written states, "Butterflies taste with their feet." I did not know that. Another says, "Most dust particles in your house are actually dead skin cells." Reading this fact, I see myself heavily setting my weight down upon our old sofa after school, plumes of twinkling pixie-dust crawling over my waist, up and over my shoulders, embracing my cheeks, and reaching for the ceiling, yellow and glinting magic in the four o'clock afternoon sunlight of my living room, and think: "Dead skin cells." I have always loved the sight of that dust, in the perfect and fleeting and specific light that only illuminates the dust an hour before the sun moves on and away. And now I know the dust is simply dead; I swim in the dead dust.
Blue jeans are not a gang affiliation. That’s like saying "hair" is a gang affiliation. I am not here for my hair. I am here for my jeans. I have worn them every day this year and this is the first time I have been apprehended and subsequently thrown into this strange and almost forgotten slammer, a slammer with writing so precise it is incongruent with the remainder of the room's nearly incomprehensible absurdity. So I sit while the walls get read.

-------

This is a school full of mistakes and anger, seething, stretching anger, dirt and dust and stain, disparity, inequity, and hurt. This is the adults. Then there is us. We are of brown faces, arms, legs, skin, and a little salt and pepper in us as a dish. We are the same as the adults, but we are better. So far, we have not had a choice.

Brautigan's Plain Beauties

2009-11-24T18:00:00.000-08:00

Every time I turn a page in a Brautigan book
and see one of Brautigan's plain beauties
sitting shoeless upon a pile of rocks
or resting by Ben Franklin's statue
or spider-web hair ensnaring breasts
In Watermelon Sugar
i get a perfectly gentle
and vintage boner.

gordon and the volcano

2009-11-22T20:25:00.000-08:00

when i was 20 years old, my grandfather knew he was sick and soon to die. he told his family that he had been saving for years and wanted them all to go to hawaii. we stayed on maui, 15 miles from the tourist town, amidst a black rock beach, shallow waters and sharper corral reef. i caught my second wave of my life in that water. i skated every day and wore all black and acted depressed. i thought i was. but i wasnt.

after our day of surfing, skating, dinner, and love with the family, the younger, but 21+ cousins decided to go out. i was terribly upset and very bitter. i hated them for leaving me in the luxury condo, with air-conditioning, free cable, a wealth of delicious and tropical foods, and my reluctant but 19 year old hand. it didnt matter. they were lost.

there was an argument and some commotion in the morning. some of the family wanted to go on a helicoptor, and the other half wanted to scale mount Haleakala, an enormous and active vocano. the catch? we must leave before daylight, in the crags of cold and wet indifference of the mountain. mountains do not care. i did. i wanted to go with my grandfather and grandmother. we scaled, we drove, we made it. we watched the sun melt into the clouds, not burn them, but actually melt into them until it was all one. and we looked over that mountain while my grandfather wore a thin blanket and his signature brimmed golf hat. we took pictures. one was of him, in that hat, looking like a delighted little boy.

a few days later, we went home, and my brother and my cousins and i were terribly hungover on the plane; we were an awful embarrassment to our family. but my grandfather did not care. he was so happy. so goddamn happy.

and a month later he slipped into a coma and died.

this is a happy story. i will always remember my grandpa sitting there comfortably, wrapped in a thin blanket, on a rock, watching his children and grandchildren witness the most gorgeous site on earth.

and we still have that picture of him smiling even if we dont have him.

Some Kinda Love, Some Kinda Hate

2009-11-14T10:52:00.000-08:00

Look, its not like I cant get a good woman, I can and I have. I have found smoking hot vampire girls all over the fuckin world and I have given it to em good, real good, so good. Yes, I have walked where eagles dare and I have lived to tell it. I was just sitting here though, rubbing my muscular arms, when it occurred to me, "hey, when are you gonna settle down?" I mean, hell, Ive been spreading my evil seed from Jersey to Brussels for thirty something years, ya know? So, yeah, Iam lookin for someone who can settle down and be in a monogamous, committed, and admittedly evil relationship.

A little about me:
- I love to read! Favorites include The Necronomicon; Dante's Inferno; Dracula; Goethe; The Werewolf; Occult Roots of Naziism. You know, just various books on death and the anthropology of evil. Stuff most churches wouldn’t want you to know about.
- Gloves. It may sound strange, but its really cool. I got these gloves made for me that have metal over the knuckles. Someone messes with me, they get knocked right out!
- Music. This is a really big part of my life. I love everything from Black Flag to The Flight of the Valkyries. I enjoy early rockabilly, old school punk, heavy fuckin metal, opera, and even some rap music (my friends say it aint music, but what do they know?).
But hey, I am a regular guy, and I have a sweet side too. I love puppies! I also LOVE sweets! Cant get a fuckin nuff of em.

About you:
- Fuckin' hot.
- Down to fuck.
- Evil in the streets, eviler in the sheets.
- Fuckin' smokin' hot, and evil.
- Well read.

So yeah, if youre down to party, hit me up.

"G"

Such...

2009-11-13T09:35:00.000-08:00

So yeah, it was pleasant enough fucking you although you never turned me on. I could never quite understand how you could have such perfect hair (so long, so soft, so reminiscent of my early teen crushes, light lowlights, fabulous in ponytail pulled tight from your forehead or curled and pressed on your thin and regal neck), such perfect breasts (overflowing c-cup, light pink fifty cent piece areola, and strong brown dimpled nipples, erect and proud), such a wonderful bottom (bell-shaped from any angle, tight, yet soft to the pinch, light brown like coffee with cream), strong athletic legs, plump lips, elegant latin nose, topped off by the deepest darkest brown eyes and forest-like expanse of black lashes.

And yet, you never turned me on.

It could have been the way those large lips steeled to the touch, preventing passionate make-out sessions unless plied with prose poetry or chavelas.

Perhaps it was hearing the daily, incessant shit-talking about all of your "best" friends at work, at different intervals implying or outright stating that they were obsessed and or stalking you. And then smiling in their faces and sending happy face messages through the wires.

Maybe it was because of all the times we made love to one another, and your version of passion was cradling my face in your small hands (unbelievably small, hands that were made for nothing if not playing piano), while whispering "te amo, mi amor, te amo", and biting down on your lower lip. Yet nothing else but the time I bent you over at that hotel in San Francisco, when we made love twice that night and again in the morning.

You were simply so cold.

And maybe, just maybe, I should have taken your frigid, whimpering, whispering, death-act of fucking for what you are.

Lifeless.

Desperately Seeking Nothing

2009-10-15T11:05:00.001-07:00

There was once a man, similar to myself, just out of a terrifying, soul-crushing break-up, who posted a delightfully zany and remarkably charming ad on craigslist; he even attached his picture! And then, this gorgeous asian girl responded. She spoke of punk rock, metal, literature, and textiles. She also had an ass that spoke. Naturally, this man (who I do not know, just know of) thought "Well, isnt this somethin'?"Thinking it would blossom into something nice, you know "nice", he responded back and they saw one another a few times, had amazing sex, and were totally casual. Then, I hear tale, she stopped talking to him because she was getting back together with her ex, "stalker" boyfriend. Interesting, right? This man that I speak of, he found this out on facebook, the Philip Marlowe of cyberspace, yet inanimate.

So he said, "Aw, fuck it."

Now, if I were him (and I am not, mind you), I would write out a comprehensive list of requirements for the next female he plans on "giving it to". The list for the females:

- Do you have any diseases? Because, you know, I am a fan of my penis and do not want to lose it.
- Are you a liar? I do not mean exaggerating one bra size up, or using hyperbole in the correct context, but rather sleeping with people, being a cheater, etc. Now, remember, its very important youre honest with yourself to begin with.
- Are you morbidly obese? Is it a medical condition? No? Then put down that fucking burrito.
- Republican, conservative, libertarian? Commonly refer to Mexicans as wetbacks? Blacks as niggers? Go masturbate to Bill O'reilly.
- Enjoy The Misfits? (bonus points for telling me the only legitimate era of Misfits)
- Enjoy doing drugs? If you are over 21 and you still do drugs, you are either an addict by now, or fucking stupid. Think about it.
- Enjoy drinking beer? Sweet!
- You may not be jealous. Not even a bit. Completely a waste of time.
- You should be fit, and you should be hot, because I am, and thats fair.

Also, if I fuck you the first night I meet you, chances are we arent "relationship" material.

Kisses.

pop culture

2009-09-18T07:13:00.001-07:00

yeah, pop culture, yeah yeah yeah. but i dont really ruminate on pop culture. not really my lane. no, really.

yes, i live in the internet, and every day i read byron crawford, dallas penn, jeff weiss, and illseeds rumors. combat jack has been killing it as of late as well. now, this being said, i often comment on what THEY write, and therein lay my ruminations on pop culture.

what the fucks a pop culture? why are we so obsessed with the actions of others? i understand that we have always had an obsession with the actions of others -- from trying to hear the neighbors argument, to barber shop chisme, to lying about getting to third base, to this horrid and face-meltingly insidious time of "reality" programming and perez hilton (ever shat while puking?).

is our collective obsession growing, or is this simply a reflection of how quickly we are able to send and receive information? is it both? opinions?

homecoming

2009-09-15T12:49:00.000-07:00

Room blank and white and brown with peeling paint and stacks of miscellaneous books and magazines, five students remain fixed into their punishment, unable to detach themselves from in house suspension, all because of blue jeans or classroom disruptions or gang affiliated attire or truancy or cracking wise, while regretting not missing class but missing class time with friends and enemies alike.

Across campus in a room ten by ten square foot prison cell sits an ever-widening woman who has let herself widen through engagement and the knowledge that she has broken so many hearts. She either cares or she does not, but so she widens. Across the mans hand he sees four white hairs, visible only to him now, and the man feels that they must have been there for quite some time, hiding until exactly the right moment to show him their age. The man wonders why they chose this strange homecoming to lay bare and shining in the light.

So many have approached the man to offer words of sympathy, and hugs but none of them seem very sincere, the words, the hugs falling face forward and head bent as if to say yes we are down too your problems concern us only in that they make us think of our own. They sigh and hug and smile and walk on after making photo copies.

Thank you, says the man, and turns to find portable B-5.

this heat

2009-08-20T15:56:00.000-07:00

out this window are pink trumpets and fat bees. it is the retirement house my parents have built and have yet to retire in, substitute teaching and heading up a non-profit for immobile geriatrics. as we were driving back from the pool, nestled in a haunted and tetanus inducing "resort", my daughter says to me, "dad, it's so wavy." yes, the curving mountain roads overlooking the algae cloaked lake, and the lazy bands of heat drifting up from them; both wavy.

i know why the bees move so slow. they are not just pregnant with the pink fruit of flowers. this heat. it's this heat! as olive oil warms it slides out of the bottle, it skates across the rink of the pan. olive oil is not a living thing, and unlike olive oil, this heat moves me real slow, as if wearing three shirts and two pairs of slacks, waiting for the bus by roadside at 7am for school in the upper penisula of michigan; every move feels very deliberate. the bee flies very deliberately.

everyone in this house is asleep: daughter, mother, sister. not everyone. i am not asleep. i am sitting in a black leather chair, watching my bright fingernails walk across a sparkling set of keys, neck hairs air-conditioned and erect, two panes of glass a formidable foe to this heat, smiling as i watch these fat, lazy bees slowly dance from one pink flower to the next and casually stealing fruit.

what i have studied

2009-08-07T10:14:00.000-07:00

Have studied: smoking, burnt urethane upon pebbled pavement, glorious thrash with grimace and skin-loss while sweating under Florida sun; losing face on Italian Florentine cobble, each cobble a curb, not enough ollies for rescue, miniature car careening around corners as drunk as an 18 year old American whore, dig cobble from palms, left leg fever pump toward the Duomo; a champion of steel, risen above, 18 feet of death, no helmet, amongst young trees and ancient pubs, this hulking steel beast, one foot on deck, two feet on deck, over edge and plummet to flat, not feeling arms while driving back to Shefford;

experiment:

2009-07-12T08:29:00.000-07:00

- today i will leave this post open, all day, and write as it hits me, meaningless or not, story, poem, memory, plan, list, music or photo. right now it is 8:31am and in one hour and a half i am going to view the sixth house in four days, all of which so far have been garbage. wishing myself luck.

- 12:54pm. home now from errands. FINALLY saw a lovely little spot (stress little though) on the Alameda close to downtown, with a nice elementary school across the street. so, there IS hope that i will find a safe and interesting neighborhood after all.... i was beginning to get a little cynical! revisiting "the road to los angeles" by john fante, and my, what a miracle of a book! fante at his most raunchy and uncensored, a novel published nearly 50 years after it's birth, merely because it's simply too HUMAN. if you have not read fante, stop reading this immediately and go here: http://weread.com/view/browsebookframe.php?productid=BOK-14376425-1&isbn10=0060822554&refuid=VISITOR_38BE6EA9-26EB-4F48-BEFE-8B4517D6BEF0&src=review

- home from seeing bruno and i am drunk. bruno was excellent; too much to explain right now. gonna poke some smot.

lightning bolt: dracula mountain

2009-07-06T11:41:00.001-07:00

HYPE.

new idea

2009-06-27T22:34:00.000-07:00

i have this idea, and i have a great name for it, but i will not tell the name, and i will only vaguely hint at the premise. it will be a business and ethical venture. i have been cheated on so many times. so have almost every single one of my friends; this has happened multiple times from people that have seemed reliable, stable, happy, in love. why? wouldn't it be a fantastic idea to start a networking site that exposes, specifically, the people who cheat? at least that way if someone sees the cheater, and still decides to date them, they pretty much know what they are in for? i know that there is an ethical dilemma here. there is also this thing called "fuck cheaters", which is on it's own merit an ethical balancing scale. what say you?

at least

2009-06-24T13:46:00.001-07:00

i know of two people who read this thing.

summer!

2009-06-15T07:13:00.000-07:00

so, it is officially summer in my life, and in two and one half hours, i have a work meeting, shuffling of school furniture, and then a road trip down to santa barbara where i will eat, drink, and sleep well. there is a chance that i will return to san jose with a typewriter on my arm.. yes, ON my arm, not in my arms. had a wonderful date with a friend the saturday night (maybe that was the beginning of my summer? hmm..) in which we played pool, ate ethiopian food, and then watched true blood all night (yes!). i begin teaching summer school next monday, so i am going to try and squeeze in a lot in a little bit of time, so if you are my friend and you are reading this, please be nice if i cant quite see everyone.

love and a perfect summer song:

the email i abandoned

2009-06-10T20:01:00.000-07:00

i abandoned this email, not simply because i started to sound like a dick, but because before i send it i want my motherfucking tenure.

This year has been a privilege. In so many ways. First, it has been a privilege to work with the students that live in this district. All of them: the "good" kids; social misfits; intellectuals; migrant; athletes; plain heroes; all. Additionally, I cannot imagine working with a group of individuals, professionals all, with such a clear focus on a singular goal: student success. If only such sentiment was always put into practice and policy. This is the state of things. We recognize and understand it, if not always agree with it. This sentiment is not defeatist, no. Rather, this is a call to action. I, and many, many, many others may not be back next year, and if that is the case, the call is this: remember why you are here. If it is SIMPLY a paycheck, go away, leave a position for those inspired. Leave before further taint upon an educational establishment already tainted. Popularity matters in elections; popularity matters in rehire. But popularity will never matter in equity unless your position relegates equity to all.

Ian Fay
Andrew P. Hill H.S.

“Good people are good because they've come to wisdom through failure. We get very little wisdom from success, you know.” ~ William Saroyan

number two pencils

2009-06-08T10:03:00.001-07:00

to my dear reader:

you are likely tired of reading me complain about testing. well, tough shit. nah, forget it, let's write about something fun! like...

having someone over to watch a movie, but never quite making it to starting the movie

coasting on my brand-new rebuilt burnt-orange schwinn continental through japantown during farmer's market, buying zilch

having debates about israel and zionism in the comments section of a hip-hop website

hanging tough with addie (no new kids)

writing poems about having a broken heart, yeeeeeeeeeeee!

having a stranger rub your face with theirs because they thought you "sang niiiice"

signing yearbooks, having yearbook signed (sample: "what's crackin my brotha? when we gonna go pull them crazy rips from the club!") <---- what does this even mean?

work picnic. sike!

huey smith the piano man. hey, a-yo! zooba zooba zooba zooba, ha-ha-ha-ha!

writing about having fun.

ringtone

2009-05-29T21:44:00.000-07:00

my face feels all smooshy and sunburny

and warm

and the ring is turned back and facing south

and slips are a pretty summer pink

some good, some bad

reopeningtolovewasaNEWRARETHING

and some words sound better in spanish

well spoken, or not

and some knees, some ankles have

mountains before them

living room wrestling be damned

and lobe tugs in original ringtone

will not unsettle a restful night

because it is set to

vibrate

ah yes, testing!!!!

2009-04-24T09:10:00.001-07:00

testing sucks, plain and simple. the process, the logistics, the distribution of materials, the test itself, the administration of, and yes, most of all, the stupid rules. tests operate under the guise of, "hey, this information is going to inform us educators what you have and have not learned in order to maximize our educational effectiveness for you to be successful." well, doesn't that sound lovely? and it would be too if it were true, but here's how it actually operates: tests are taken, and taken, and taken by students over, and over, and over (losing valuable instruction time mind you) in order for a bunch of educrats to put them through a machine that tally's bubbles, judges a person based upon these bubbles, and then tracks the students according to the bubbles. efficient system yeah? the great part is, you don't even have to know the student, just the bubbles!

i do have an idea though. i propose that we make the educators and the educrats take the test along with the students. after all, we are experts, we are PROFESSIONALS; this morning, while reading the sample question for history about the bolshevik revolution, the overwhelming response from students was, "i have never even heard of that." now, the cynic within me thinks a couple of things:

a. these kids were not paying attention in class
b. their teachers have FAILED

now, the other, less cynical part of me thinks:

a. these kids pay attention in my class, why wouldn't they in their others?
b. i know most of their teachers, and they ARE professionals, intelligent, etc.

so, let's just test the positive side of my brain. let us all, experts in our subjects, take the test alongside our students. of course, many teachers will get every single answer correct, but one question remains: do they know how to TEACH their subject so that their students may do the same?

still blazing

2009-03-22T21:21:00.000-07:00

no, not the pot party people. is there such a thing as a pot party person. em, never mind. as far as i know, only one person reads this stuff anyhow, so i may as well write whatever i like; i do anyway actually. i had a wonderful day with my little girl. for the morning we played like she was santa and she organized the toys she doesnt like (all four) to give to kids that have little - this would have been disastrous normally but she has a santas helper dress - which turned out to be a fun and necessary distraction while i detailed the car, did laundry, and otherwise conducted the normal sunday routine. finished watching the second half of "twilight", and i still do not know why i did... its about the biggest piece of trash i have ever seen, and i only made it four pages into the book before i decided that the author couldnt write for squat (not comparing my writing to hers of course). we went to a soccer game and watched the club girls win 1-0, which was excellent considering my first judgment of their play around a month ago - i suspected they might be goners - now they have a 2-0 record (no jinx!). my baby played soccer the whole time and is striking with magnificent force. its incredibly impressive and i am very proud! at this rate she will surpass my skills by the age of five, which in hindsight may not be too impressive. after the game we decided to have lunch with a particularly lovely woman, play internet video games, and detail another car (what can i say i find it relaxing..). her room is looking fantastic; i hung up six of her paintings and a coat rack, and she helped me clean the living room and her own room. quite cool for a four year old i think. all through this cleaning and i had a hilarious text conversation about the state of being a vampire (no doubt inspired by twilight, but more fun), full of inadvertent typos which lead not to normal text-typo awkwardness but to moments of real laughter, artificial text format aside. now i sit at home still, my love with her family, and drink a cold modelo, patiently awaiting a call or a text, content even if it never comes. i have so many things to be thankful for, so many people to love and who love me, and so much that i am going to accomplish, such as: the first wave of my student submissions for the lit journal; updating my resume, sending it out, and not just relying on getting my same job back in a month or so but reaffirming the fact that what i do matters more than any position on the planet (haters and naysayers be damned); creating something beautiful with my hands... a book, a verse, a frame...; staying positive and consistent and loving toward the woman i love and who loves me. so, if any of you are reading, leave a comment, let me know what you think, and please remember that even if i am not the best at staying up, i send my love.

strange drill

2009-03-19T10:41:00.000-07:00

my students and i sit on the classroom floor, waiting for a pretend assassin to burst through the door and fill us full of fake bullets, hurl plastic pipe bombs, or otherwise annihilate us. 17 desks, one red chair, and a long brown computer desk barricade the door.. which opens to the outside. we all sit quietly; we can hear the students next door, slamming the wall, barking at one another. occasionally one of my students will make a farting noise or whistle just to break this awkward silence. the worst part of course is simply that we actually DO need to have these drills to begin with. dead in germany. dead in colorado. dead in virginia. dead in alabama. dead and strange drills.

newly discovered old lit theory: the final thought

2009-03-11T09:23:00.000-07:00

To me, the major theme of the course was on of legitimation. What is legitimate? Is it purity of idea? Execution thereof? Is it reinterpretation of pure idea, and if it is reinterpretation, does it remain pure, or does it become something else pure and therefore legitimate? In my chapbook I with confronted this issue. I am by no means an historian or an archivist, yet in order to complete the project I had in mind it was necessary for me to actually study the writing style, content, tone and concept behind the authors whom I was attempting to interpret. This is what I believe Susan Howe does. In my research of Howe’s writing I read not only The Midnight, but also The Nonconformist’s Memorial, both of which I found to be at once intellectually fertilizing but also rather incoherent. Being an insomniac myself, I noticed some things: though there are themes, they are found by consuming the entire piece, not by merely titling the poem "fish" and then writing about tuna (such as Ginsberg’s America); the concept is non-linear; the thoughts and ideas are contiguous, not continuous— that is they touch one another the way one thinks when sleepless, not the way people try and sit down and write a "normal" essay; it is painful and lovely to attempt the interpretation of another’s thoughts; Susan Howe borrows largely from sources already deemed classic (a pretty easy way to receive kudos as well as criticism).

In my chapbook, I quote Ginsberg:

Your first thought is your best thought

absolutes are coercion

change is absolute

vividness is self-selecting

catch yourself thinking

It is important to note that Ginsberg is actually quoting/restating Buddhist concepts. Does this make his statements less profound? I think not. The reason I chose to link these quotes together was to express that though your first thought may be your best thought, it may not necessarily be your thought. It’s an interpretation of another thought, and that is okay- it’s certainly not theft. In order for me to create a response from Howe toward the Ginsberg quote-trail, I literally chose words as they presented themselves in her works, that is sometimes randomly and sometimes as full sentence/idea.

Susan Howe responds:

Elysian solitary imagination

buddhist Canticle as allegory

unchangeable but changeable

absence of Forever Forever

In this, Howe interprets my thoughts on Ginsberg with her own words. Beautiful imagination, original; his writing is an hymn of meaning; all things are what they are which is continually changing; life does not cease, it merely changes from one stage to the next. So my point is this- the concept starts out in let’s say Buddhism, is interpreted by Ginsberg, is explained through random quotes by Susan Howe which were compiled by yours truly- is it now my art? Is it legitimate?

I respond to the both of them:

time as an abstergent

develope unique voice

test like toe in water

there are howe’s and ginsberg’s

out there, digging, dig?

In my opinion then, time is an abstergent (eraser, detergent) and so therefore it is important to create your own voice while you are alive (in the most practical sense of course), because once you are gone, there are going to be historians, archivists, and even English students who can use your work for their own purposes, just like I have done with their work. "This is the issue of legitimation, identity of subject".

When I wrote to you (the reader) in the chapbook, "Sit down, tell me what you see-", I wanted that to be a hint. The hint was this- read these poems as if they are movies in your head and are made of celluloid. The images should be visual, as in Howe’s The Nonconformist’s Memorial. In this sense, I discontinued quoting yet retained theme, and the theme is one of emerging patterns. So it’s a dual layering of visual images- one is physical, such as the poems being printed upon translucent paper, and the other is imaginative (for the reader) and are interpretive. Also, the photos included were to enhance this sense of vision and emeging patterns, such as the lake to be seen beyond the blades of grass. As an end to the translucent section of the work, I included some of my more cynical thoughts on the process of writing and the circus that is getting credibility.

I wrote:

academia breeds snobbery

why does vulgarity amongst the educated reflect a finer sensibility?

Notion: street cred goes a long way in the literary world

My point was this- I can understand why many of my fellow students felt that Howe is a hack. In class, many people voiced that they could achieve the same results as Howe- that is, they felt it was easy to take other writer’s work and use it as their own. I think they sold Susan Howe short (to use a pat term). Howe may have used other writer’s work, yet she recreated it in the image of her own unique voice. I liken it to sculpture: the materials are all there- clay, water, a wheel, etc... all the artist needs is imagination and interpretation to create something wondrous. The materials are what enable the thought to be actualized; the materials are necessary. When I think of people naysaying artists I ask myself whether or not they realize that every "original " thought is derivative of something else, and that there is nothing truly original. Everything has been done, and if not, it has been conceived. It is in this way that I recognize the issue of legitimation and identity of subject: all material is derivative- it is the process of interpretation of self and execution of thought which makes the idea, and therefore the art, legitimate.

On my mind

2009-03-01T13:26:00.000-08:00

today has been a strange and difficult day so far. lately i have been focusing on making decisions based upon what i need, as opposed to what i have done historically -- support people who are extremely dependent. suffice to say, its been a problem in my life. i try to be honest with myself even about the things that make me feel bad, namely severing personal ties with the kind a aforementioned people; i do not know why i feel bad about it, i always have my entire life. my mother says i have a martyr complex. i suspect shes right. the problem is, this creates in other people an awful dependency, which thereby creates in my life a tremendous amount of tension. why wouldnt it? breaking this horrible pattern of co-dependency is like killing a beast of your my creation. however, its important to me to do so and although today has been a stressful day, a strange and difficult day, the actions i have taken today make it a good day.

Italy

2009-02-17T12:47:00.000-08:00

I will be traveling back to Italy at the end of Summer, this time traveling with an amazing woman, and not a bunch of crazy young drunks (myself included in that judgment). She has never been to Italy, or Europe at all, so this experience promises to be a very special one. The trip is in five months, but already I am beginning to feel the first ticklings of excitement... San Jose to Firenze, Rome, Milano (though i hear Milano is dark and ugly, if I do not take her shopping in Milano, I fail), and of course Cinqueterra. We will travel by train, car, plane, and boot; we shall cheer in stadiums for teams we know nothing about; shop in markets that specialize in leather, fake Cartier, and illegal substances; we shall drink absinthe, taste the noxious wormwood, and stare at our ghostly, floating hands, channeling James Joyce, mumbling opaque kisses, their plumpness delighting through the air; we will make love; I will purchase Florentine papers, bind journals, and fill them with our memories -- glues and photos, crests and seals, inside jokes and travel tensions -- Mexico, Ireland, Italy, us.

The photo below reminds me of all of the beautiful, happy moments I have spent in Italy with my friends. Looking forward to the making of many new memories with my new and precious friend.

disneyland, day one

2009-01-04T09:50:00.000-08:00

my daughter will be four (!) years old this month, two short days after my very own birthday. for christmas, my parents, her grandparents decided that they would purchase three day passes to disneyland for her, me, my brother, and themselves. wonderful idea.

day 1: disneyland averages approximately 18,000 people a day visiting the park; the day we arrived, a friday, there was 60,000! perhaps the fact that we arrived the day after christmas had something to do with it? nah! aside from the horrendous crowds and impossible lines, addie met several princesses, rode the carousel and a rollercoaster, and was the lovely new recipient of a cinderella gown (my god and the purchases only started there). also, my dad, brother and i went on star tours and i had forgotten how cool that ride is. in addition, the main street parade was gorgeous. final verdict, complete exhaustion but definitely a score for the fay family, and most importantly, adelaide had the best day ever!

i only just know you

2008-11-30T20:54:00.000-08:00

i only just know you but i look forward to a very long future with you. you are in it for all the right reasons. if you read this, you know who you are.

update

2008-11-02T21:38:00.000-08:00

some things on my mind recently:

1. anyone seen this stuff? an artist named serengeti is making, in my opinion, the most interesting music out. difficult emotion is off-putting. smooth beats unkink the curls. look for it. find it. love it. thank me.

http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendID=10015960

p.s.- click on the band name "yoome".

2. byron crawford aka bol (swahili for "the gulliest") celebrated 5 years of race-baiting, homophobia, and sexual objectification of women. now, normally all of these things would infuriate me, but because bol is a black, closeted homosexual that projects his anger onto women because he is envious of their, ahem, vajay-jays, i let it pass. i am kidding of course; he doesn't really envy vajay-jays. no, but seriously, bol is one of the most talented writers i have read and his take on the most contentious issues in society are often simultaneously the most hilarious, infuriating, and insightful; he is perhaps the most underused and under appreciated culture critic writing right now. check it if you havent already:

http://www.byroncrawford.com/

........

2008-10-23T23:24:00.000-07:00

i feel awful:
there are things that taste sweet and things that taste sweet and then there are other things. there are bad things, painful things, removal of rings for frictionless purposes; things not so painful for purpose of purpose. things and things. eversinceileftmyvoiceihavewaitedforthechoice. to play with longish hair and see a makeuplessface. it's cool, supehr kool, to blow whistles, call fouls, ref, and admire the smoothness of a braid, yes it is. i want to see the face, no makeup, all face, no smile, all real.
i do not feel awful anymore.

been a long time (c) rob base

2008-09-18T22:29:00.000-07:00

thanks, rob, now moving on. i should be writing a test, but i am not. here are things that i miss from my life:

being able to just call up and see my friends... core. colin. cassie. a trend emerges with c-named friends. johanna. whit. clint. monica. shouse. MICHAEL FAY. all my merc friends. all my TEP friends, compatriots and survivors: at least those that actually are in it, yes IN IT, for all the right reasons (c) cassie v. all these commas...

i miss all of these people. there were so many days, so many nights, inappropriate and perfect, fun, the hammer about to be dropped on any one of us. so many brilliant and passionate people.

so here i write in the san jo, the saint of jo's, exhausted, knowing i made exactly the right decision, but still missing my friends so much.

south bay

2008-08-08T18:50:00.000-07:00

know nothing of the south bay, but do know that i will finally be making (for me) a significant amount of money doing what i love to do. signed a contract this monday and hopefully will have my townhouse by tomorrow, solid. leaving the central coast will be like leaving an abusive relationship; we both beat the ever-loving shit out of one another. new town, new faces. here we go.

One Hundred Percent Fiction

2008-07-24T12:14:00.000-07:00

it was halloween night, 2003. i had only been back from italy for less than 4 months and i still didn't quite have my bearings. my two friends, henry and jeff were dressed as raoul duke and dr. gonzo, respectively. with them they carried an attache case filled with: grape fruit, vodka, amal nitrate, whip-its, grass, and assorted paraphernalia. i had just gotten off of work so i was dressed as a waiter. i threw on a black velvet blazer for good measure.

we arrived to john's party around 2:30am, after the bars had closed. i never liked john. he was one of those guys that tried to make you listen to his shitty 4 track singer-songwriter demos any chance he got, and when it was his house you were in, there was only one way to escape it -- the front door. but i felt like drinking.

there were only a few girls there that showed any potential. one of them, a kitten. another, a goth. i tried to make play for the kitten with eye-contact, presentation of frosty beverages, gifting of illicit substances, all to no avail. the goth girl was all eyes however. when goth girl approached me, she spoke freely and openly about her intentions. she said, "i want to fuck you."

my reply was, "okay. if i can fuck your friend too, the kitten." it was a bluff. i knew it. it was a long-shot. i didn't care too much, i was drunk and influenced by many different drugs in many very bad ways. it did not help matters that i had just broken up with my once-upon-a-time strictly lesbian ex-girlfriend a mere matter of days prior.

she walked back to her friend and they spoke secretively, sneaking little glances occasionally toward me to let me know that the proposal was being considered. when they both walked over to me and told me to follow them, i was shocked. beside myself. high. i followed them to the master bedroom.

once inside, it was darkness soon fading into semi-awareness. we all had our clothes off and only the kitten looked praise-worthy. still, it was to be my first threesome. "fuck it", i thought to myself.

after what was probably the most disappointing sexual intercourse the two saintly young ladies had ever experienced, goth girl leaned over to me right as there was a series of jarring knocks on the door. someone must have noticed we had been gone for nearly 8 minutes. i was told to hide under the covers in case "he" came in. i did. i heard a familiar male voice asking what the girls were doing in his bed, naked. they admitted, "just fooling around."

he was out of the room, and goth girl once more leaned down: "sorry, me and john just broke up. this is his bed too."

"well, what the fuck? why didn't you tell me that?"

"i didn't think it was important."

i threw my clothes on and somehow made it back into the kitchen to see duke and gonzo sniffing amal. i told them that i was gone and not to tell anyone. i quickly left through the front door, looking back long enough to catch a glimpse of goth girl, thinking, "god, what a stupid fucking idiot."

the very next night i met my son's mother...

letter to my hangover

2008-07-17T09:39:00.000-07:00

dear hangover-

you are a cancer to me. because of you, i will have to proof-read this letter several times. it's because you make me feel like i have oatmeal in my eyes, that's why. but you are unique. you come from heineken, trader jose's, and two forties of budweiser; if a feeling could be "pungent", that would be you. you defy coffee and surely you will defy the simple logic of two boiled eggs very soon -- i can sense that it is in your future. while i was sleeping last night, you snuck into my brain, much like how a cat may surprise it's owner by shitting in his shoe. yeah, exactly like that. i will have you know that i am a good and decent american. what you have done is not patriotic. if my brain is the flag, then you have wiped your ass with it -- that is not patriotic. i will allow you to apologize. not to me. to america. you will apologize so that you may once again have the right that jesus of nazareth himself gave you -- the right to be an american. apology or hell, you decide. an old friend called you once by a mysterious name. "brain cloud", he would say. "i got one." we would drive and listen to quadrophenia in it's entirety. that would usually do the trick. if that didn't work, we would drink some irish whiskey. at the time, it was bushmill's -- what did we know? one time, leading up to a cousin of yours, maybe a brother, i vomited into a small white trash bag and tied it up. i swung it around over my head like a puke-propeller and let it fly. it landed onto an air-conditioning unit. my friend was not thrilled with me. i laughed (silently). he pulled out his bull-whip and from his balcony managed to whip that bag of vomit right off of the unit. genius, i said then, and i say now. but you are a deceptive hangover -- you showed no signs of your arrival last night. usually, when someone arrives, they call first or knock on the door at an appropriate hour. you woke me at 8am, no warning at all. blam! all up in my shit. i am going to kill you hangover, whatever i must do. i will douse you with coffee; bombard you with boiled eggs; decimate you with dvd's. i must do this. i will do it for jesus and god. i will do it because i am an american.

fuck you.

- ian

florida nights

2008-06-27T00:56:00.000-07:00

there was a car parked on the grassy island
the island was made of mostly concrete, not grass
the caution lights were on
she was blond, and old
i was concerned.

i had been picking up hitchhikers for some time
i was lead to gas stations
neighborhoods where i was not welcome
and once, a trailer park.

this time, it was a suburban home
and as i drove her to her house
she told me how her heart was broken
broken into tiny pieces by a husband gone

once in the house, i suggested she call the police
she declined, she offered me a coors light
i declined, i offered to call
i was now an accessory after all

excuses could not promote escape
seeing her son wandering the house at 2am
i wondered why i was helping this woman
why7 she locked the door and threatened to kill herself

i did not know her
she knew that parking her car on an island
would be
the worst vacation she had ever taken

i left when she picked up the phone.

boy meets girl. it doesn't work.

2008-06-24T14:58:00.000-07:00

boy:
"i think you cleaned me out. this time you lied about our child's health."
girl:
"no i didn't. i did not. i did, but, no i didn't."
boy:
"time to drink a glass of water. time to wake up, you. do not drink it, pour it on your face."
girl:
"i never understand what you say. that is why i lie."
boy:
"you lie because you don't know what to say or how to think."
girl:
"yes, well, you sprayed tattoo foam in my face four years ago."
boy:
"yes, well you deserved it."
girl:
"it was abuse."
boy:
"abuse is when you are not asking for it. just kidding, but you were asking for it."
girl:
"you drink too much."
boy:
"you fuck too many people when you are in a relationship."
girl:
"this room is so loud. i am addicted to newness. when it is old, it is out. of course, this will never apply to my child. that is the only thing, ever."
boy:
"what about when you decide not to pick up your child on your days?"
girl:
"i have written an apology note to you."
boy:
"one day you will need to write an apology note to her."

boy:
"if i let you see her."

to the dads:

2008-06-15T17:22:00.001-07:00

don't be the fathers discussed in this song. be caring, be supportive, and most of all, be present.

why i love hiphop

2008-06-01T22:39:00.000-07:00

i can not tell you all how many times i have had an argument with friends on the topic of eminem; many of my friends absolutely hate him. who can really blame them? homophobic, misogynistic, ridiculously violent.. however, my argument was always (and still is) from the perspective of someone who has a sincere appreciation for the art of the spoken word and the way in which the spoken word is constructed over music. for what it is worth, eminem has the ability to become the beat, written or freestyle, but that isn't exactly why i am posting this clip. i am posting this clip for the aforementioned reason as well as the fact that it reminds me of why i fell in love with hiphop in the first place: b-boying in the quad at lunch; unfolding cardboard in elementary school and doing the worm during recess, my brother breaking while i popped and locked; trying to convince my parents that hiphop had something to say that was relevant and important; rocking with my friends and being moved by words and beats; listening to "push it" on the way home from the warehouse, having only a semi-awareness of the overt sexual content; memorizing and popping to "me, myself and i", reading the liner notes to whodini tapes and trying to decipher the coded language; freaking out in the back of the bus when i first heard N.W.A. and "license to ill"; walking home from the bus stop listening to luke and company and being fascinated by the vulgarity; sitting for an hour and inspecting EVERY SINGLE WORD of an album with a friend, wide open eyes when an ill simile popped up and shocked..
but the recurring feeling i get when i see and listen to this clip is how fucking dope it is to have fun with friends who love the same art; i listen to and write about, and read about hiphop because i love it and i love all the true heads out there.
this clip is an excerpt of the (eMp)tv special that ran of em during the slim shady lp era, but (to my knowledge) never made it to the screen due to the content of the freestyle. em sits in the car, proof stands outside of the window and em puts on a nice little beat in his car stereo. what proceeds is not only a dope freestyle, but perhaps the most important thing i learned through hiphop -- how to be creative and have shitloads of fun with close friends. i hope you enjoy.
eminem and proof.

top ten for the mothership

2008-05-24T11:31:00.000-07:00

first, this was originally posted in the xxlmag.com comments section in response to mister william xavier sunday's post about his top-ten
(http://www.xxlmag.com/online/?p=11497). billy sunday grinds for that evil empire as well as for the greater good over at dallaspenn.com. check it out people.

BXS-
i tried to post this the other day but my computer is dying. anyhow, it's a shame if you will not be writing at the xxl spot anymore, but you know, that is clearly an indication of how stupid harr*s has become. regardless, i will still be checking in over at dp.com just like i did before this gig happened.

1. de la, stakes is high- first two albums = classic, genre bending beauty and hilarity. stakes is high flipped the pretense and fake, gaudy exploitation of the bad bay era and clapped it's fucking ears. why? because it fucking sucked, that's why. biggie was a great lyricist, one of the illest, but some of the shit that came out of the BB camp was insufferable and you all know it. essential listening: stakes is high (produced by dilla and de la)

2. misfits, static age- before danzig became a clowny ass-face, he destroyed as the devil-lock coiffed front man for seminal punk band the misfits. static age, their first album, combines morbid lyrics, punk fuzz, and danzig singing from the pits of hell as a dead carl perkins. judgment? genius. essential listening:last caress.

3. elvis costello and the attractions, armed forces- this album challenges the british government and it's propensity for sending it's young troops to do it's racist, imperialistic biddings; easily one of the most venomous lyrical assaults against a government, yet wrapped up in this gorgeous collage of sound that tricks the listener into dancing to a revolution. essential listening: oliver's army.

4. busta rhymes, when disaster strikes- anyone that says "i hate this whole new direction bus is taking as mr hardcore", i politely point in the direction of his classic album, when disaster strikes. um, the third song is called "so hardcore". anyhow, the beauty of this album lies in that it (in my opinion) is the perfect synergy of bus' many incarnations: thuggy; sensitive native tongue; weirdo plastic man raps; ill-advised friendship with puff raps. somehow, it all works and does not come off as contrived. essential listening: rhymes galore.

5. wu-tang clan, wu-tang forever- two for one? i am economical like that. don't get pissed because "enter" isn't here instead -- i do what i want. "forever", to me, is only lacking one thing.. more of the ol dirty. that's it. the beats are brutal, the rhymes are more on point than "enter" and the production that the rza employed highlights the most masterful lyricism of their career as a collective hive. essential listening: duck seazon.

6. bikini kill, pussy whipped- the album where a sloppy punk diatribe became a powerful riot grrl movement. this album altered my mind state in that it offered me a different perspective to view the world: namely, that of an intelligent, witty and fierce feminist who refused to take any shit and demand equality for all. essential listening: star bellied boy.

7. camp lo, uptown saturday night- cheeba and suede are perhaps the most under-valued lyricists in hip-hop history. along with wu-tang, they created their very own vocabulary that may only be adequately described as silk karate; that shit will fuck you up in the smoothest way possible... and you will like it. don't believe me? ski's beats are nothing short of stellar (no wonder jay wanted all of them) and the lo-a camp krush them. essential listening: park joint.

8. pixies, surfer rosa- many arguments have ensued over the superiority of surfer rosa or doolittle. i say surfer rosa, haters be damned. rosa is the most lovely, ugly blend of punk ethos and brainiac musical alchemy ever and black francis sings about such charming topics as incest, murder, and space aliens. could it possibly get any cooler than that? i don't think so. essential listening: where is my mind.

9. a tribe called quest, midnight marauders- what hasn't been said about this album? it remains an end-to-end burner 15 years (!) after its release and qualifies as the perfect album for chilling, partying, or queing it up on the patio of the mothership. one of my favorite things about MM is that it isn't just the q-tip show; it actually let's phife shine and to me, it remains the finest display of lyricism and beats by one of the two most complete crews in hip-hop history (the other being de la of course). essential listening: steve biko (stir it up).

10. otis redding, pain in my heart- otis redding and sam cooke are arm-wrestling in heaven for the title of most spectacular voice in recording history. while cooke's voice was the smoothest, redding's was smooth, emotive, and let's face it, pained. mr redding had the ability to make your body want to move with delirious pleasure in one moment(security), and then the next he would break down the pain and loneliness of love-loss so profoundly that you literally feel that pain while listening (these arms of mine). otis redding is a genius. essential listening: every single thing that he ever recorded.

* and that is that mr. sunday. much respect to you and best of luck.*.

The Compassionate Wednesday

2008-04-26T17:17:00.000-07:00

"i just looked up confusing in the dictionary mr. ____"

"oh , yeah what did it say?"

"it had a picture of this lesson."

har-dee-har-har i thought as i stopped class

from becoming mid-july, metal monkey-bars.

stopping class, i allowed _____ to tell his joke

to the entire classroom

which swelled and bellowed

with congressional approval.

perhaps it would have been easier

to ignore a simple and amusing jab

or duck the one-two punch of landed approval

but today was not that day

because today was

the compassionate wednesday.

baseball and medicine

2008-04-23T08:23:00.000-07:00

- haven't taken that anxiety medicine since i woke one morning with no recollection of having folded laundry or washed dishes the night before; when my friend showed me a text message almost a week later that read something along the lines of "took some meds. just floating along..", which scared the bejesus out of her, the meds found a dark, cool home to hide away.

- my brother and i went to the anaheim angels of los angeles (the name is killing me) versus the mariners game on sunday and it was truly fun. i have never been much of a spectator -- it drives me crazy to watch and not play, but as i get older i am enjoying not just being a spectator but i guess having a friend (in this case my brother) t watch a game with. i know, it's weird to hear for most people that know me but maybe my inner jock is finally emerging (you know, the athletic part, not the homophobic part). there was a row of japanese kids behind us and one of them had this amazing laugh; every time he would laugh it would send me into a fit (really) of laughter, but i didn't want him to think i was laughing at him so i was trying to stifle my laughter -- which resulted in me squeaking like a dog toy or my guinea pig Lux. i do not even want to start about this thing at angels stadium called the "rally monkey", but i must at least a bit. all of the super-fans have these glorified sock monkeys which hang around their necks and when the team is in dire straits, all of a sudden on the giant screen there is a clip of a popular movie. the first time it happened, "I Legend" started playing and rather than transitioning into a gnarley zonbie scene, the clip became that of a jumping monkey, with (take a deep breath now) "jump around" blasting through the stadium, cameras zooming around, capturing forever the image of grandma betsy raising the roof, little sally-ann swinging her monkey like a magic lasso, and a skinny white nearly choking to death on a giggle-fit induced by the silliness of it all. it was truly a great day.

- this is the first thing i have written aside from a few poor attempts at poetry since i finished the project of doom a few weeks ago. feels nice.

Don't Do Drugs

2008-04-05T14:11:00.000-07:00

after years of insomnia, depression and anxiety, i took my first step toward normalcy yesterday; I went and got a prescription for medical marijuana and an ornate bong with crystalline tubes of luminescent explosions which race to the wishing wells spiraling mouth. The ringers are turned off in my house, the shades are drawn, the daughter is napping; I type away content.

I am lying. I do not smoke marijuana nor do I feel the desire to ever do it again. However, I did go get a prescription for my insomnia, anxiety and depression which is called Atavan. It just sort of makes me feel breezy, but it does nothing to alleviate the tension I have in regards to the amount of work I have today and tomorrow. maybe I should start doing my work; that always alleviates my tension!!

2008-03-09T21:00:00.000-07:00

it has been a couple of weeks. what to write, what to write? things on my mind i suppose. i have been thinking about empty vessels; ever looked someone in the eyes and thought that they would die early? i don;t mean that in a morose way really, it's just that occasionally i see someone's eyes while they are speaking (channeling satan) and i think, "hey, there is absolutely nothing there. this person is just waiting to be dead. early." i know, i know, it's not fair. but neither is crushing my emotional fabric with gibberish and dumb. anyhow, enough; some people have dead looks in their eyes and sometimes i am okay thinking that they won't make it until the next time they attempt to fill precious space with their nonsense.

that's where i'm at.

another thing i was thinking about: i am 31 years old. i do not think this is bad by the way. but i skate. i skate and i teach. and balancing being the skater of lore of me and the teacher of me now is kind of weird; am i cool? does it matter? teaching is way cooler than skating anyway so i think by virtue of writing this i figured out my answer. thanks god.

there should be a "patience award" for people who put up with morons. there really should. people that do not put up with morons receive an instantaneous reward and it is called "comfort and satisfaction". not all people can do this. i am one of them. i rarely call anyone out on their bullshit, and it sucks balls. so here is my proposal to self: hey man, tell dumb motherfuckers when they are dumb. hell, you do it to you.

meaningless blog posts. why? for people to read for for me to feel less stressed about shit? oh, who cares. eat your broccoli children.

a list of things/

2008-02-24T13:40:00.001-08:00

things that will be done before i do the things that need to be done, without fail.

- clean my house from top to bottom
- create playlist for ipod, subscribe to podcasts
- shower
- go buy kale
- make more coffee
- drink it
- sit in a chair wearing only underwear
- look at watch every 2 minutes
- listen to neutral milk hotel and wonder how they are so good
- look at watch again
- lament the passing of time
- go for a bike ride in order to justify procrastination by way of exercise

good thing i made that playlist, it's beautiful outside.

getting paid

2008-02-11T20:12:00.000-08:00

today i received a fellowship to the tune of two grand. last friday my checking account sang to the tune of $1.96. sad until now really. not a sad song like otis redding by the way. so, i must pay some back-rent and some bills and then guess what party people? i am going to treat myself to a sushi dinner and some new music. i am on a tiny island here in santa barbara, but i do not mind right now at all. i miss my daughter, i miss her running around in her monkey costume, but next time i see her, i will buy her happiness.

grammys?

2008-02-10T18:51:00.000-08:00

you watched them? guess who lost.

feel like writing

2008-02-01T22:31:00.000-08:00

so i just feel like writing about a sight. a sight of stuff, a sight of things, a sight of mostly things not seen, but a sight.

i look in the way of a pretty singer, i sense a singer not said not seen but sensed, nonsensical, the way it is and maybe should be. i see whats not said, but sensed, unseen, the in-betweens, the ramblings, the musical meanderings.

i see asymmetrical haircuts and close-cropped scenes. i sense more than these. there is shoulder length black hair persuasion, tough and tuff, a colloquialism from i book i read. one's one thing and the other unseen. i see brief and fleeting discrepancies. oh please. she's.... a little piece of mind that i am able to see. but enough about me, how about me?

there are ways i will be, and i wish it were true, that were obvious only to the trifecta of me, but so easy to see and so terribly me that the fault of a call-out is triumphant glee. but for who? who knows. there is little joy in answering one's own question, or so i would like to think, else why would i lie so painfully shy in my bed watching movies til three?

see. i don't see what i mean, though i mean it indeed, and by God i will stick to my guns, though plastic and squirtless and harmless in fact, they will pose no real threat in any one act, i rely on them truly for sleep. and if, my oh my, i can't work it out, another night lacks some repose, but tirelessly i will work for that sleep which reminds me of soft-silken clothes.

i sit by my phone, afraid it will ring, vibrate or be mute, as i sit and compute and look at it lovingly long, then the task that it asks, to pick up and pass a message, complaint, or a song. i feel that i'll weep, utterly incomplete and cowardly, complacently gone. the phone, my foe.

so here i am, writing to the ones that read, yet don't call, and i love that, i do, because i will not reply, no i won't me or i, so please just concede that i love you all dear but i must have reprieve, and additionally, though this you may not see, all my numbers though many and used all so rarely have been lost and yes, this is my fault.

goodnight.

Hope

2008-01-30T22:49:00.000-08:00

this manic depressive teaching gig has got me to thinking: where is it that we find this fleeting, almost imperceptible "ah-ha!" moments? i find them in several places: knowing that no one was left in the dust; a student comment challenges everything i thought i was trying to teach; the defiant one, just back from suspension provides me with an unsolicited "thank you"; my student attempts to convince me that his example of "being awesome" is an example of a fact --- his evidence being that the girl next to him supports his conclusion (an interesting tactic, though a survey of multiple anonymous sources may be a bit more persuasive); on the last vocabulary quiz, a student wrote as an example of the word "unfathomable", "English class is never unfathomable because Mr Fay always explains things clearly".

enough of the self-makeout-session though. the point is this: i HATE teaching grammar functions; i HATE having only 48 minutes to squeeze in 3 activities (and three standards) a day; i HATE the FACT that sometimes i must move "forward" when some kids aren't yet caught "even" with their peers.

but, i LOVE the fact that they are trying as hard as i am, because this learning that all of us are doing, students and teacher alike, allows me to realize every day that there is always something bigger and more important than me, something greater than being weary and "teaching" how to interpret a novel. it is a humbling and fascinating experience to see directly in front of me, young people that have given up on learning English yet are now giving me the most precious thing that any of us possess: time.

i LOVE it, and i HOPE they know how much i care. and i am proud of my colleagues that, although they may not see it now, are providing their students with those almost imperceptible ah-ha moments every single day in class and beyond.

poor haiku

2008-01-21T04:04:00.000-08:00

it is 4 am.
no, it is not exciting.
this, a poor haiku.

insomnia

2008-01-07T00:28:00.000-08:00

i have it. i sit here and think of the ways to retreat from the languor and boredom i often repeat. yeah, like every night. too often i think that the don julio anejo or the jameson or the red stripe will cure it -- all folly my friends. i excitedly created lesson plans all evening, then upon homecoming had nothing or little to do... so i watched "panic in needle park", a brilliantly acted film by pacino and winter, amidst winter and fiending and whatever you like. personally, my body glows with the radiance of 100% pure agave (thank you scarlet) as i relish the idea that this post actually is relish. oh you poor poor souls and your simple sobriety! may you all lift weights and satisfy the glory of your cock-lack! meaningless, who cares? my red stripe beckons me, the glorious whore and i politely acquiesce.

throughout you.

2008-01-01T15:17:00.000-08:00

in the beginning of you, a new nest was formed for self and daughter amongst egrets, ice-plant, and compost organic vegetable garden, all within this tiny-island bird sanctuary. it is a bit colder down here in the sanctuary air. pedaling furiously, peddling furiously, in the beginning of you i toiled amongst the lonesome gargoyle-restaurateur, saved miraculously by wild cougar woman, sweeping glittery doorways in red slip-on vans, discussing elvis costello and type-written applications. i explained that i rolled in a '63 rambler. that was toward the beginning of you. it is true, i drank heavily in the beginning of you -- little has changed -- i felt my heart would lift with drink, and it did, yet grew heavy once again each day. i was in my very own, singularly special dark place in the beginning of you and the drink helped my sight in the dark -- the drink was cat-eyes. applying for graduate school, i lost lit theory and found the love of education.

and that was in the beginning of you.

by now, you have grown up and moved out of the old you. you look distinguished; had you hair, surely the soft area of your temple would be salt and pepper tinged. there was much work to be done with little one at my feet, deadlines called that for a reason -- deadlines -- due and past-due as a rent notification pasted to my temporary door, cautiously avoiding the stranded plastic pony and so many arms, legs, noses and caps, as though potato head was violently afflicted by a combustible strand of leprosy, there was much work to be done in the middle of you. you were the strained yet satisfied spare-tire around your own circumference, offensively opulent with output, rushing through faculty halls and in danger of slipping with inappropriate banter on the topic of poor methods, and how that is so easily personal. in the middle of you, fingers pecked away at keys while muscles slowly transformed into massive globs of left-out play-doh, minus the color but plus the pizazz; clearly there were moments when smoke poured from my nostrils, reminiscent of a mythological minotaur and at the very least, an ailing toaster-oven. oh the irony of me explaining white privilege in the middle of you! dear rambler, i am still so aggrieved to have left you parched of lubrication; you rest, bleary-eyed in a driveway one hour away while i lose feeling in my extremities daily. did you know that my life was threatened in the middle of you? angry dead-beat house-husbands, their own hyphenated existence predicated on the notion that someone, anyone actually gives a piece of lint from the pocket of a dead man for them; to you sir, i wave you a forward-facing v-sign and it is not for "victory" -- also available, a samurai sword. oh but in the middle of you did i have many a tryst! (many of them very stupid if not incredibly dangerous, shh) i sat and thought amongst brilliant and compassionate educators, and i was proud to call them my fellows; i was proud to have them as peers in the middle of you.

and that was the middle of you.

steaming up windows, drunken longings, so many sad and wonderful kisses, a mixed-bag really, binder-compilement (spacial grief), a happy (?) family photo of comatose father, two daughters, and rosy-cheeked smiling wife by (hospital) bedside (true grief), T.E.oP.le power sunday soccer league champions of defeat -- one goal scored by yours truly (*bows*) toward the end of you. there was excitement yes, such as adelaide constructing complex sentences, implementing multiple adjectives, nudging her father's giddy-switch located next to word-nerd bank in damp, drink-lit brain. teaching to a classroom of what appears to be the embodiment of all things awkward about adolescence; it seems as though when twelve year olds sneeze, they spring another inch toward the sky, yet mysteriously can not seem to remember to write their names in the top right corner -- oh how i love them! so frighteningly, gorgeously awkward a time for them; agendas everyone! forced organizational skills are begrudgingly acquiesced to, and lucky stars are thanked when due dates are met with precision toward the end of you. i have worn a suit and torn blue levi's, yes, in the same day at separate times all throughout you.

you were magnanimous and fiendish throughout you; i learned much in you. may the new you teach me as much as the old you. thank you.

people tend to forget...

2007-12-18T19:18:00.000-08:00

listening to david ruffins "let somebody love me" and thinking about the temptations, soul, and early r&b.

i recently acquired the OKeh records 49-57 complete singles collection and i must say that i haven't had as much in recent times as i have discovering these little nuggets of gold from a golden age of music. if you don't know OKeh records, here's a bit of history --- started out as a columbia subsidiary that primarily put out "race" records back around around WWI, and when the original columbia was dissolved (and then purchased by another columbia), Okeh came back and put out more "race" records, soon to become rhythm and blues. because of this, we now have the documented music of screamin jay hawkins, chris powell and the five blue flames, the five scamps, annie laurie, and the treniers amongst others. this music, timeless, possesses the quality of any great music: the ability to make you dance; evokes emotion; is humorous (if you know the treniers, then you know about pure alabama poontang); was completely innovative. r & b took aspects of jazz, boogie-woogie and swing and truly made it swing. additionally, these artists paved the way for rock and roll, soul, and eventually hip-hop. it would be interesting if more producers hooked up some of these horns and breaks actually. it's a motherfucking gold mine to be drawn from!

the legacy of r & b unfortunately has been bastardized by (popular) r & b's current incarnation of complete disrespectful dumb-fuckery. if you haven't heard any (or some) of these artists, please go out and find some.... and don't forget to thank me later.

the restaurant industry. it's no coincidence that "rant" is in the word, part 1

2007-12-02T09:23:00.000-08:00

the best decision i ever made was to get out of the restaurant industry. let me break down a couple things.

managers= dipshits with inferiority complexes that feel the need to attain power and lord over others because of a. tiny weiners or b. they actually know how stupid they are and that they will never be able to do anything else --- so watch out because if you are smarter than they are (and you are) they will be bitter and do asshole things like schedule you to close and then open the next day. Fucking managers.

older servers- you do not want to become the "older server". what does the older sever do? well, first of all, tehy are the real floor manager --- and by real floor manager i mean they manage to gaffle the shit out of all the good tables --- ever wondered why their sections are always full? excellent service? p'shaw! these mofos are sneaky. when they're not chain-smoking on the patio saying shit like, "well, we all know mexicans don't tip", they're probably stealing tables and fantasizing about the next bump of meth they are going to shovel up their noses.

assistant managers- see what i wrote about managers, but with an even smaller weiner. and yes that applies to the lady managers as well.

in keeping with

2007-11-03T10:21:00.000-07:00

my every two-week-average, here be the drop. my hangover is disgusting. you know that skunky, pungent aroma that escapes from a heineken bottle immediately upon opening? if that smell could be turned into a feeling, it would be the one swirling around inside of my head. but, there is hope; this morning as i was perusing these here web-nets, i happened upon the wu-demo over at meka and shake's new place, http://2dopeboyz.com/. you might know them from hiphopdx, where they both blog. so, an aleve, two cups of coffee, three glasses of water, a one-a-day vitamin (perhaps if it was a different kind of one-a-day?) and even a damned penicillin tablet and while i may not have strep anymore, i sure do have a mighty overhang. moving on.

i have an affinity for cheesy coffee mugs. you should all send me one. it will be my internet buddies collection. i will show it to the ladies. they will laugh. i will cry. (i am still talking about a coffee cup collection).

anybody else been listening to "the graduate"? the mick boogie/9th wonder graduation mix? it might actually be better than graduation. not to take away from the quality of graduation, it's just that anytime jay and little brother are thrown into the mix, ian = happy pants dance. no disclaimers necessary.

on my mind.....

2007-10-14T15:32:00.000-07:00

* am i the only one that wishes the LB album was a couple tracks longer, with about, wait, ALL the skits taken out?
* i still can't believe that there isn't more press on blu and exile's "below the heavens". this is the best album of straight up hip-hop for the year so far, and likely for the rest of the year too. american gangster? i am definitely not a hater, but i am just going to put this out there: people put there emotions into artists they love and tend to forget what quality versus mediocrity is.
* serengeti and polyphonic have released an album called "don't give up". some of my more traditional heads will be turned off by the sonic discombobulation of this record, but let this be said: within this audio-amalgam lies beats rooted in boom-bap and transcendent esoteric lyricism. serengeti is the emcee, poly is the beat-beast, you should be the listener.
* why does it feel like my living room will never be clean?
* i got my vintage schwinn le tour frame (yellow with black font) and my BELT black leather saddle and am stoked on building up this fixed-gear bumble-bee beauty. i figure i could dump about $200 more and i'll be rolling tough.
* does anyone else feel insane when a girl acts like things are all understood and gravy, but then trips hard and plays martyr. i am a sensitive person, but c'mon. fuck that shit!
* pabst blue ribbon like a mother.

Stepping Stones

2007-10-08T20:21:00.001-07:00

The social commentary songs of African -Americans of the 1940's differed in form their 1960's counterparts in several distinct ways: the musical medium through which they were delivered; the political climate of the day; the availability of the music to the general public.
On the heels of the Swing Era, popularized by songs such as “Jumpin’ at the Woodside” by Count Basie, and “It Don’t mean A Thing if it Ain’t Got That Swing” by Duke Ellington, thought of as the quintessential Swing composers, came a group of young black jazz experimentalists who became known as the purveyors of “Be-bop”. Be-bop was by and large considered by it’s predecessors as a dissonant, sloppy mess of incongruent notes, a bit like the musical version of a Jackson Pollock painting; similarly, within this “mess” lies much beauty to be found. Be-bop was a stylistic innovation that, according to Thelonious Monk, “ How to use notes differently. That’s it. Just how to use notes differently.” True as this statement is in it’s essence, it lacks perhaps the most significant aspects of Bebop: the fact that Be-bop emerged as protest music. Langston Hughes said this of Be-bop in the year 1949: ““Everytime a cop hits a Negro with his Billy club, that old club says, ‘BOP BOP …BE-BOP …MOP …BOP …That’s what Bop is. Them young colored kids who started it, they know what bop is.” The rebellious nature of the Be-bop movement was begotten of African-Americans having fought in World Wars I and II, and having died equally amongst their white counterparts felt that they should also live equally amongst their counterparts. Though the Be-bop artists weren’t an overtly vocal representation of their music, I feel accurate in saying that the “dissonance” (as labeled by detractors), was a logical analogy and extension of revolt; while they were busy creating music that was anti-system, thereby creating their own “voice”, they were in effect claiming equality and autonomy. Additionally, in their corner was the brilliant Harlem Renaissance poet Langston Hughes, who I see as their lyrical accompaniment. Also of relevance was the availability of the music to the general public, which though substantially more available than even 20 years prior, was still far and away removed from having a company such Stax or Motown getting the music to the people. Keynote songs of the era include “ Well you Needn’t, by Thelonious Monk, as well as “ Blues for Alice” by Charlie “Bird” Parker, both of which exemplify the variation in structure akin to Be-bop and thus providing a musical template for expression of protest against commercialism as an analogy for African-American freedom from systemic oppression at the hands of white America.
The African-American social-commentary music during the 1960's was, although related to all of it’s predecessors, quite different as well. The style of music first and foremost was that of “Soul”, a highly emotive new brand of Rhythm and Blues which simultaneously blended love ballads with protest music. Musicians such as the inimitable Sam Cooke and Otis Redding both found commercial success with their songs, “ A Change Is Gonna Come” and “ Respect”, respectively. The mere fact that these songs having incorporated both Negro Spiritual elements as well as commercial success clearly shows how the social commentary songs of the 60's differ with those of the 40's, though it must be stated that without the Be-bop era, it is conceivable the Soul movement may never have emerged. However, it did and it emerged not after a war, but rather during a war, this time the Vietnam War, in which young African-American men were dying by the tens of thousands. Surely this had to affect the African-American musical protest movement. This movement was in effect the musical arm of the war protest as well as the Civil Rights Movement and the Black Power Movement. One of the most popular musicians of the era, James Brown, had a top-ten hit with “ Say It Loud, I’m Black and Proud”, thus for one of the first times establishing a significant African-American voice of protest in mainstream American musical culture. Additionally, there were many outlets for the music to be released en masse to the general public, many of which were black-owned, such as Barry Gordy’s Motown Records haling from Detroit Michigan, the motor city. This musical movement provided an important component to a multi-faceted movement for the African-American community: the artistic component. It completed a spiritual aspect led by Dr. King, a spiritual/radical movement led by Malcolm X and the Black Panther party, and a political movement in which all played a part alongside people of all colors and creeds.

belize's drop

2007-10-07T13:27:00.000-07:00

my friend Belize from http://www.dahshyt.blogspot.com/ has blessed me with a poetry drop. good shyt.

I love the Pressure and Pain
Love Stains
So my mindframe stays on the pathway
As I stay alone in my batcave
Smoking and drinking the pain away
And baby I can't explain
Why I don't call often
but life keeps me exhausted
half hearted
My soul - I bought it
and the devil was left in a carcass
With my last breath I'll accomplish
everything on my list
That is: Kids
Money, Power, Respect
Hoes are attracted to wealth
So dont' become a victim to debt
and being dead broke is a challenge itself
So I preach with a pencil or pen
That the knowledge within
gets released once the pressure begins....

belly full

2007-09-22T15:03:00.001-07:00

Cup full of nookie water
thats where it starts
every single tiny bit
sum of its parts
chewed up sega game bites
far away and not new york
the dog-call whisper
titillating over eery drum
cheery now and mellow but
icky with a dismal frown
tiled floor and nonsuch pass
totally and neither or
another waste of everyones
fair and lovely christmas past
who knows what, and who knows who
my daughter wakes
my belly’s full

motherfuckers don't know!

2007-09-08T21:28:00.001-07:00

except sometimes they do. as i sit here and listen to breakfast of champions by serengeti (nice vonnegut by the way) i wonder why so many people would say to themselves, "aesop rock is so hard to get" without actually saying to themselves, "man, i don't get that shit, i better go get my dictionary and thesaurus." i suppose it's because people listen to music to un-think, but that's contrary to why i do almost anything, except for laundry and dishes of course. dishes are like meditation goddamnit! and meditation is clean, as clean as any of 3000's verse off of, well, anything. and speaking of 3000, where the hell is the solo effort? not that i want a solo effort (because the lyrical trade-off between him and big are so fucking complimentary; check anything pre and post speakerboxx/love-below if you don't believe this), but damn i do want something! dj unk remix tracks are a horrific substitute. i do find 3000's choice in remix's (along with the inclusion of lil lame on idlewild) a lovely gesture to his southern brethren, but i would rather they go along the lines of "players anthem" as opposed to walk it out pr whatever the fuck it is that is wrong with the state of hip-hop. so, as it turns out there is no sense to this post, or is there? sense may be found in the bottom of a glass of red wine. next up? why are people (read internet geeks) big-upping aesop rocks new record when it seems they never even heard music for earth worms or appleseed? it seems like motherfuckers know everything about schlubs like dipset weed curmudgeons, yet have no clue about innovative (and fairly cloudy) artists liek aes rock? my guess is that it is racism. haha. no, but really, is aesop rock not popular because of his color or his skills?

is game not game?

2007-07-25T22:35:00.000-07:00

to use the tired old adage ---- peep game.

for one, listen damnit! for one, wouldnt you rather know the opinions of your potential love? wouldnt you expect the same reciprocity?

are not women the most amazing creatures on the face of the planet, in the universe? shouldnt we let them know how much we appreciate them? of course we should. women pretty much rule us and all of our actions are in a way based upon our admiration and desire of them; animalistic? yes. true? certainly. imagine the best relationship you ever had and i guarantee there was equal exchange. if not, dont be a dick and refer to lesson number one.

listen to otis redding goddamnit. at 26 years old, the man had more soul and love than any of us could possibly posses, but you know what? we should fucking try anyways.

understand when youre just being a "man" and set that shit to the side. it aint gonna impress her.

appreciate her opinion damnit! we all have something to learn from every single person we meet. shouldnt we learn from the yin to our yans (no, i didnt mean "wangs" dumbasses).

this culture of men is always demanding respect: isnt is of equal importance to respect the views of our female counterparts? the answer = yes just in case that one stumped you.

remember, you may have a daughter one day, so model your own actions after what you hope the man she one day marries possesses.

be cool man.

for your consideration

2007-07-17T09:08:00.000-07:00

whats up people (person?). here are some things to consider today:

if m.o.p. has been making tracks as good or better than "sharks", where the fuck is the LP?

no matter how easy it is to hate on 50, his level of intelligence, determination and self-awareness is pretty fucking intimidating.

when will ghostface respond to the allegations that superb wrote supreme clientele? does it even warrant a response? is g-unit still salty over the rumors that 50 got the shit stomped out of him back after the "how to rob debacle"?

when is jean greys album coming out? will it be cohesive?

anyone ever heard mitchy slick's "bass chasers"?

how the hell do i share files up in this bitch?

okay, everyone have fun!

skewl

2007-07-09T13:33:00.000-07:00

this friday is my orientation for grad school and i am fairly nervous. on one hand it is exciting to leave behind the whole read-a-book-write-a-paper monotony of the last 4 1/2 years, and on the other it is nerve-racking that i am going to be in a classroom from 7am-7pm 5 days a week, while still working and being a daddy to addie as well. however, the reward is two-fold --- a masters in education and a teaching credential in one year (if i don't die in the process). it will be an intimidating, tiring and humbling experience i am sure, but it will be done.

now how do i stop drinking for an entire year?

contiguous thought

2007-06-22T13:33:00.000-07:00

Contiguous Thought:
or, Grocery Cart Theory

The Argument: thought contiguity brought on by insomnia is true logical thought. I look around the living room and folding the clothes on the floor holds hands with insomnia theory. I revert to this idea: grapes and bleach and Heineken, when strung together as objects, form no rational cohesion, yet when in the context of a grocery list or even a grocery cart, they seamlessly coincide. This is the way the human mind functions. The concept of pattern, or traditional narrative establishes logic by creating order; and this order allows for easy digestion. However, this order does not produce creative thought. The employment of the logical syllogism is merely a device to turn the abstract into the concrete.
Thoughts exist simultaneously in the same space; this is the only space where this may happen. I write this while I wonder where Monique is. This is the essence of grocery cart theory. I believe that Ezra Pound was attempting to emulate true thought in his Pisan Cantos; Pound published an essay in The Dial in 1928 from which this quote comes:

“We appear to have lost the radiant world where one thought cuts through another with a clean edge, a world of moving energies.... A medieval `natural philosopher' would find this modern world full of enchantments, not only the light in the light bulb, but the thought of the current hidden in air and in wire would give him a mind full of forms. Or possibly this will fall under the eye of ... a painter who will answer: confound you, you ought to find that in my paintings.”

This is what we find in The Cantos, Susan Howe’s The Midnight and Gertrude Stein’s Tender Buttons: the attempt to put the incomprehensible/intangible into form, or at the very least to represent original thought. I argue that this representation of original thought is precisely what “art” is, not merely what makes art happen. What makes an object aesthetically pleasing? Intriguing? I suppose it is the notion that it is somehow “new” or original, but truly is there such a thing as “new”? Haven’t all thoughts happened before? Likely the answer is yes, however, have the same thoughts all existed simultaneously in the same space before? The answer of course is no, due to the simply unquantifiable math dilemma associated. This contiguous thought therefore is the essence of creation and thus art as well as it’s impetus.
Susan Howe calls herself a “poet of war”. In her interview for the Linebreak radio series, she discusses her experience at the zoo with her father; it was the moment Pearl Harbor was bombed and her father pointed out the erratic behavior of the polar bears and told her that they knew something was wrong. Howe says that was the defining moment for her when she decided to be a poet. Therefore, everything that she has written comes from the well-spring of that initial thought, and so everything’s existence owes itself to that moment. The point is not to argue that every poem or piece of prose is about war, the issue at hand is whether or not there is validity in a “legacy of original thought” concept. The concept fits in nicely with the theory of contiguous thought; each and every idea is touching, but not necessarily continuous, as if each previous thought is a spring-board for the advancement of the next. Howe also says, the “cause of history dictates the sound of what is thought”, meaning that it is impossible to separate the product of the original thought from the original thought itself? Is the legacy valid? For Susan Howe it is because she believes that it is, whereas with Pound he had his doubts (i.e. read last Canto). In my opinion there has to be a stream of consciousness and a lack of self-consciousness in order for there to be validity to the concept; there is no forcing original thought. This is why insomniac text is so fascinating; when lacking a substantial amount of sleep, one becomes aware of the conception of thought. Some my call this delirium, but I would argue that insomniac thought is closer to the way human beings think that in a traditional logical narrative. There is however, a dilemma.
The dilemma: do not I negate my theory by writing this paper? In other words, by attempting to logically prove the soundness of my argument, don’t I prove consequently that it is impossible to simply write down the thoughts as they happen? The answer, no, I do not negate my theory, but in order for us to understand these things we are unfortunately forced to adhere to a structure, a shape, a form; Pound attempted to make the Cantos take the form of a tree; Howe succeeds at creating a “pattern” of thought by allowing ideas to touch, to coexist; Stein allows words to illuminate specific feelings and moments. All of these artists exist simultaneously in the same space as one another, yet are all unique. The art, the artist, the thoughts, the legacy, the words, lie neatly touching one another in the grocery cart of the mind.

an arm is an arm
is a leg
is a brain
is a poem
is a frankenstein
scare-quote
susan’s got the ansus.

a list not related to hiphop

2007-06-21T17:35:00.000-07:00

1. try and be more like otis reading minus the death.
2. create magical moments for my daughter; though a child is mystified by the seeming complexities of bark on a tree (and for good reason, no doubt), it is my responsibility as a good father to create magical moments for my daughter. here are some things i do and plan to do:

a. create, with her help, a sprawling chalk mural roughly 14x14 feet in front of the house in the image of our solar system, and then teach her the names of the planets and constellations.

b. play the keyboard with her while both mics are hooked into it and simultaneously freestyle to the wackest beats ever.

c. take her to the zoo again.

d. take her to see the monarch butterflies, who come to the central coast in the billions and populate the trees so thickly that a tree once green becomes a moving see of yellow wings.

e. dance with her, anywhere, anytime, music or no music.

3. begin my masters program in education, student teach, save the world.
4. attempt to figure out the popularity of meaningless and message-less rap, without reverting to the TI equation (so the title lied, sue me). oh, and i am working on my theory..
5. work a bit more on the contiguous thought theory, originally supposed to be the jump-off for my phd in lit theory.

how about all 3 of you that read this? any suggestions?

iam drunk

2007-06-14T21:33:00.000-07:00

so, now that that is out of the way, look forward to the next drunk post. i graduate on fathers day, and guess what? the robe is fifty fucking dollars and i aint payin it. not by high water or high-heels. however, i am sorts proud of myself. who out there has a 6 pack or a bottle of wine?

and a quiet tenor spoke

2007-06-14T11:09:00.001-07:00

Do you know where you are?
Do you know where you go?
Ami I rightly drunk?
Is sobriety stowed?
Sun reddens and sets
or is this an illusion
caused by rotaion upon
this earth’s axis?
Lights dim; two guitarists
pick melancholy strings.
It’s smoky, this place,
these lungs, my head.
the sun sets only in our hearts.
Combine ideas to convey substance,
when all that is lacking
is flesh-tugs, kiss-joys, love-sparks!
I saw it once:
they say it happens in parks, beaches,
remote tropical islands,
FLORENCE!
But I saw it once,
and it unfolded neatly
into an ugly pair of hands
equally weighed with one another.
There was no tipping of scales.
It happens outside the grandeur
of spectacle.
Don’t you see;
that’s why it is special.

life eggs

2007-06-02T21:43:00.001-07:00

certainly the kiss of shit may need to be remanded, for after all are we not all giant pustuous shit-bag love-bugs? i lie sleepy every night and want nothing more than the glory days; i lie awake at night and tell nothing but the truth. there seems something remiss about not being the one to holler "i care not and god be damned!" yet, somehow, i made it home: home to a sleep heavy baby; a woman too tired to make love; a hangover not yet achieved. i for one, stayed the course. i will not let anyone tell me my course was wrong --- it was in fact the only one i could take --- and it lead me to my destiny. thank holy water for that one right there. the buttons on my jacket may be rusty, but the ladder i climb to heaven? not so much. the buckle of my belt? lovely, though not so shiny as yours. i often reminisce on the days of splendor, the days of homespun love tales, and think, so how much has changed? the answer? not so much, and in fact i am inclined to say that i am still as unhappy as i have ever been. march on we us wayward naysayers on the universal roundabout. may it all be but a short and momentary song.

road life

2007-05-27T13:23:00.000-07:00

A brown plain
led to a white tundra
which spilled over onto
a damp, green plateau.
An azure ocean emptied
onto a sugar shore,
and I followed a trail
to a round yellow valley.
I smell broccoli and strawberries
and miss the tumbleweeds,
snow-drifts, endless soaking raindrops
like heavy wet hands;
sweating beneath the palm shade.
I find myself once again
in California, sunburnt and exhausted
and ready to take my
life off the road.

it could be the wine

2007-05-18T17:40:00.000-07:00

but, i don't think so...

a close friend of mine is deploying to iraq (!?) on june 7th, and i specifically remember being harangued by him when i said i would consider joining the air force (he has joined the ARMY). in fact, he called it the "death machine", and i totally agree with his 19 year old self (then). though eleven years ago, a wife and a child ago, i wonder the true impetus: death wish; desire to provide for family; inaccessibility to alternative options? i highly doubt it. the guy is extremely intelligent, capable, and a fantastic musician. i fail to see how this is a reasonable alternative, particularly considering the ill state of affairs we are in a a nation.

we are older, things change, people change, but i cannot find comfort in the fact that a dear friend is working for what history will determine a lost cause; perhaps his own death; a family without a father. perhaps one finds fighting for a nation brave? at this point however, i find fighting against the nation i live in a brave and hopefully triumphant pursuit.

either way, joshua johnson, with you goes my love. be safe and i hope they have a nice mini-ramp.

last day of spring break

2007-04-01T14:49:00.000-07:00

two new york strips on the q
makin tofu sushi for potluck
watchin spaceghost at work (me work, spaceghost show)
rollin around the neighborhood on the shralp stick
excited about new classes tomorrow (i bought a new notebook!). um.
missin florida friends
i don't reflect, i deflect the sun
hopin' i get into grad skewl

out

academic shit

2007-03-23T19:40:00.000-07:00

Trans-Diasporic Express

“Negritude”, in and of itself, embodies the concept of the re-appropriation of ones “blackness”. While this concept is often perceived as vague, or even deemed unable to progress past the essence of its meaning, it is nonetheless of incomparable significance. Its significance lies not only in the way it was used to empower the writers of its creation as well as their contemporaries, but how the legacy of its existence has helped to empower modern black men and women on a global scale.
The Negritude movement was a literary/intellectual response and critique by a group of people who felt they had been stripped of their race, identity, culture, and color. This eradication of black culture was conducted on the behest of white men and women, and supported by many other ethnicities as well, such as those of Latin descent. This eradication of black culture led to a cultural revolution, Negritude. The revolution came about due to writers/activists Aime Cesaire and Leopold Senghor (predominately), and arrived in the form of poetry and intellectual discourse; it was a movement at once expressed through artistic endeavors as well as intellectual and academic. In modern times, a direct correlation is made between Negritude and Hip-hop culture.
Hip-hop culture, or rather a sub-set of Hip-hop culture, most commonly referred to as “conscious” hip-hop, is a re-affirmation of the artist’s (and the artist’s people’s) essence of “blackness”. In Black Orpheus, Sartre writes that the enslaved “accepts the word “Negro” which is hurled at him as an epithet, and revindicates himself, in pride, as black in the face of white.” Sartre is referencing a shared aspect of Senghor and Cesaire’s philosophy, in which by re-appropriating what is used as an epithet, the word “Negro”, and consequently applying a sense of pride to it, it renders the previous pejorative context powerless. The same may be said for the modern hip-hop generation’s re-appropriating the word “Nigga”. An excellent example of a modern day negritude progenitors would be the Hip-hop artists Talib Kweli and dead prez, whose lyrics confront the African diaspora from the perspective of young black Americans:

“..Back in the day they stole our smiles so we clothe our teeth in gold
and we frontin’, from nigga to kid, to son and god
it’s wild, depending on labels for man woman and child
my style just is, all that’s seen and all that’s heard
God gave us music so we play with our words.....
Have you forgotten? We’re pickin’ 100% designer name-brand cotton”...
(from “The Manifesto” by Talib Kweli)
and:
“.. I’m an African,
never was an African American
blacker than black
I take it back to my origin
same skin hated by the Klansmen
big nose, big lips, big hips and butts dancing..
New York and Cali, FLA
Puerto Rico, Haiti, and JA..”
(From “I’m an African” by dead prez)

One easily ascertains the correlation between the two generations upon reading Aime Cesaire’s Notebook: A Return to the Native Land, where he writes, “The old negritude progressively cadavers itself.” Yes, it does when Cesaire and his contemporaries come along. I believe that Cesaire means that each generation reconstructs itself in and out of the same image of its predecessor; rather, a new creature is born with the same qualities, much like a phoenix rising from its own ashes; and it is up to the phoenix to create its own legacy. I find that same rejection Cesaire asserts against his own perceived ignorance to be analogous to Talib Kweli’s rejection of what people perceive to be his culture’s ignorance; to clarify, Cesaire is asserting that the previous generation, though black like him, has an outmoded perception of it’s self, and he is here to update it and empower it. In addition, Kweli embraces the idea that his people have redefined what it is to have their smiles stolen through oppression (clothed in gold); the slave-chains of old have been replaced with intricate chains made of gold, leather, and African medallions; black skin is not “greasy” as racist sloganeering has asserted, but rather “shining”, “reflective”, and beautiful; a great Negro tradition being the narrative, it is updated to represent his unique perception as an American, just as Cesaire has done it with the French. dead prez has further expressed the desire to represent their place in the African diaspora (albeit with a non-American leaning). The previously transcribed lyrics showcase a need to be perceived as African, not African-American, yet express a similar sentiment as those expressed by Kweli and Cesaire, namely that being black is something to be cherished. Not only do dead prez “take it back to their origin” [sic], they also flip the outward perception of their blackness (such as their physical features) from being the fodder of racists to being the physical manifestation of inner black magnificence. It is this sense of pride; this sense of love for one’s self and people that these two generations express.
Langston Hughes writes:

“We are related --- you and I.
You from the West Indies,
I from Kentucky.
We are kinsmen — you and I.
You from Africa,
I from the States.
We are brothers — you and I.”
(“Brothers” from Jim Crowe’s Last Stand)

Concise; supple; elegant; sincere. These are the thoughts that come to my mind in order to adequately describe the above poem. In addition to the aforementioned adjectives, the poem seems to me a perfect bridge which connects the architects of Negritude to its modern-day progenitors. Not only does Hughes literally reference the French-speaking African diaspora (West Indies), he makes a direct correlation between it and his American birth in Kentucky, which signifies not only his respect for his brothers, but a nod to the legacy of Negritude.
These cultural movements were no accident; they were certainly not serendipitous. Though they both share the features inherent in the creation of such a movement, for example oppression, poverty, racism and the attempt to eradicate an entire culture, they also share another substantial quality: their most eloquent voices come from well-educated, moral human beings. Their morality is not to be undervalued; many great revolutionaries, as well as artists, lack morality, but it is not morality that makes a great revolutionary or artist. However, morality is what provides a movement with credibility and timelessness. Were it not for the credibility of the Negritude movement, there would be no timelessness, and therefore it’s legacy would not be ingrained into the minds of the young black intelligentsia, learned or not in the ways of academia.
The movement is not dead; the movement is alive and breathing. The movement begun by Cesaire and Senghor and further explored by Langston Hughes has planted it’s roots deep into the psyche of modern Hip-hop culture, and it is expressed though the same mediums as its founders: the written and spoken word. It is a rejection of tyranny; a rejection of race and culture negation; an embrace of all that it means to be black. The African Diaspora has proliferated globally, and the people have spoken and will continue to speak, and say;

“Rise, Dove
rise
rise
rise.........”

finals

2007-03-23T19:35:00.000-07:00

so, finals are almost over. right now, grad school prospects are looking good. gevirtz or, um, wait, i didn't apply anywhere else, but fuck it this black milk album is chill. tomorrow, i go cop the real deal. "yo, all i need is one hit". one hit of real hip-hop is the only hit i need, seriously.

year of the indies part one

2007-03-23T18:37:00.000-07:00

it is officially the year of the indies and personally, i couldn't be happier. the first quarter of the year, as far as hip-hop releases were concerned, was akin to paris hilton using rubbers -- the shit simply didn't happen. however, it seemed as though some contraception was being used -- material was made, and even released, but seemingly didn't even come out. how about this new redman? no promo (aside from banners on alhiphop, xxl, etc? no video, no single? no fucking respect is what i say. however, this seems to be the def-jam-headed-jay-z m.o. these days: if it isn't related to his own personal input or associations, it simply doesn't deserve the promo. so, either jay needs to co-sign and be on a track, "discover" or break the artist, fuck her (we see you rihanna), or have prior affiliations? but i digress. it is the year of the indies, no?

thank the gawds that we have the black milk record, cause i am listening to it right now and it's fucking good. the new el-p? constant repeat for the last 3 days since it was purchased (not downloaded, fuckers). the track with aes rock is glorious as is the opus featuring cage. the lyrical content is on-point, if not more coherent than anything he has done in the past. the predominate critique of el-p is his inaccessibility, but on this record, it is obvious that he is consciously making the effort not to be so obscure. i was trying to explain how i felt about fantastic damage a few weeks ago to my co-worker; he and i were talking about it takes a nation of millions and how the bomb squad made the record imagining the sounds as colors and how each would ooze into the next, making this sort of seamless amalgam of sound; i thought about that a bit as it twisted my brain, feeling like i just smoked a bowl of monster truck, and then explained el-p's sound on fandam as having a similar quality to it as far as the colors, but rather than colors, i felt it was less seamless, so seam-full in fact that i found it more akin to textiles being woven together; however, since the sound wasn't able to blend as brilliantly as the squad's, i felt that el's flow was analogous to a needle stitching the beats together, creating a multi-patterned quilt as opposed to a multi-hued pallet. i still don't know if this is an adequate description, but i do know that the new record strikes me as a sort of unification of these ideas.

more on the black milk record later. i think toaster oven on the fritz smell is coming from my ears right now.

firsties

2007-01-22T09:47:00.000-08:00

like posting a pastie on a nip