I can't stand it when the person who checked out a book before me has written notes in the margins and I can tell they wrote a terrible fucking paper.
It's like, Here's a little reminder for myself of by how far I missed the point.
Anyway, person who had David Mamet's Three Uses Of The Knife before me, please don't ever write, direct, perform, paint, sculpt, puppeteer, or doodle anything. Also don't go see movies or go outside or have kids. Just sit inside and put question marks in the margins of books brave people write.
Beatboxing is like cunnilingus for boys or blowjobs for girls: Even if you find the thought of it ridiculous or disgusting, you owe it to the other person to learn how to do it and do it competently when called upon.
'Cause when you wanted to flow, shit, they kicked a beat for you. Nobody should have to freestyle a capella.
You can also use this similie in reverse: the next time a friend is complaining about the revolting proposition of putting their mouth on somebody else's genitals, you can say "You have to. It's your obligation, like beatboxing and freestyling," and they'll be all like "Ohhhhh."
Wednesday after work Jacob was at the gym, working out on the lateral press machine. He got up to get a drink of water, and when he returned to the machine, a man in a grey Emory warm up sweater had taken his spot without asking if Jacob was finished. Jacob was very angry.
The next evening around the same time, Jacob spotted the man working out on a leg machine. When the man got up, Jacob followed him. Since the man was wearing headphones, it took all the way to the locker room for Jacob to get his attention, but once he did, Jacob politely asked if he was done with the machine.
Mystified, the man replied that he was.
"Great, thanks," said Jacob, and returned to the weight room. This role reversal gave Jacob immense satisfaction, even if, and indeed because the man in the Emory sweats was unaware of it. A smile on his face, he proceeded to do three sets on the now-vacant machine, even though he was not working on his lower body that day.
Other examples of this behavior included giving a ten-dollar tip to a barista who had shortchanged him the previous week, and anonymously paying for extensive repairs to the car of an ex-girlfriend who had left him for a magician. Jacob called this practice "Action Forgiveness," although he had never spoken the words aloud. When the words came up in his mind, however, they were usually accompanied by the mental image of Jesus on a motorcycle, wearing an Evel Knievel stars-and-stripes jumpsuit.
It is interesting to note that if a brainscan were to be done while Jacob was recollecting one of these plots, an seasoned neurologist would note that the electrical activity bears very little resemblance to that of someone in the selfless act of true forgiveness, and is in fact much closer to the pleasure-center lightning storms found in an anti-social personality upon completion of an elaborate act of revenge.
After hearing this hypothetical neurologist diagnose him as an emotionless sociopath, Jacob would very likely submit the name of said physician for consideration for many prestigious awards and grants.
He would, of course, leave his own name off the nomination form.
I made another song.
Grecian Fuckdeck - "Lose Your Red Dust" - Eminem vs. Iron and Wine
This one I'm actually pretty proud of. Put it on the iPod you got for Christmas.
It is too bad Chelsea seems to be shutting down her livejournal, 'cause all I wanted for the past couple days is to open it up and see that the song she was listening to while she was writing was one from the mix CD I gave her before I left Arizona.
As simple as you think I am, imagine I am three or four times that simple.
Now you are approaching how simple I actually am.
The sudden widespread uberpopularity of Texas Hold 'Em is not without precedent.
Of course, before, it probably wasn't poker.
Probably it was wifeswapping.
There were a rash of wifeswapping shows on TV. Swapping purists derided Celebrity Wifeswap, and insisted if you wanted to see the real pros put the keys in the bowl, you had to tune in to the World Wifeswap Tour.
Such programs bestowed unlikely third-tier fame on professional wifeswappers, like Larry "Alabaster" Manannus, who had risen from the rank-and-file amateur wifeswap-by-mail tournaments to embarrass the heavy hitters of the swapping scene, and Truro R. Calliope, who always wore sunglasses at the glass coffee table (the playing field of wifeswapping) so you could never see which jingle-jangles he was going to pick out of the big roundy (wifeswapping lingo for the keys and the bowl, respectively).
Every circle of guy friends had at least one wifeswapping fiend who had at least five books on wifeswapping strategy.
This guy would always insist that every evening's activity feature wifeswapping, and although his friends knew this was just 'cause he was good at it and always came away with the best wife at the end of the night, but they'd usually agree anyway. Another guy, a quieter one, had been watching World Wifeswap Tour all week, and was convinced he had this thing cracked.
Since the wifeswapping wave was cresting, the market was flooded with merchandiser's attempts to capitalize on the craze. If your family found out you had even the slightest affinity for The Swap, that Christmas you were likely to receive several hundred dollars of wifeswapping paraphenalia, anything from customized keys, novelty bowls, and condoms licensed by Truro R. Calliope, to a poster, popular in dorm rooms, featuring a painting of five or six dogs of various breeds, sitting around the coffee table, smoking cigars, vigorously wifeswapping.
History is kind of circular when you think about it.
What would a conversation between Talking Heads and Big Pun and friends sound like?
What happens when I stay up 'till six in the morning playing with new audio mixing software I don't have a terribly comprehensive understanding of?
The answer to these questions and more await. Behold:
Here's the thing about the iPod Shuffle:
People only realize how great shuffle is once they GET an iPod.
People for whom this product is perfect (that only like ten CDs anyway) aren't gonna like the idea that they don't get to hear Hoobastank's "The Reason" rightthefucknow.
Although I gotta admit, the USB flash-memory stuff is kinda hot.
Recurring Themes In Dreams I Have
- The screen on my iPod is no longer broken. I left it in my pants one night over break, didn't realize it was still in there, and yes, sat on it. Now there is a big black splotch on one side and two thirds of the screen are dead. I can still call up songs and usually read what's playing, but it's a pain, and apparently enough of a pain to make REM sleep.
- There is a tiny shriveled head who lives in a crappy house in a Phoenix suburb, and despite being in a constant state of decay (most often, its eyes fall out), it sings. People find its songs to be stirring, beautiful, and inspiring. Its house also plays host to various other types of disfigured people.
Since The Simple Life can only be on so many hours a day, Gina spends most of the rest of the time attempting to say things in Instant Messenger conversations people will find funny and copy and paste into their away messages or profiles. It has been two and a half months since her first and only success in this endeavor, when a caustic remark about the preferrability of Smirnoff Ice to the company certain boys won her a two-week stay in pink-highlighted lettering in CrazeeAsh05's profile, beneath an Incubus quote.
The tiny-for-life puppy she purchased last week on a whim would appreciate some of her attention, but she is a woman on a mission. It has been out of its cage for four hours since last Thursday.
She was overheard describing the film National Treasure to her friend Nicole as "a real-life Di Vinci Code."
Someday she hopes to work with children.
I am trying to post more now that I have to pay $7.50 a month for hosting instead of $5.00.
Infinite propers to Dean Esmay, who got dude back online and upgraded, all out of the goodness of his blogheart.
Alecia's site is new and improved, under the new moniker "THE H.O.O.L.I.E.D. DIARIES," Achewood stylez. The two-table beer pong 'stravaganza detailed in her latest entry was my going-away shindig. A hundred and ten dollars of beer, two detached closet doors, and a five-dollar tub of ping pong balls from Walmart: you gotta spend money to make legends.
Trevor is posting again. Show him love.
Had lunch with Chelsea yesterday. It was brilliant. Now she has all my possessions and like fifty burned CDs, because I like her the best.
I made Ashley a mix but she went back to Tucson so now I will have to send it to her song by song on a weekly basis through G-mail, like amputated parts of somebody I'm trying to collect ransom on.
Rachel made me a mix. She has cooler taste than me.
I have speakers now.
The audition went OK. I got to go in and improv with my boy, even if we were doing so off of lame little scenarios probably ripped from some theater textbook from '86, it felt good to get back into it.
Over the break I preached drunkenly to a lot of people about my theory that you need to find the thing that when you're away from it, getting back into to it feels like warm water. Improv is my warm-water thing.
Every girl here looks insanely good, even all jacketed up. It's 55 right now even though the sun's already down. Please let this be January.
I am back in New York.
It is fifty degrees (warm) outside and my room is a wasteland, just how I left it a month ago. I have an audition for some Sierra Mist commercials later today. Back to the adventure.
The pilot on the way in, when everything was shrouded in fog:
"If the landing's a little bumpy, you can blame the autopilot."
Like I said: adventure.
No one is allowed to be depressed to The Shins.
Garden State was a pretty good movie. It says a lot of accurate things about going home, and a lot of accurate things about trying to be an actor. Natalie Portman will be mine. But if Zach Braff succeeded, intentionally or not, in making The Shins the official music of staring out the window and sighing, and I tried for three or four minutes to find words better than these but there aren't any, he done fucked up.
The Shins' latest album opens with seven claps and a "WOO!" They wrote (and have performed, I've seen it) the song "Know Your Onion," and it's poppier than a party for the A*Teens at Aaron Carter's house that Hall & Oates used to own. More handclaps! Carnival organ!
Okay, granted, the lyrics to that song's hook go "It was undeniably clear to me, I don't know why." So clearly these dudes have worn some sweaters, and attended classes where the professor has published a book he makes you buy. But that's the point. That's why I'm tired of some of my favorite bands (The Smiths, Belle & Sebastian), getting tarred with the "morose" label. Smart doesn't have to equal sad. Ignorance isn't the only kind of bliss. Sure, Belle & Sebastian wrote lots of songs about homely girls with well-worn library cards. And Morrisey sang "A dreaded sunny day/so let's go where we're happy/and I'll meet you at the cemetary gates." Depressing, yea. But depressing with an asterisk. There was always a wink to the ridiculous depths of teenage angst.
And guess what? Belle & Sebastian released "Dear Catastrophe Waitress," and now they play songs with surf guitar. Morrisey's holding a fucking tommy gun on the cover of his new album. They're smart, and they reached the right conclusions. It can't rain all the time. Pop music is fun. They realized what the dumb jocks knew the whole time: staying inside all the time is fucking boring.
In the interest of full disclosure, Taryn, one time I was sad about a girl to the song "New Slang." So I get it. It just saddens me to think of somebody going "Time for sad! Shins CD goes in!" 'cause I think they're so beautiful and, yes, fun.
Maybe it's just that Taryn is not the sort of girl who is allowed to be depressed. If you know her you agree and if you don't, you would if you did.
The link on the song "Know Your Onion" downloads an mp3 of that song. I know! The kids are doing that now!