Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Appendage
The new EP "Appendage" from Circa Survive is out today. After listening to it once, it might be one of those CD's where it needs to grow on the listener through several runs over, but so far, it sounds pretty decent. At the least, it's a complement to "Blue Sky Noise," which is probably one of my favorite albums of all time. People should give it a listen.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Finished Lyric Essay
Word of the day: Eicastic, meaning: imitative (courtesy of Savethewords.org)
WELL, here is my finished attempt at what is known as a lyric essay. Although I'll admit it's a bit eicastic in comparison to what's already out there, I guess it doesn't seem too bad when I read it over.
WELL, here is my finished attempt at what is known as a lyric essay. Although I'll admit it's a bit eicastic in comparison to what's already out there, I guess it doesn't seem too bad when I read it over.
Selective Hearing
I want to be deaf…
The words glare back at me. I can hear the anger in their tone in my head; my head that holds my eyes that sink down at the meaningless words I’ve read over and over again, with the same page repeating itself in the same distraught, questioned voice: “You’ve looked me over seven times. Doesn’t that mean you like me? Get that frown off of your face!” But I can’t smile. A college book is another assignment, another grudge that any distinct sound, any sudden shift of particles reminds me of a world outside this little white frame that I curse. I can’t smile with all the sounds. I reach into my white shelving unit and pull out a little baggie of earplugs. Six in total remain - bi-colored with half the end in neon yellow, the other half neon orange – and I take two out. I plop back down on my couch, knead the yellow side into an elongated worm, and stuff one into each ear. The sizzles and pops of foam fitting my ear canal are the exploding brain cells from the heroin the book must have gotten into while I was up. I look back down and all is calm. The words are mute, and the voice in my head is docile. The only sounds are through feeling and sight; the pages whisper softly as they are pulled up, tossed over, and flutter onto the “discard” pile.
The words glare back at me. I can hear the anger in their tone in my head; my head that holds my eyes that sink down at the meaningless words I’ve read over and over again, with the same page repeating itself in the same distraught, questioned voice: “You’ve looked me over seven times. Doesn’t that mean you like me? Get that frown off of your face!” But I can’t smile. A college book is another assignment, another grudge that any distinct sound, any sudden shift of particles reminds me of a world outside this little white frame that I curse. I can’t smile with all the sounds. I reach into my white shelving unit and pull out a little baggie of earplugs. Six in total remain - bi-colored with half the end in neon yellow, the other half neon orange – and I take two out. I plop back down on my couch, knead the yellow side into an elongated worm, and stuff one into each ear. The sizzles and pops of foam fitting my ear canal are the exploding brain cells from the heroin the book must have gotten into while I was up. I look back down and all is calm. The words are mute, and the voice in my head is docile. The only sounds are through feeling and sight; the pages whisper softly as they are pulled up, tossed over, and flutter onto the “discard” pile.
I want to be deaf…
It’s Saturday, November 20th, 2010, and I’m at St. Andrews Hall in Detroit, Michigan. My favorite band – Circa Survive – is playing a sold out show. They are the only band on the lineup I care about though. Animals as Leaders? Codeseven? Dredg? “Never listened to them before. No point in wasting what good hearing I have left on unfamiliar bands.” I take the bi-colored earplugs from my pockets between sets, cram them in my ears, and the gradual muffling of sound is led by a thump. I can hear the blood thumping through my ears, I can feel the bass drum thumping in my chest, but all sound comes from a foot below the water. “Is this what it’s like to be deaf at a concert? How long until Circa Survive plays? The next set? No point in wasting the quality of a good show.” I pluck the plugs from my ears and cram them back in my pocket. I rejoice in the uninhibited coat of loudness that the songs from my favorite Circa Survive album, Blue Sky Noise, are ejected through the venue speakers with. My sister and mom always warn me that I’m going to be deaf by the age of thirty from all of these concerts. “So what? It’s good music. I’d rather be deaf.”
It’s Saturday, November 20th, 2010, and I’m at St. Andrews Hall in Detroit, Michigan. My favorite band – Circa Survive – is playing a sold out show. They are the only band on the lineup I care about though. Animals as Leaders? Codeseven? Dredg? “Never listened to them before. No point in wasting what good hearing I have left on unfamiliar bands.” I take the bi-colored earplugs from my pockets between sets, cram them in my ears, and the gradual muffling of sound is led by a thump. I can hear the blood thumping through my ears, I can feel the bass drum thumping in my chest, but all sound comes from a foot below the water. “Is this what it’s like to be deaf at a concert? How long until Circa Survive plays? The next set? No point in wasting the quality of a good show.” I pluck the plugs from my ears and cram them back in my pocket. I rejoice in the uninhibited coat of loudness that the songs from my favorite Circa Survive album, Blue Sky Noise, are ejected through the venue speakers with. My sister and mom always warn me that I’m going to be deaf by the age of thirty from all of these concerts. “So what? It’s good music. I’d rather be deaf.”
I want to be deaf…
“Is this real? Do I have to listen to this?” The pile of fat, Sicilian ex-step-dad idles in my doorway, running his breath out with the woes and ill tidings both him and my mother suffer. They divorced in 2006, he moved to an apartment (though he frequently visits), yet he’s still in love with her, but the medical system has run their lives through. They are permanently separated, though spiritually united, in order to adequately pay for their medical bills. Thus, he still finds the energy to rant, rant, rant about her next surgery, her new expensive medicine, his planned stay at my house for the entire Spring of 2011 after his next surgery, my flux of responsibilities as the “man of the house,” and what I need to do, do, do. “I can’t change a damn thing about your health care system, I can’t do a damn thing about medicine prices, and I sure can’t do a damn thing about my own devotion to college. I’m still young! Let me worry about that when my time comes, but for now, let me get back to this book!” He was in my life since I was four years old; always told me to listen until somebody’s finished speaking. I bleakly stare back at him with the pads of my fingers depressing the two piles of “discard” and “to do” pages with urgency, watching the same muah-muah-muah scene of Charlie Brown over and over again before me, wishing horribly that I was just deaf.
“Is this real? Do I have to listen to this?” The pile of fat, Sicilian ex-step-dad idles in my doorway, running his breath out with the woes and ill tidings both him and my mother suffer. They divorced in 2006, he moved to an apartment (though he frequently visits), yet he’s still in love with her, but the medical system has run their lives through. They are permanently separated, though spiritually united, in order to adequately pay for their medical bills. Thus, he still finds the energy to rant, rant, rant about her next surgery, her new expensive medicine, his planned stay at my house for the entire Spring of 2011 after his next surgery, my flux of responsibilities as the “man of the house,” and what I need to do, do, do. “I can’t change a damn thing about your health care system, I can’t do a damn thing about medicine prices, and I sure can’t do a damn thing about my own devotion to college. I’m still young! Let me worry about that when my time comes, but for now, let me get back to this book!” He was in my life since I was four years old; always told me to listen until somebody’s finished speaking. I bleakly stare back at him with the pads of my fingers depressing the two piles of “discard” and “to do” pages with urgency, watching the same muah-muah-muah scene of Charlie Brown over and over again before me, wishing horribly that I was just deaf.
I want to be deaf…
Here I am, at the late end of October, 2010, hurriedly combing the leaves in my yard into a huge pile so that I may suck them up with the leaf vacuum and get the lawn mowed for the last time of the season. It’s a Monday; I had work from 8:00AM – 10:30PM, class from 10:50AM – 12:05PM, break time, class from 1:40PM – 2:55PM, smaller break, class from 3:05PM – 4:20PM, smallest break, class from 4:30PM – 5:45PM. It takes me half an hour to drive home to Caledonia, so ETA: 6:15PM. I’m tired, my legs are aching, I’m pissed because the lawn mower pull-cord just fell out of the handle loop and underneath the beast; the plastic handle was eaten up, leaving me with nothing but a flimsy string to start the engine. I’ve got shit tons of homework to do afterward and the days are getting shorter, but not short enough to stop me. I’ve gotta’ do, do, do this right. It’s called living life as a commuter, it’s called living life with a single mom who’s pilled out, it’s called pulling up my boot straps (whatever that means) and living in a crunch, one task at a time. “For now, let’s just think about these leaves and this grass.” The power-dial is turned, the pull-string is yanked, and the electric whir and gas-indulging churn of yard maintenance utilities fill my brain with incessant, droning, indistinguishable noise. They sound no different than the lectures I faced today. “On second thought, let’s not.” I sift through my pockets for the Skull Candy headphones, feed them under my shirt and plug the 3.5 mm driver into my iPod; the ear buds are plugged into my head. Volume’s up, and away I go, mowing the lawn at a brisk pace while After the Burial is blasted into my dome, deafening me ever so slightly. An elusive smile might be visible in the cracks of my mouth.
Here I am, at the late end of October, 2010, hurriedly combing the leaves in my yard into a huge pile so that I may suck them up with the leaf vacuum and get the lawn mowed for the last time of the season. It’s a Monday; I had work from 8:00AM – 10:30PM, class from 10:50AM – 12:05PM, break time, class from 1:40PM – 2:55PM, smaller break, class from 3:05PM – 4:20PM, smallest break, class from 4:30PM – 5:45PM. It takes me half an hour to drive home to Caledonia, so ETA: 6:15PM. I’m tired, my legs are aching, I’m pissed because the lawn mower pull-cord just fell out of the handle loop and underneath the beast; the plastic handle was eaten up, leaving me with nothing but a flimsy string to start the engine. I’ve got shit tons of homework to do afterward and the days are getting shorter, but not short enough to stop me. I’ve gotta’ do, do, do this right. It’s called living life as a commuter, it’s called living life with a single mom who’s pilled out, it’s called pulling up my boot straps (whatever that means) and living in a crunch, one task at a time. “For now, let’s just think about these leaves and this grass.” The power-dial is turned, the pull-string is yanked, and the electric whir and gas-indulging churn of yard maintenance utilities fill my brain with incessant, droning, indistinguishable noise. They sound no different than the lectures I faced today. “On second thought, let’s not.” I sift through my pockets for the Skull Candy headphones, feed them under my shirt and plug the 3.5 mm driver into my iPod; the ear buds are plugged into my head. Volume’s up, and away I go, mowing the lawn at a brisk pace while After the Burial is blasted into my dome, deafening me ever so slightly. An elusive smile might be visible in the cracks of my mouth.
I want to be deaf…
My grandpa is a beast, straight-up. A couple months ago, in September 2010, my mom told me a rather frightening story when I came home from college. My grandpa, who is now 86 or 87 years old, has the “workaholic bug.” No matter how old he is, nobody can tell him to stop working. Hard work flows through his veins, and the minute he is officially sentenced to stop doing anything physically tasking, he will probably shut down and die, voluntarily. In September, he was working on a boat in his private mechanic garage in preparation for fall fishing. He was underneath it, holding the boat up with jack stands, when I guess the boat fell off and landed directly on top of his head. Somehow, he scrambled out, went inside, and called for help from nearby friends, suffering only a minor concussion. I repeat: boat on head, minor concussion, 80-late years old. I recall my mom phoning him to check up on his status a few days after the incident, and when he didn’t pick up, she’d have to yell and slowly enunciate her words on the answering machine: “Dad! This is Susie. Pick up the phone if you’re there…….Dad? Please call me back if you can. I’ll be gone from home, so my cell phone number is #...#...#...#...#...#...#.” This wasn’t because she was too worried, of course. It was because he was hard of hearing and didn’t catch the phone too often, which for him, at 86 or 87, just came naturally. He wasn’t very fond of music, and whenever I’d ask him to take a look at something broken on my car, any advice pertaining to my trunk area was coupled with threats to send screwdrivers through the soft padding of my two twelve-inch subwoofers hiding in back. “You don’t need that shit! It’s uneconomical and just too damn loud. What do you need it that loud for? What do you even need the radio for? You’re just going to ruin your hearing.” Every time he scolds me for it, I fear he’s going to yell so loud he gives himself a heart attack. He isn’t entirely invincible after all, and heart problems have stricken him down before. In fact, he was recently offered to have a device surgically inserted to subdue any future heart ailments, but his response? “Fuck it. I don’t need it. If it’s my time to go, I’m not going to fight it.” He’s an all-natural kind of guy. My response to his screwdriver threats (or at least in my mind)? “Lay off my back, old man! It’s only making me closer in likeness to you: a beast. I’d rather be hard of hearing.”
My grandpa is a beast, straight-up. A couple months ago, in September 2010, my mom told me a rather frightening story when I came home from college. My grandpa, who is now 86 or 87 years old, has the “workaholic bug.” No matter how old he is, nobody can tell him to stop working. Hard work flows through his veins, and the minute he is officially sentenced to stop doing anything physically tasking, he will probably shut down and die, voluntarily. In September, he was working on a boat in his private mechanic garage in preparation for fall fishing. He was underneath it, holding the boat up with jack stands, when I guess the boat fell off and landed directly on top of his head. Somehow, he scrambled out, went inside, and called for help from nearby friends, suffering only a minor concussion. I repeat: boat on head, minor concussion, 80-late years old. I recall my mom phoning him to check up on his status a few days after the incident, and when he didn’t pick up, she’d have to yell and slowly enunciate her words on the answering machine: “Dad! This is Susie. Pick up the phone if you’re there…….Dad? Please call me back if you can. I’ll be gone from home, so my cell phone number is #...#...#...#...#...#...#.” This wasn’t because she was too worried, of course. It was because he was hard of hearing and didn’t catch the phone too often, which for him, at 86 or 87, just came naturally. He wasn’t very fond of music, and whenever I’d ask him to take a look at something broken on my car, any advice pertaining to my trunk area was coupled with threats to send screwdrivers through the soft padding of my two twelve-inch subwoofers hiding in back. “You don’t need that shit! It’s uneconomical and just too damn loud. What do you need it that loud for? What do you even need the radio for? You’re just going to ruin your hearing.” Every time he scolds me for it, I fear he’s going to yell so loud he gives himself a heart attack. He isn’t entirely invincible after all, and heart problems have stricken him down before. In fact, he was recently offered to have a device surgically inserted to subdue any future heart ailments, but his response? “Fuck it. I don’t need it. If it’s my time to go, I’m not going to fight it.” He’s an all-natural kind of guy. My response to his screwdriver threats (or at least in my mind)? “Lay off my back, old man! It’s only making me closer in likeness to you: a beast. I’d rather be hard of hearing.”
I want to be deaf…
When I was little, I had a best friend named Kyle Bishop. At the mere age of five or six, the differences between him and I never really made a difference in our friendship. To be terminologically correct, he was mentally retarded. More or less, he was in the special education classes at school, so my time at home away from school was rewarded with our friendship and the time we shared. Kyle was also a drummer. One time, when I was out riding my bike around my neighborhood, I rode by his house and heard his drum-playing permeate through the thin plaster-and-sheet-metal walls that compose our trailer-homes. It was good playing; in fact, it was a lot better (and louder) than I expected to hear from him. It made me wonder if those were the things they taught people in special education classes, that couldn’t learn normally. As Kyle and I advanced in age, it seemed like I matured and became interested in things he couldn’t grapple as a mentally impaired person. Our friendship eventually broke off and died out.
When I was a freshman in high school, I became friends with a kid named Jon Beaulieu (pronounced “Blue”) in gym class. Our friendship was created on the grounds of ceaselessly talking about an upcoming video game we were both awaiting: Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas. He was in the same grade as me and he took all the same kinds of classes as I, except there was one thing about him: he had an impressively strong speech impediment. Jon couldn’t speak two sentences without stopping to stutter at the most random words, straining his throat for the right sound and harshly whispering out the faint windy vocals that completed his broken sentences. He literally could not speak for more than ten seconds before his diction was impaled with strain. I was patient with Jon though. I let him talk, never guessed his words, and I let him into my life as a completely “normal” person. He became a best friend to me, and I learned a lot about him that made him one of the most unique people of my life. For instance, because of his stuttering, Jon had to wear a hearing aid. His family and he called it “his ear.” I never fully understood how the hearing aid had anything to do with his speech, as he was usually short to discuss his ailment, but he was the only friend I had that wore a hearing aid. Also, Jon surprised me one day in his basement when he opened up a door to reveal a drum set stashed in a little cubby. Jon was a phenomenal drum player, and I had every intention to convince him to teach me how to do it. I was so jealous of him, and I was also jealous of his house. Compared to the sound-leak-prone housing of my one-leveled neighborhood, I was astonished that his ferocious skills were only halfway audible from upstairs. It was like listening to a private concert with ear plugs in. Unfortunately, my ideals for learning were cut a bit short. Jon was killed in a car accident in April of 2008, before we graduated.
If I became deaf, I wouldn’t lose. I would only gain. I would gain the insight of what it’s like to contend with a world that honors the ample-sensed and unimpeded lives. I would understand a fragment of what my lost friends dealt with; to deal with true ailments.
When I was little, I had a best friend named Kyle Bishop. At the mere age of five or six, the differences between him and I never really made a difference in our friendship. To be terminologically correct, he was mentally retarded. More or less, he was in the special education classes at school, so my time at home away from school was rewarded with our friendship and the time we shared. Kyle was also a drummer. One time, when I was out riding my bike around my neighborhood, I rode by his house and heard his drum-playing permeate through the thin plaster-and-sheet-metal walls that compose our trailer-homes. It was good playing; in fact, it was a lot better (and louder) than I expected to hear from him. It made me wonder if those were the things they taught people in special education classes, that couldn’t learn normally. As Kyle and I advanced in age, it seemed like I matured and became interested in things he couldn’t grapple as a mentally impaired person. Our friendship eventually broke off and died out.
When I was a freshman in high school, I became friends with a kid named Jon Beaulieu (pronounced “Blue”) in gym class. Our friendship was created on the grounds of ceaselessly talking about an upcoming video game we were both awaiting: Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas. He was in the same grade as me and he took all the same kinds of classes as I, except there was one thing about him: he had an impressively strong speech impediment. Jon couldn’t speak two sentences without stopping to stutter at the most random words, straining his throat for the right sound and harshly whispering out the faint windy vocals that completed his broken sentences. He literally could not speak for more than ten seconds before his diction was impaled with strain. I was patient with Jon though. I let him talk, never guessed his words, and I let him into my life as a completely “normal” person. He became a best friend to me, and I learned a lot about him that made him one of the most unique people of my life. For instance, because of his stuttering, Jon had to wear a hearing aid. His family and he called it “his ear.” I never fully understood how the hearing aid had anything to do with his speech, as he was usually short to discuss his ailment, but he was the only friend I had that wore a hearing aid. Also, Jon surprised me one day in his basement when he opened up a door to reveal a drum set stashed in a little cubby. Jon was a phenomenal drum player, and I had every intention to convince him to teach me how to do it. I was so jealous of him, and I was also jealous of his house. Compared to the sound-leak-prone housing of my one-leveled neighborhood, I was astonished that his ferocious skills were only halfway audible from upstairs. It was like listening to a private concert with ear plugs in. Unfortunately, my ideals for learning were cut a bit short. Jon was killed in a car accident in April of 2008, before we graduated.
If I became deaf, I wouldn’t lose. I would only gain. I would gain the insight of what it’s like to contend with a world that honors the ample-sensed and unimpeded lives. I would understand a fragment of what my lost friends dealt with; to deal with true ailments.
I want to be deaf…
Third grade is when I remember it the most. I’m sure it happened in other grades too, but third grade was when I really despised hearing that noise. It would come twice a day: once in the morning and once in the afternoon. It was a horrible, gut-wrenching, ceaseless beep that held the air for only a second and a half, but that frame was the fastest conversion I felt from contentment to dread. Wherever I was in the classroom, whatever I was doing, I would have to stop by the command of the office assistant over the intercom: “Mrs. Zoerner (my third grade teacher), can you send Robby down for his pill?” It wasn’t a conspicuous call over a private phone, where the other kids in the room couldn’t hear what was going on. The assistant would just call the room, blurt it out without refrain, and call it suffice. It didn’t take too long before the students in my class were even quick enough to jump at the sudden beep and offer their own guidance before the assistant could chime, “Robby, go get your pill!” I’m sure that assistant lady, who I became so well acquainted with then but have now completely forgotten, did not want to call me every single day as much as I did not want to go. My parents made me take this medicine called Ritalin for this stuff the doctors said I had called ADHD. I wasn’t too sure how feeling like a monotone and mono-minded zombie/robot helped me “get better” when I took it, but I sure knew I hated that beep enough to wish I were deaf in those seconds it came.
Third grade is when I remember it the most. I’m sure it happened in other grades too, but third grade was when I really despised hearing that noise. It would come twice a day: once in the morning and once in the afternoon. It was a horrible, gut-wrenching, ceaseless beep that held the air for only a second and a half, but that frame was the fastest conversion I felt from contentment to dread. Wherever I was in the classroom, whatever I was doing, I would have to stop by the command of the office assistant over the intercom: “Mrs. Zoerner (my third grade teacher), can you send Robby down for his pill?” It wasn’t a conspicuous call over a private phone, where the other kids in the room couldn’t hear what was going on. The assistant would just call the room, blurt it out without refrain, and call it suffice. It didn’t take too long before the students in my class were even quick enough to jump at the sudden beep and offer their own guidance before the assistant could chime, “Robby, go get your pill!” I’m sure that assistant lady, who I became so well acquainted with then but have now completely forgotten, did not want to call me every single day as much as I did not want to go. My parents made me take this medicine called Ritalin for this stuff the doctors said I had called ADHD. I wasn’t too sure how feeling like a monotone and mono-minded zombie/robot helped me “get better” when I took it, but I sure knew I hated that beep enough to wish I were deaf in those seconds it came.
I want to be deaf…
November 16, 2010 was my nephew Sawyer’s seventh birthday. It landed on a Tuesday, so school the next morning refrained him from staying up too late. After the participants of his birthday party left the house, Joe Hill (Sawyer’s father, my ex-brother-in-law) let Sawyer and Joey (my other nine year-old nephew) stay up twenty extra minutes past their bedtime until 9:20PM. Those twenty extra minutes were spent amongst us four men in the living room, playing Halo: Reach around the TV. Sawyer and Joey are video game nuts. In particular, they are nuts over Halo. Sawyer was actually reported on by his school teacher a few weeks before because he was interrupting the class by humming and singing songs from Halo instead of paying attention. I was so proud when I found that out. When I was his age, my classic Nintendo was my lifeline.
Since it was Sawyer’s birthday, he got to choose the final game before 9:20 hit. His choice of game type was juggernaut, where one person has to hold onto a skull for a given amount of time (default is two minutes), and the other players try to kill the person holding the skull so they can carry it themselves to rack time. Suiting enough, Sawyer demolished us all (yes, seven year-olds CAN play video games well in this era), ending his birthday in rightly crowned victory. Joey, however, wasn’t too happy with the outcome. He hated playing juggernaut, and the level we played on was pretty much broken; it was custom created by Joey and Sawyer in their spare time, so he really didn’t have a lot to complain about. Joey started pouting and throwing a fit, tossing his arms about and thwacking them on the bongo drums spread around the living room. Joe was an avid drum player in his free time. He played well in high school, and he bought really expensive instruments such as bongos, guitars, wooden sticks – anything that would make rhythmic noise – in order to teach his kids when they got to the right age. Joe nearly had to hoist Joey up by the waist to carry his kicking and screaming son upstairs to calm him down. Sawyer, on the other hand, happily threw down his Xbox controller and picked up his new DSi, taking pictures of himself and laughing giddily. I decided it was a good idea to take Sawyer up myself and ready him for bed.
“Uncle Robby, are you staying the night at our house?” I was trailing behind Sawyer on the stairs when he asked, watching him crawl up the steps like a dog.
“No man, I don’t think tonight will be a good one for that. I have to work and go to class tomorrow.”
“Oh. Do you like school, Uncle Robby?”
Sawyer had turned and stopped on the stairs to ask me that question. I hesitated, but grinned before saying, “Not a whole lot, man. School is definitely not a fun time.”
“Yeah, I know. I don’t really like to be at school either.”
“How are you doing in it, anyways? What’s your favorite thing to do?” I asked as I sat down a couple steps lower than him. We had given up ascending any further. I figured I was in debt for some quality one-on-one with him, since I don’t get to see him as much as I’d like with my tasking work and school schedule.
“Umm, I like recess,” he said. I laughed at how typical the response was. I laughed when he told me he liked to hide near the only tree on the playground and say swear words with his friends. He laughed and seemed astonished when I told him it was absolutely fine to do that, as long as he didn’t do it around people he knew would tell on him or get him in trouble. He laughed when I told him I used swear up a storm when I was his age too.
“How about actual classes though? What’s your favorite subject to do?” He wasn’t so readily equipped with that answer. He was short to tell me what his least favorite subject was: math. I laughed and told him I was studying math at the school I went to. He looked at me like I was an idiot.
“Are classes getting kind of hard for you though? I heard you were having some problems with reading and whatnot.” I already knew the answer was yes, but my stiff and condescending communication with children always bleeds out when I try the hardest. Sawyer was quite a bit behind for most children his age in terms of reading skills. It’s hard to say whether it was lackadaisical parenting or his lack of interest in books that made him stray. In fact, my sister Jennie (his mother) said he might have to take special education classes in order to catch up with the rest of the kids in his grade.
“You see, man, there’s two different kinds of kids that go to school. They have the normal type who take the regular classes there, and then there are kids who have special needs or have sicknesses in their brains that cause them to not learn well. They go to special education classes.”
“Like me?” He asked with such a perplexed countenance. “There are kids my age that already read. There are even kids who are three that can read!”
His question stunned me. The way he said it, I could tell it was information fed to him by another source. That wasn’t anything he would have said without being told otherwise. I wasn’t certain, but I knew my mother was prone to focusing on the bad in life, and blatantly telling her grandchildren what was wrong with their lives, right to their faces. I could hear somebody else’s voice speaking for him. I could hear him misrepresenting his own life. I could hear how confused he probably felt inside, but didn’t take the time to ask many questions and accepted things how they came. I could hear the Halo tunes in his brain silencing and ciphering out the bad. When he asked, I wished I didn’t hear it. I wished I didn’t have to hear his vulnerability as a seven year-old to the ideas and opinions of other people. I wished both he and I were deaf, so I didn’t have to hear the question and he didn’t have to deal with further intrusions on his sense of self.
“Not in the least bit, man. Don’t you ever let anybody tell you that you have a bad brain. It’s okay to not do so well in school, as long as you give it a try. You have to do things you don’t want to do sometimes, but if you deal with it, you will find yourself in an okay spot. Just don’t ever let anybody tell you who you are.”
Our conversation broke from there. I walked Sawyer to his bedroom and let Joe take care of the sleepy-time prayers.
November 16, 2010 was my nephew Sawyer’s seventh birthday. It landed on a Tuesday, so school the next morning refrained him from staying up too late. After the participants of his birthday party left the house, Joe Hill (Sawyer’s father, my ex-brother-in-law) let Sawyer and Joey (my other nine year-old nephew) stay up twenty extra minutes past their bedtime until 9:20PM. Those twenty extra minutes were spent amongst us four men in the living room, playing Halo: Reach around the TV. Sawyer and Joey are video game nuts. In particular, they are nuts over Halo. Sawyer was actually reported on by his school teacher a few weeks before because he was interrupting the class by humming and singing songs from Halo instead of paying attention. I was so proud when I found that out. When I was his age, my classic Nintendo was my lifeline.
Since it was Sawyer’s birthday, he got to choose the final game before 9:20 hit. His choice of game type was juggernaut, where one person has to hold onto a skull for a given amount of time (default is two minutes), and the other players try to kill the person holding the skull so they can carry it themselves to rack time. Suiting enough, Sawyer demolished us all (yes, seven year-olds CAN play video games well in this era), ending his birthday in rightly crowned victory. Joey, however, wasn’t too happy with the outcome. He hated playing juggernaut, and the level we played on was pretty much broken; it was custom created by Joey and Sawyer in their spare time, so he really didn’t have a lot to complain about. Joey started pouting and throwing a fit, tossing his arms about and thwacking them on the bongo drums spread around the living room. Joe was an avid drum player in his free time. He played well in high school, and he bought really expensive instruments such as bongos, guitars, wooden sticks – anything that would make rhythmic noise – in order to teach his kids when they got to the right age. Joe nearly had to hoist Joey up by the waist to carry his kicking and screaming son upstairs to calm him down. Sawyer, on the other hand, happily threw down his Xbox controller and picked up his new DSi, taking pictures of himself and laughing giddily. I decided it was a good idea to take Sawyer up myself and ready him for bed.
“Uncle Robby, are you staying the night at our house?” I was trailing behind Sawyer on the stairs when he asked, watching him crawl up the steps like a dog.
“No man, I don’t think tonight will be a good one for that. I have to work and go to class tomorrow.”
“Oh. Do you like school, Uncle Robby?”
Sawyer had turned and stopped on the stairs to ask me that question. I hesitated, but grinned before saying, “Not a whole lot, man. School is definitely not a fun time.”
“Yeah, I know. I don’t really like to be at school either.”
“How are you doing in it, anyways? What’s your favorite thing to do?” I asked as I sat down a couple steps lower than him. We had given up ascending any further. I figured I was in debt for some quality one-on-one with him, since I don’t get to see him as much as I’d like with my tasking work and school schedule.
“Umm, I like recess,” he said. I laughed at how typical the response was. I laughed when he told me he liked to hide near the only tree on the playground and say swear words with his friends. He laughed and seemed astonished when I told him it was absolutely fine to do that, as long as he didn’t do it around people he knew would tell on him or get him in trouble. He laughed when I told him I used swear up a storm when I was his age too.
“How about actual classes though? What’s your favorite subject to do?” He wasn’t so readily equipped with that answer. He was short to tell me what his least favorite subject was: math. I laughed and told him I was studying math at the school I went to. He looked at me like I was an idiot.
“Are classes getting kind of hard for you though? I heard you were having some problems with reading and whatnot.” I already knew the answer was yes, but my stiff and condescending communication with children always bleeds out when I try the hardest. Sawyer was quite a bit behind for most children his age in terms of reading skills. It’s hard to say whether it was lackadaisical parenting or his lack of interest in books that made him stray. In fact, my sister Jennie (his mother) said he might have to take special education classes in order to catch up with the rest of the kids in his grade.
“You see, man, there’s two different kinds of kids that go to school. They have the normal type who take the regular classes there, and then there are kids who have special needs or have sicknesses in their brains that cause them to not learn well. They go to special education classes.”
“Like me?” He asked with such a perplexed countenance. “There are kids my age that already read. There are even kids who are three that can read!”
His question stunned me. The way he said it, I could tell it was information fed to him by another source. That wasn’t anything he would have said without being told otherwise. I wasn’t certain, but I knew my mother was prone to focusing on the bad in life, and blatantly telling her grandchildren what was wrong with their lives, right to their faces. I could hear somebody else’s voice speaking for him. I could hear him misrepresenting his own life. I could hear how confused he probably felt inside, but didn’t take the time to ask many questions and accepted things how they came. I could hear the Halo tunes in his brain silencing and ciphering out the bad. When he asked, I wished I didn’t hear it. I wished I didn’t have to hear his vulnerability as a seven year-old to the ideas and opinions of other people. I wished both he and I were deaf, so I didn’t have to hear the question and he didn’t have to deal with further intrusions on his sense of self.
“Not in the least bit, man. Don’t you ever let anybody tell you that you have a bad brain. It’s okay to not do so well in school, as long as you give it a try. You have to do things you don’t want to do sometimes, but if you deal with it, you will find yourself in an okay spot. Just don’t ever let anybody tell you who you are.”
Our conversation broke from there. I walked Sawyer to his bedroom and let Joe take care of the sleepy-time prayers.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
BEST SITE
EVER. EVER EVER EVER. You could spend all your years allocated for proper parenting wasted away in front of this. SCREW IT! SCREW THE KIDS! DO IT! It's worth it. The kids will love it too. It'll teach them a lot about science. GO NOW!
http://alexonsager.net/pokemon/?one=68&two=80
http://alexonsager.net/pokemon/?one=68&two=80
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Haste the Gayness of Bands Breaking Up
So another band of my liking - Haste the Day - (though not in my EXTREME favorites) is breaking up. And yet again, all we have to read is another generic-sounding goodbye note. The following is taken directly from their website:
www.hastetheday.com
"STATEMENT FROM THE BAND
This is a very difficult announcement to make, but Haste The Day will be doing its final tour February - March 2011. It has been an incredible 10 years and we want to thank all of our amazing fans who have stuck with us through all of our changes and growth as a band. If it weren't for all of you, this band would have been nothing. There are many reasons why HTD is ending, however we mainly feel as though we have created the best music we can and believe it is now time for us to move on to the next stage of our lives. I remember when this band started a decade ago, we wanted to be like the Solid State/Tooth and Nail Records bands we grew up idolizing. We wanted to use our passion for heavy music and the love that God put in us to be a light in the underground scene; letting people know they are loved, important, forgiven no matter what, and capable of using their gifts to serve their fellow man. I never imagined that we would be able to put out five full length albums, tour the world, and develop so many meaningful relationships with the people who came to our shows. Without your support, this wouldn't have been possible.
The 12 Days of Christmas will be in cities that we will not hit on our final tour so please come out to say goodbye this December. For our final tour, which will also be amazing, we are bringing our friends in My Children My Bride, The Chariot, and A Plea for Purging along for our Farewell Tour all across the US and Canada. We will be playing a great selection of songs from all of our records, including all of the fan favorites, rarely played songs, and a few songs that you guys keep begging us to play live. I have no doubt that this will be the best tour we've ever done and we cannot wait to see all of you and give you a hug goodbye.
We love you all, thank you for everything you've been to us, and we can't wait to see you for the last time in 2011! We encourage you to keep your inner flame burning and show it off to the rest of the world!
Much Love to you all,
Mike & Haste the Day"
www.hastetheday.com
"STATEMENT FROM THE BAND
This is a very difficult announcement to make, but Haste The Day will be doing its final tour February - March 2011. It has been an incredible 10 years and we want to thank all of our amazing fans who have stuck with us through all of our changes and growth as a band. If it weren't for all of you, this band would have been nothing. There are many reasons why HTD is ending, however we mainly feel as though we have created the best music we can and believe it is now time for us to move on to the next stage of our lives. I remember when this band started a decade ago, we wanted to be like the Solid State/Tooth and Nail Records bands we grew up idolizing. We wanted to use our passion for heavy music and the love that God put in us to be a light in the underground scene; letting people know they are loved, important, forgiven no matter what, and capable of using their gifts to serve their fellow man. I never imagined that we would be able to put out five full length albums, tour the world, and develop so many meaningful relationships with the people who came to our shows. Without your support, this wouldn't have been possible.
The 12 Days of Christmas will be in cities that we will not hit on our final tour so please come out to say goodbye this December. For our final tour, which will also be amazing, we are bringing our friends in My Children My Bride, The Chariot, and A Plea for Purging along for our Farewell Tour all across the US and Canada. We will be playing a great selection of songs from all of our records, including all of the fan favorites, rarely played songs, and a few songs that you guys keep begging us to play live. I have no doubt that this will be the best tour we've ever done and we cannot wait to see all of you and give you a hug goodbye.
We love you all, thank you for everything you've been to us, and we can't wait to see you for the last time in 2011! We encourage you to keep your inner flame burning and show it off to the rest of the world!
Much Love to you all,
Mike & Haste the Day"
Monday, November 22, 2010
Selective Hearing
So I'm supposed to be thinking about how I want to write my last essay for my Creative Non-Fiction class, which is supposed to be a "lyric essay." Basically, these essays just use some sort of technique that weaves itself throughout the essay and such. I had to start a bit of it today, and I'm wondering if it just looks like a bunch of ballsax, or might turn into something worthwhile. Either way, my writing is still convoluted, sucky, and not impressive. I know this. I pumped it out in twenty minutes. It's an assignment, so I can't really complain. I'm trying to base it off of selective hearing/ADHD/medical alleviations for said ailments.
I want to be deaf…
The words glare back at me. I can hear the anger in their tone in my head; my head that holds my eyes that sink down at the meaningless words I’ve read over and over again, with the same page repeating itself in the same distraught, questioned voice: “You’ve looked me over seven times. Doesn’t that mean you like me? Get that frown off of your face!” But I can’t smile. A college book is another assignment, another grudge that any distinct sound, any sudden shift of particles reminds me of a world outside this little white frame that I curse. I can’t smile with all the sounds. I reach into my white shelving unit and pull out a little baggie of earplugs. Six in total remain - bi-colored with half the end in neon yellow, the other half neon orange – and I take two out. I plop back down on my couch, knead the yellow side into an elongated worm, and stuff one into each ear. The sizzles and pops of foam fitting my ear canal are the exploding brain cells from the heroin the book must have gotten into while I was up. I look back down and all is calm. The words are mute, and the voice in my head is docile. The only sounds are through feeling and sight; the pages whisper softly as they are pulled up, tossed over, and flutter onto the “discard” pile.
The words glare back at me. I can hear the anger in their tone in my head; my head that holds my eyes that sink down at the meaningless words I’ve read over and over again, with the same page repeating itself in the same distraught, questioned voice: “You’ve looked me over seven times. Doesn’t that mean you like me? Get that frown off of your face!” But I can’t smile. A college book is another assignment, another grudge that any distinct sound, any sudden shift of particles reminds me of a world outside this little white frame that I curse. I can’t smile with all the sounds. I reach into my white shelving unit and pull out a little baggie of earplugs. Six in total remain - bi-colored with half the end in neon yellow, the other half neon orange – and I take two out. I plop back down on my couch, knead the yellow side into an elongated worm, and stuff one into each ear. The sizzles and pops of foam fitting my ear canal are the exploding brain cells from the heroin the book must have gotten into while I was up. I look back down and all is calm. The words are mute, and the voice in my head is docile. The only sounds are through feeling and sight; the pages whisper softly as they are pulled up, tossed over, and flutter onto the “discard” pile.
I want to be deaf…
It’s Saturday, November 20th, 2010, and I’m at St. Andrews Hall in Detroit, Michigan. My favorite band – Circa Survive – is playing a sold out show. They are the only band on the lineup I care about though. Animals as Leaders? Codeseven? Dredg? “Never listened to them before. No point in wasting what good hearing I have left on obscure bands.” I take the bi-colored earplugs from my pockets between sets, cram them in my ears, and the gradual muffling of sound is led by a thump. I can hear the blood thumping through my ears, I can feel the bass drum thumping in my chest, but all sound comes from a foot below the water. “Is this what it’s like to be deaf at a concert? How long until Circa Survive plays? The next set? No point in wasting the quality of a good show.” I pluck the plugs from my ears and cram them back in my pocket. I rejoice in the uninhibited coat of loudness that the songs from my favorite album, Blue Sky Noise, are ejected through the venue speakers with. My sister and mom always warn me that I’m going to be deaf by the age of thirty from all of these concerts. “So what? It’s good music. I’d rather be deaf.”
It’s Saturday, November 20th, 2010, and I’m at St. Andrews Hall in Detroit, Michigan. My favorite band – Circa Survive – is playing a sold out show. They are the only band on the lineup I care about though. Animals as Leaders? Codeseven? Dredg? “Never listened to them before. No point in wasting what good hearing I have left on obscure bands.” I take the bi-colored earplugs from my pockets between sets, cram them in my ears, and the gradual muffling of sound is led by a thump. I can hear the blood thumping through my ears, I can feel the bass drum thumping in my chest, but all sound comes from a foot below the water. “Is this what it’s like to be deaf at a concert? How long until Circa Survive plays? The next set? No point in wasting the quality of a good show.” I pluck the plugs from my ears and cram them back in my pocket. I rejoice in the uninhibited coat of loudness that the songs from my favorite album, Blue Sky Noise, are ejected through the venue speakers with. My sister and mom always warn me that I’m going to be deaf by the age of thirty from all of these concerts. “So what? It’s good music. I’d rather be deaf.”
I want to be deaf…
Is this real? Do I have to listen to this? The pile of Sicilian ex-step-dad idles in my doorway, running his breath out with the woes and ill tidings both him and my mother suffer. He’s still in love with her, but the medical system has run their lives through. He rants, rants, rants about her next surgery, her new expensive medicine, his planned stay at my house for the entire Spring of 2011 after his next surgery, my flux of responsibilities as the “man of the house,” and what I need to do, do, do. “I can’t change a damn thing about your health care system, I can’t do a damn thing about medicine prices, and I sure can’t do a damn thing about my own devotion to college. I’m still young! Let me worry about that when my time comes, but for now, let me get back to this book!” He was in my life since I was four years old; always told me to listen until somebody’s finished speaking. I bleakly stare back at him with the pads of my fingers depressing the two piles of “discard” and “to do” pages with urgency, watching the same muah-muah-muah scene of Charlie Brown over and over again before me, wishing horribly that I was just deaf.
Is this real? Do I have to listen to this? The pile of Sicilian ex-step-dad idles in my doorway, running his breath out with the woes and ill tidings both him and my mother suffer. He’s still in love with her, but the medical system has run their lives through. He rants, rants, rants about her next surgery, her new expensive medicine, his planned stay at my house for the entire Spring of 2011 after his next surgery, my flux of responsibilities as the “man of the house,” and what I need to do, do, do. “I can’t change a damn thing about your health care system, I can’t do a damn thing about medicine prices, and I sure can’t do a damn thing about my own devotion to college. I’m still young! Let me worry about that when my time comes, but for now, let me get back to this book!” He was in my life since I was four years old; always told me to listen until somebody’s finished speaking. I bleakly stare back at him with the pads of my fingers depressing the two piles of “discard” and “to do” pages with urgency, watching the same muah-muah-muah scene of Charlie Brown over and over again before me, wishing horribly that I was just deaf.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Circa Survive Review
I decided to curb my Friday blog post in exchange for posting this today, which is my first article ever written for some kind of newspaper. I wrote this CD/concert review for the Saint, and this is the unedited, first draft that came outta' me:
Blue Sky Noise Storms Detroit
On Saturday, November 20th, Pennsylvania-based progressive-indie quintet Circa Survive played to a sold out crowd at St. Andrews Hall in Detroit. The show was a part of their ongoing “Blue Sky Noise” U.S. tour, in support of their newest album of the same name which met store shelves in April of this year. Bands supporting Circa Survive for the entire tour were Dredg, Codeseven, and Animals As Leaders.
The Detroit crowd made it obvious that Circa Survive was the main - if only - attraction on the roster. Reactions were warm and applause was ample for most of the opening bands, but the loudest approval came when Circa Survive’s lead singer, Anthony Green, played as the guest bass player for one Codeseven song. As soon as Dredg ended their set and Circa Survive’s equipment was setting up, a surge of bodies pressed toward the front row in excessive force, trying to secure the perfect vantage point for the headlining set.
Cheers and angst were only heightened as the powerful first note of Blue Sky Noise’s opening track, “Strange Terrain,” commanded a flurry of crowd-covering confetti from stage-side cannons and the bellowing, half-raspy, off-key exulting voices of fans all around singing along. Through the mass repetition of the first verse, where Green proclaims, “no one could see if we ended up where we needed to be,” the crowd was an implicit verification for Blue Sky Noise’s success and for Circa Survive attending terrain that might not be as strange as they thought.
The remaining introductory quarter of Blue Sky Noise was pumped out proceeding this as the CD’s first single “Get Out” and jam-heavy “Glass Arrows” further energized the performance and instigated the first storm of crowd and band movement. As “Get Out” gradually builds at the end toward a heavier, groovy breakdown that strays from their typical style, guitarists Colin Frangicetto, Nick Beard, and Brendan Ekstrom were up and down in sync; Anthony Green was dancing everywhere, along with the unbalanced dancing and shoving of fans.
Long-time Circa Survive fans were well-awarded too with the inclusion of older songs on the set list from their freshman and sophomore albums, Juturna and On Letting Go, respectively. A hybrid song was even created during the night, where a standing crowd favorite, “In Fear and Faith,” was mixed with a song called “Invalid Litter Dept.” by the now-defunct band, At the Drive-In (associated with the Mars Volta). During past shows, Circa Survive have made a habit of covering other bands impressionable to them such as Nirvana.
In the spirit of blending the old with the new, Anthony Green solidified his role as the origin of energy and antics. Reflecting an earlier show in Cleveland during March of 2010 where he was shouting another standing favorite, “Act Appalled,” from the rafters above the crowd, Green was held up on his knees by adoring fans as he sung the last portion of Blue Sky Noise’s second single, “Imaginary Enemy,” before its exploding guitar solo. Similar to 2007’s Van’s Warped Tour too, where Green was adorned with a sundress and making wisecracks during many sets, he literally demanded the entire crowd to act as if they were shooting lazers at him, to make poodle noises, and to emit the most powerful “death growl” they could.
Other notable additions to the show included rotund confetti-filled balloons punched around the venue from ceiling to balcony, along with a segment where the band invited the Detroit members of their personal fan club, the “Creature Club,” to sing on stage the chorus of the mellow and acoustic “Spirit of the Stairwell” off the new album. The entire display demanded an encore from the crowd, which was valued with three additional songs from Blue Sky Noise. They started off with the instrumental “Compendium” and continued with “Dyed in the Wool,” completing the final quarter of the CD.
Before singing with the crowd the final song of the night, “I Felt Free,” Green urged the crowd to “take the feeling you find here with you, take it out with you wherever you go and do with it what you want. Share it with friends and family; let people know about it.” Consider this an act of sharing then. Circa Survive will be returning to Michigan with co-headliner Anberlin and Foxy Shazam on Friday, January 21st to play at the Orbit Room in Grand Rapids. After addressing the events of the November 20th show as “the most fun we’ve had in Detroit so far,” don’t miss out on contributing to the inevitable best time Circa Survive could have in Grand Rapids. Pick up a copy of Blue Sky Noise, pick up a ticket, and give your weekend a good kick start.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Remedies
Word of the day: misqueme, meaning: to displease (courtesy of savethewords.org)
I'm just waiting for the day when - just like what happened merely seconds ago to me while I sit here in my school's computer lab - I sneeze close to ten times in a row, somebody next to me repeatedly smears out the phrase "bless you," I thank them none, and they get immensely misquemed for it. I don't doubt that it has happened already, and perhaps taken aback a few people, mentally. I consciously neglect the thanking though. I never remember being a person who, by instinct, would say "bless you" to anybody who sneezed, though I know I've used the phrase many many times. Well...when I was a little kid, I actually thought people were saying "blesh you" for close to three years or something. I digress, though I refrain from thanking anybody consciously, it's slowly merging into my subconscious, my selective hearing if you will, to not thank people any time they say this. Do you have the power to bless me? Sure, maybe the implications of the statement is actually, "may God bless you," but do you even know if I've accepted your god as somebody I want blessing me? Maybe I do, maybe I don't. Do you care? Are you an imposer? Do you even know the origins of that statement, or why the hell people say it?
From my knowledge, without looking anything up, I believe it still stands that the phrase "bless you" came from the superstition that every time you sneezed, you were letting your soul out of your body. Hey, maybe that was a really legitimate rationality back then, but does our culture really believe this now?
Of course we don't. We know damn well that what people call a "soul" does not escape us because of a mere bodily function. So why is it still said? You don't hear anybody say "excuse you" because it has some sort of negative tone to it or something, like it sounds rude. But wouldn't it be way more correct to say? Maybe if somebody said "excuse you" every time I sneezed, I'd make the effort to say "thank you" ten times in a row. But is it really worth my time to thank you for your persistent ignorance and/or unestablished right to push your religiously-oriented statements upon me? Perhaps this may sound a bit pretentious, but I don't care how much or how little effort it takes for you to say "bless you" every time I sneeze. Sure, it's just a statement. Some people just do it by reaction, and it's no big deal, but I'm sure as hell not going to thank anybody for it.
I'm just waiting for the day when - just like what happened merely seconds ago to me while I sit here in my school's computer lab - I sneeze close to ten times in a row, somebody next to me repeatedly smears out the phrase "bless you," I thank them none, and they get immensely misquemed for it. I don't doubt that it has happened already, and perhaps taken aback a few people, mentally. I consciously neglect the thanking though. I never remember being a person who, by instinct, would say "bless you" to anybody who sneezed, though I know I've used the phrase many many times. Well...when I was a little kid, I actually thought people were saying "blesh you" for close to three years or something. I digress, though I refrain from thanking anybody consciously, it's slowly merging into my subconscious, my selective hearing if you will, to not thank people any time they say this. Do you have the power to bless me? Sure, maybe the implications of the statement is actually, "may God bless you," but do you even know if I've accepted your god as somebody I want blessing me? Maybe I do, maybe I don't. Do you care? Are you an imposer? Do you even know the origins of that statement, or why the hell people say it?
From my knowledge, without looking anything up, I believe it still stands that the phrase "bless you" came from the superstition that every time you sneezed, you were letting your soul out of your body. Hey, maybe that was a really legitimate rationality back then, but does our culture really believe this now?
Of course we don't. We know damn well that what people call a "soul" does not escape us because of a mere bodily function. So why is it still said? You don't hear anybody say "excuse you" because it has some sort of negative tone to it or something, like it sounds rude. But wouldn't it be way more correct to say? Maybe if somebody said "excuse you" every time I sneezed, I'd make the effort to say "thank you" ten times in a row. But is it really worth my time to thank you for your persistent ignorance and/or unestablished right to push your religiously-oriented statements upon me? Perhaps this may sound a bit pretentious, but I don't care how much or how little effort it takes for you to say "bless you" every time I sneeze. Sure, it's just a statement. Some people just do it by reaction, and it's no big deal, but I'm sure as hell not going to thank anybody for it.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
From Winter Brings the Spring Again (Ouch...had to take a Circa Survive quote)
Word of the Day: Riviation, meaning: (simply) fishing.
So it just hit me here and now, at 8:26 AM while I'm typing this (and the song 8:16AM by 311 chimes into my brain here and now -http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sTJCEk4NeYA) that I've never ever gone on a riviation trip with my grandpa. He's 85, 86, 87? I don't even know. I'm going to become one of those stereotypical family members who can't remember any of his relatives' ages. Can't even remember my own nephews'. I DIGRESS, I've never been gone riviating with that man. He's in his later 80's, dropped a boat on his head this past year, endured a consequential concussion, and is still living enough to tell me, "that's the longest I've held a fart today!" every single time he shakes my hand. Great stuff.
It's weird to me. Isn't riviation with your grandpa like hunting with your dad or something? Not like I view family values with any sort of repute, nor can I ever remember hunting with my father (though I do remember sitting in the woods with guns). But carpe diem, in the context of Ovid, yes? Well...I suppose I messed that one up for this season, at the very least. Riviation season is over, winter is almost here, and the gramps' blood gets another year colder in the passing of the two seasons.
Pact to self: go fishing with the gramps next Spring. Especially when he's pulling out 42" catfish, taking them home, and actually eating them. No idea why he isn't getting all the ladies...
So it just hit me here and now, at 8:26 AM while I'm typing this (and the song 8:16AM by 311 chimes into my brain here and now -http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sTJCEk4NeYA) that I've never ever gone on a riviation trip with my grandpa. He's 85, 86, 87? I don't even know. I'm going to become one of those stereotypical family members who can't remember any of his relatives' ages. Can't even remember my own nephews'. I DIGRESS, I've never been gone riviating with that man. He's in his later 80's, dropped a boat on his head this past year, endured a consequential concussion, and is still living enough to tell me, "that's the longest I've held a fart today!" every single time he shakes my hand. Great stuff.
It's weird to me. Isn't riviation with your grandpa like hunting with your dad or something? Not like I view family values with any sort of repute, nor can I ever remember hunting with my father (though I do remember sitting in the woods with guns). But carpe diem, in the context of Ovid, yes? Well...I suppose I messed that one up for this season, at the very least. Riviation season is over, winter is almost here, and the gramps' blood gets another year colder in the passing of the two seasons.
Pact to self: go fishing with the gramps next Spring. Especially when he's pulling out 42" catfish, taking them home, and actually eating them. No idea why he isn't getting all the ladies...
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Blown Out
Word of the Day: Oporopolist, meaning: a fruit seller (courtesy of savethewords.org)
When I'm done with school, I'm going to take a break from life. I will move to a distant country and become an oporopolist, selling painted rock fruit. That's how it'll go.
In other news: can't wait to see Circa Survive in four days. Should be one of the greatest shows ever.
When I'm done with school, I'm going to take a break from life. I will move to a distant country and become an oporopolist, selling painted rock fruit. That's how it'll go.
In other news: can't wait to see Circa Survive in four days. Should be one of the greatest shows ever.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Loser's Hard Heart
Word of the day: trophaeal, meaning: pertaining to or adorned with trophies (courtesy of savethewords.org)
When the things you do seem faceless; when your choices in life are the choices made by millions of others and your narrow, singular lens of self-focus make it seem like you're actually important; when your shelves aren't as trophaeal as you think they should be;
Maybe they shouldn't?
When the things you do seem faceless; when your choices in life are the choices made by millions of others and your narrow, singular lens of self-focus make it seem like you're actually important; when your shelves aren't as trophaeal as you think they should be;
Maybe they shouldn't?
Friday, November 12, 2010
Something From Nothing
Word of the day: vacivity, meaning an emptiness.
And on to the weekend, to clear out the vacivity of the school-ridden week. Oh oh oh...so deep right there. So deep.
And on to the weekend, to clear out the vacivity of the school-ridden week. Oh oh oh...so deep right there. So deep.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
A Faint Glimmer?
Word of the day: rogitate, meaning to ask regularly.
Today, in journalism, we had a guest speaker stop in and talk to us about public relations, and she kind of touched on the entertainment side of media coverage. Specifically, she mentioned my professor from my writing about film and drama class last semester, John Serba, and how she had to meet with him to talk about the film festival she was helping with. Taking a look at John Serba, who is the head of writing about entertainment for the Grand Rapids Press, and everything else he does - he informed us during my class with him that he also works at Vertigo, the record shop down town - that working in the field of entertainment and writing about entertainment could be an insanely fun or at least amusing field to pursuit. I mean, with all of his odd jobs he performs, he never seems like he'd be bored with life, and his schedule (I'm not assuming) isn't set in stone every single day of his life. That's the kind of interesting life I'd like to lead, even if it's only interesting on my part for never getting old.
Perhaps I might have a more concrete answer now when people rogitate me about what I want to do with my writing degree: an entertainment specialist, or whatever he's considered. Regardless, he was cool in class, and I assume his job(s) is cool too. It's also not like my current activity would be too far behind in that focus, as I've been approved for about a week now to cover the Circa Survive concert I will be attending in a few weeks for my school newspaper. Fuckawesome!
No, I'm not bipolar, by the way.
Today, in journalism, we had a guest speaker stop in and talk to us about public relations, and she kind of touched on the entertainment side of media coverage. Specifically, she mentioned my professor from my writing about film and drama class last semester, John Serba, and how she had to meet with him to talk about the film festival she was helping with. Taking a look at John Serba, who is the head of writing about entertainment for the Grand Rapids Press, and everything else he does - he informed us during my class with him that he also works at Vertigo, the record shop down town - that working in the field of entertainment and writing about entertainment could be an insanely fun or at least amusing field to pursuit. I mean, with all of his odd jobs he performs, he never seems like he'd be bored with life, and his schedule (I'm not assuming) isn't set in stone every single day of his life. That's the kind of interesting life I'd like to lead, even if it's only interesting on my part for never getting old.
Perhaps I might have a more concrete answer now when people rogitate me about what I want to do with my writing degree: an entertainment specialist, or whatever he's considered. Regardless, he was cool in class, and I assume his job(s) is cool too. It's also not like my current activity would be too far behind in that focus, as I've been approved for about a week now to cover the Circa Survive concert I will be attending in a few weeks for my school newspaper. Fuckawesome!
No, I'm not bipolar, by the way.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Bars of Old
Word of the day: Lubency, meaning a willingness or pleasure to do something.
In no way am I trying to sell myself on a strong line of virtues or anything, but I'm starting to detest my own lubency to help people out. It's honestly not out of some pseudo-altruist disposition where I'm secretly just searching for glory and adoration in the hearts of other. I enjoy helping people out, and it's fun to me at times since it gives my agenda a bit of a detour from homework that doesn't make me feel like I'm completely wasting my time. If people need help, more often than not, I award it without question. However, tossing around a schedule that involves eighteen hours of work in a computers department garners my reputation as "the computer guy," and people ask me to do off-hand, random favors involving those computers quite a bit. I don't detest this, and it's cool to apply something I do as a necessity, my job, in an environment where I am free and happy to do as I please. If anybody is reading this that was considering asking me for help, still do it! But when instances come about like yesterday, for example, where I was driving along with solid plans in mind when I get a phone call from this lady I work for who was having problems with her iTunes, it's like I disregard the conventionality of time-flow in order to fit in every ounce of help I can squeeze out of myself before it's literally too late for other things. Time-efficiency goes out the door in the sake of aiding another human being, and sometimes, it's met with the same fate as I had yesterday where an entire hour was spent uninstalling some nonphysical program on a slow computer, watching bars load and load - hardly more - knowing fully well that I'd rather be elsewhere but also that helping is a nice thing to do, and ultimately meeting demise when my tact of helping out fails. iTunes was still messing up, and an hour of my life went by without making any real progression at all.
I really don't know where I'm going with this. Altruism? "Time is money?" Complain-blog #2 for the week, that's for sure. Go me and my already drained imagination. Tomorrow? Maybe time travel...
In no way am I trying to sell myself on a strong line of virtues or anything, but I'm starting to detest my own lubency to help people out. It's honestly not out of some pseudo-altruist disposition where I'm secretly just searching for glory and adoration in the hearts of other. I enjoy helping people out, and it's fun to me at times since it gives my agenda a bit of a detour from homework that doesn't make me feel like I'm completely wasting my time. If people need help, more often than not, I award it without question. However, tossing around a schedule that involves eighteen hours of work in a computers department garners my reputation as "the computer guy," and people ask me to do off-hand, random favors involving those computers quite a bit. I don't detest this, and it's cool to apply something I do as a necessity, my job, in an environment where I am free and happy to do as I please. If anybody is reading this that was considering asking me for help, still do it! But when instances come about like yesterday, for example, where I was driving along with solid plans in mind when I get a phone call from this lady I work for who was having problems with her iTunes, it's like I disregard the conventionality of time-flow in order to fit in every ounce of help I can squeeze out of myself before it's literally too late for other things. Time-efficiency goes out the door in the sake of aiding another human being, and sometimes, it's met with the same fate as I had yesterday where an entire hour was spent uninstalling some nonphysical program on a slow computer, watching bars load and load - hardly more - knowing fully well that I'd rather be elsewhere but also that helping is a nice thing to do, and ultimately meeting demise when my tact of helping out fails. iTunes was still messing up, and an hour of my life went by without making any real progression at all.
I really don't know where I'm going with this. Altruism? "Time is money?" Complain-blog #2 for the week, that's for sure. Go me and my already drained imagination. Tomorrow? Maybe time travel...
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Monday, November 8, 2010
Blot
Word of the Day: Conduplicate, meaning folded or doubled together, sometimes creating "leaves."
I wish I could understand why all the pens' waters need to break in my possession. Have I not made it clear already? I DON'T WANT KIDS! Stop splootzing your liquid matter all over what is rightfully mine. Even my nice, crisp, $20 bill I got, all conduplicated neatly in my pocket, stands no chance against your reach. Go away, birthing pens. Be gone with ye!
I wish I could understand why all the pens' waters need to break in my possession. Have I not made it clear already? I DON'T WANT KIDS! Stop splootzing your liquid matter all over what is rightfully mine. Even my nice, crisp, $20 bill I got, all conduplicated neatly in my pocket, stands no chance against your reach. Go away, birthing pens. Be gone with ye!
Friday, November 5, 2010
Daylight Pavings
Word of the Day: Commensurate, meaning to express sympathy in someone.
So a couple days ago, when I had to wake up really early around 6 in the morning, my grain-brain got all disoriented like what occasionally happens when you wake up, and even though I nearly forgot about daylight savings entirely, apparently my brain wasn't too forgetful to jump in and nearly convince myself, mid-realizing that my alarm was going off, that "OH! It's almost daylight savings. I bet daylight savings is even TODAY, so you can just go ahead and go sleep for another hour." Then I snapped into the real deal, and realized my head was playing tricks on me.
Then, last night, I was having a wild dream about riding a horse down the sidewalks of Chicago and being chased by police on horses. It had a very interesting ending though: I woke up at 8:14 when my alarm was set for 8:15.
Sleep cycles weird me out. Oh how I commensurate the man who has to deal with learning about it all.
So a couple days ago, when I had to wake up really early around 6 in the morning, my grain-brain got all disoriented like what occasionally happens when you wake up, and even though I nearly forgot about daylight savings entirely, apparently my brain wasn't too forgetful to jump in and nearly convince myself, mid-realizing that my alarm was going off, that "OH! It's almost daylight savings. I bet daylight savings is even TODAY, so you can just go ahead and go sleep for another hour." Then I snapped into the real deal, and realized my head was playing tricks on me.
Then, last night, I was having a wild dream about riding a horse down the sidewalks of Chicago and being chased by police on horses. It had a very interesting ending though: I woke up at 8:14 when my alarm was set for 8:15.
Sleep cycles weird me out. Oh how I commensurate the man who has to deal with learning about it all.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Shattered Glass
So we're supposed to blog on this movie called "Shattered Glass" from journalism and touch on a moral issue or two that the movie encounters. I would say that one of the most prominent examples that stuck out to me while watching this movie was how Michael Kelly, the editor of The New Republic (the paper featured in the movie), stuck up for his coworkers after their sickeningly spiteful boss forced them all to sit in a room and circle every comma within a lengthy article. I would have to say that the most of us people, no matter how much we could admire characteristic traits like that and try to mimic them ourselves, would be able to emulate such actions in the dire situation Michael Kelly was in. After all, he didn't KNOW that doing this would consequently get him fired, but he sure as hell had a prestigious and difficult job at The New Republic that I'm doubting most people would offer up on the table in order to defend integrity. Hell, even at a point like this in my life, where I could very well still be working in a restaurant had I not landed my current job, I would still find it difficult to defend my own opinions if it meant putting my job on the line. It's hard enough to get a job as it is, and although working as editor for The New Republic puts Michael Kelly at a fairly reputable spot for other jobs, along with his only drawback being he stuck up for his own opinions, he still put it all on the line. It was such a daring thing to do in an industry (journalism) where opportunities only show up occasionally. I could easily sit back and say, "Oh yeah, if I were caught in that situation, I'd do the same. Circling commas is bullshit." (That was supposed to sound funny in a ridiculous way.) But I most likely wouldn't. Shit, the only scrap I have to work with right now is writing for the Saint. I've got more to lose than gaining by even considering a degree/career with writing.
I think a loooooooooooot of people would follow suit if they recognized how hard it is in the writing business.
I think a loooooooooooot of people would follow suit if they recognized how hard it is in the writing business.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Speak of the Disheveled
I would probably like to use that title for a much better piece of writing than this will be. And no, that wasn't supposed to be the word of the day, but I suppose I can use it anyways.
Disheveled, meaning tousled, throw into disorder, or upheave.
Yesterday, I was making dinner for my mom and all the dishes were on the counter. Word was it that an old friend of mine and his mom were going to stop by my house at some point. Ties weren't so great with him and his family in the past, after our paths split, and there was much hostility offered between both parties. Halloween rolled around though, and my mom spoke with his mom. The canvas was anew and the dried paint had apparently chipped away entirely. While making dinner, they arrived, and I felt so disheveled for being caught in the middle of a chore and unprepared, to the max, for the union that followed.
It was an interesting visit, and I would like to write about it more in-depth. Perhaps during a time where my schooling doesn't keep me so disheveled either.
Disheveled, meaning tousled, throw into disorder, or upheave.
Yesterday, I was making dinner for my mom and all the dishes were on the counter. Word was it that an old friend of mine and his mom were going to stop by my house at some point. Ties weren't so great with him and his family in the past, after our paths split, and there was much hostility offered between both parties. Halloween rolled around though, and my mom spoke with his mom. The canvas was anew and the dried paint had apparently chipped away entirely. While making dinner, they arrived, and I felt so disheveled for being caught in the middle of a chore and unprepared, to the max, for the union that followed.
It was an interesting visit, and I would like to write about it more in-depth. Perhaps during a time where my schooling doesn't keep me so disheveled either.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Ignorant Ass
The word of the day: recrudescent, meaning breaking out again or reemerging after temporary abatement or suppression, often in the context of a disease.
Today is voting day for the nation. I would often like to say I respect my mom, but that ceases to apply after her recrudescent ignorance breaks out and shifts my opinions back to where they started: not a very high rung on the ladder. Maybe not ignorance in what she is informed of, but ignorance in how she carries herself as an informed person and the things she says related to politics.
Sorry Kirkbride, but I'm not voting. Not when I'd have to subscribe to the same system that such ignorant asses like her have equal access to. Sure, I don't know a damn thing about these people and what sort of politics they are fronting. I'm ignorant as fuck about this election, and I've thought about it none. But the next time I have to hear the words "Muslim" or "terrorist" pointed at the democratic party, the imploring that I should vote Republican if I have no idea because "it's the right choice," and see the cheesy, giddy, embarrassing glee of her seeing the democrats' demise, I'll saw open my throat with a butter knife and bleed to death all over a ballot. You can find my choice right around the big red blotchy spot.
Today is voting day for the nation. I would often like to say I respect my mom, but that ceases to apply after her recrudescent ignorance breaks out and shifts my opinions back to where they started: not a very high rung on the ladder. Maybe not ignorance in what she is informed of, but ignorance in how she carries herself as an informed person and the things she says related to politics.
Sorry Kirkbride, but I'm not voting. Not when I'd have to subscribe to the same system that such ignorant asses like her have equal access to. Sure, I don't know a damn thing about these people and what sort of politics they are fronting. I'm ignorant as fuck about this election, and I've thought about it none. But the next time I have to hear the words "Muslim" or "terrorist" pointed at the democratic party, the imploring that I should vote Republican if I have no idea because "it's the right choice," and see the cheesy, giddy, embarrassing glee of her seeing the democrats' demise, I'll saw open my throat with a butter knife and bleed to death all over a ballot. You can find my choice right around the big red blotchy spot.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Something Today Starts a New Way
I suppose, with my seemingly unfocused blog so far, I should try to tie in something for each day. Thus, I'm going to start finding random words that I've never used in my day-to-day vocabulary, and try my best to use them in coordination with something relatively interesting I might spew.
The first word I came across was "anachronic," meaning chronologically misplaced. SO, here goes...
Halloween happened this weekend, and I'd doubt there could have been a better-looking one to date. From Friday to Sunday, the weather was ridiculously glorious and permitting of consistent discing, every single day. This was possibly the first Halloween I've ever spent completely unconcerned with the idea of going door-to-door and getting candy. In the years past, it's not like I was completely stoked for it, but the people I was around and the 4/7 chance that Halloween will fall on a legitimate weekday contributed to my role as nineteen year-old trick-or-treater instead of following suit with the notion of parties through "maturity." Label me "immature" for that if you please, but the twentieth Hallow's eve arrived this weekend, and it was a passing thought. My door-to-door activity was shooting at the narrow doorway of dangling chains that make this image below such a might treat for my pleasure-center:
Every hole was a bargain. I wasn't too sure what I would get (as far as score is concerned), but I went from door-to-door, reached in, and nabbed the treat which is a sunk disc. Some treats were great; birdies are rather sweet to one's score. Some treats were displeasing; bogies are detrimental to the health of one's score. But that was my solicitation for the weekend.
That, and social gatherings of rather epic proportions. It's odd, since I can vividly recall one time around the age of thirteen when I was out with a few friends in my neighborhood trick-or-treating. One house we stopped by was jammed full of people close to my current age, having a party. We knocked on the door expecting candy, and they clearly had none and wanted us to leave, but instead we chose to harass them. I was so amused with the cluster of inconsideration for the Halloween spirit. Halloween, after all, has been one of my favorite holidays for a long time. Not for what you get from it, but for what it defines as a time of livelihood in conjunction with morbidity, gloom, and gothic-like ambiance (quite ironic for the way the weekend looked). It creates a timeless atmosphere that, to me, is far more unsullied than other holidays that flat out suck. Shit, Valentine's day used to be glorious back in Kindergarten, but now it's a pile of lies and terrorism on the idea of "love."
And now here I am, on year twenty, defining my Halloween spirit with none other than discing and engaging in (what I assume) were the same activities of that house party I ambled upon when I was thirteen. I'm doing the same exact thing, and the details I can vividly recall about my Halloween celebration (excluding discing) would be entirely anachronic and skewed by beer's embrace.
Birdies, bogies, and Busch beer. Those were my Halloween treats.
The first word I came across was "anachronic," meaning chronologically misplaced. SO, here goes...
Halloween happened this weekend, and I'd doubt there could have been a better-looking one to date. From Friday to Sunday, the weather was ridiculously glorious and permitting of consistent discing, every single day. This was possibly the first Halloween I've ever spent completely unconcerned with the idea of going door-to-door and getting candy. In the years past, it's not like I was completely stoked for it, but the people I was around and the 4/7 chance that Halloween will fall on a legitimate weekday contributed to my role as nineteen year-old trick-or-treater instead of following suit with the notion of parties through "maturity." Label me "immature" for that if you please, but the twentieth Hallow's eve arrived this weekend, and it was a passing thought. My door-to-door activity was shooting at the narrow doorway of dangling chains that make this image below such a might treat for my pleasure-center:
That, and social gatherings of rather epic proportions. It's odd, since I can vividly recall one time around the age of thirteen when I was out with a few friends in my neighborhood trick-or-treating. One house we stopped by was jammed full of people close to my current age, having a party. We knocked on the door expecting candy, and they clearly had none and wanted us to leave, but instead we chose to harass them. I was so amused with the cluster of inconsideration for the Halloween spirit. Halloween, after all, has been one of my favorite holidays for a long time. Not for what you get from it, but for what it defines as a time of livelihood in conjunction with morbidity, gloom, and gothic-like ambiance (quite ironic for the way the weekend looked). It creates a timeless atmosphere that, to me, is far more unsullied than other holidays that flat out suck. Shit, Valentine's day used to be glorious back in Kindergarten, but now it's a pile of lies and terrorism on the idea of "love."
And now here I am, on year twenty, defining my Halloween spirit with none other than discing and engaging in (what I assume) were the same activities of that house party I ambled upon when I was thirteen. I'm doing the same exact thing, and the details I can vividly recall about my Halloween celebration (excluding discing) would be entirely anachronic and skewed by beer's embrace.
Birdies, bogies, and Busch beer. Those were my Halloween treats.
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