After reading THIS article--a response to Francis S. Collins's book The Language of God--I wanted to post a long, drawn-out, atheistic rant.
But I decided not to.
Probably better for everyone, eh?
Friday, July 10, 2009
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Revolver
After returning from London and Paris--two of the biggest tourist sites in the world--I feel obligated to funnel all of my anger about photography into a single entity.
You may be thinking "What's the big deal, Casey? Don't be such a prick!"--but I absolutely hate some of these twats that carry cameras around big cities.
First of all, I don't mind the occasional photo with your family. I might express a tinge of annoyance when my mom tells me to stand next to some monument, but it's all in good fun. I can understand how much it means to my mother. What I don't appreciate are the self-absorbed tourists that carry their video cameras around like a child. While I'm walking around the streets of London, the last thing I want to be worried about is whether or not I'm going to be seen in some future family video.
On that note--why do people tape absolutely everything?! I watched a family tape their entire stay in Westminster Abbey; are they planning on watching all of it at a later date? Will they sit down to later experience their entire visit to Poets' Corner? Mind you, they weren't even speaking: the father was just panning the camera around filming everything he deemed "cool."
I understand that we, as a society, feel the need to document every single moment of our lives--as evidenced by Twitter, Facebook status updates, and weirdly Orwell-ian Bluetooth tracking of concert-goers--but this is starting to get a little out of hand. I was routinely asked to step aside for picture of random shit in London. I'm not talking about memorials or landmarks--I'm talking about stores and streets. Excuse me for not wanting to step aside for your photo of a newstand--I'm trying to buy a fucking paper.
But--travelling even deeper into the unknown hatred of my mind--none of those minor twitches can compare to my ultimate pet-peeve: people who take pictures of art.
My family went to the Tate Modern, the Louvre, and the Orsay--and at each one there were dickheads who feel that their digitial camera can do a much better job of capturing Monets brush strokes or Van Gogh's color. I don't claim to know much about art, but I do know that it is supposed to be absorbed in person. If all you wanted to see was a picture of Van Gogh's self-portrait--then I have something to inform you of: Google Images.
GAH. I'm going to keep going: In the Louve--the Mona Lisa was made into a tourist attraction. I find that perfectly acceptable, as it is probably the most famous painting in the world--but the fact that there was a crowd of people around the frame taking pictures with flash absolutely infuriated me. Nobody I saw was simply standing there, admiring the painting. They must have felt that their camera phone could capture the moment even better than actual memories.
I'm reminded, once again, of the Bob Dylan quote my parent's used when I graduated high school.
You may be thinking "What's the big deal, Casey? Don't be such a prick!"--but I absolutely hate some of these twats that carry cameras around big cities.
First of all, I don't mind the occasional photo with your family. I might express a tinge of annoyance when my mom tells me to stand next to some monument, but it's all in good fun. I can understand how much it means to my mother. What I don't appreciate are the self-absorbed tourists that carry their video cameras around like a child. While I'm walking around the streets of London, the last thing I want to be worried about is whether or not I'm going to be seen in some future family video.
On that note--why do people tape absolutely everything?! I watched a family tape their entire stay in Westminster Abbey; are they planning on watching all of it at a later date? Will they sit down to later experience their entire visit to Poets' Corner? Mind you, they weren't even speaking: the father was just panning the camera around filming everything he deemed "cool."
I understand that we, as a society, feel the need to document every single moment of our lives--as evidenced by Twitter, Facebook status updates, and weirdly Orwell-ian Bluetooth tracking of concert-goers--but this is starting to get a little out of hand. I was routinely asked to step aside for picture of random shit in London. I'm not talking about memorials or landmarks--I'm talking about stores and streets. Excuse me for not wanting to step aside for your photo of a newstand--I'm trying to buy a fucking paper.
But--travelling even deeper into the unknown hatred of my mind--none of those minor twitches can compare to my ultimate pet-peeve: people who take pictures of art.
My family went to the Tate Modern, the Louvre, and the Orsay--and at each one there were dickheads who feel that their digitial camera can do a much better job of capturing Monets brush strokes or Van Gogh's color. I don't claim to know much about art, but I do know that it is supposed to be absorbed in person. If all you wanted to see was a picture of Van Gogh's self-portrait--then I have something to inform you of: Google Images.
GAH. I'm going to keep going: In the Louve--the Mona Lisa was made into a tourist attraction. I find that perfectly acceptable, as it is probably the most famous painting in the world--but the fact that there was a crowd of people around the frame taking pictures with flash absolutely infuriated me. Nobody I saw was simply standing there, admiring the painting. They must have felt that their camera phone could capture the moment even better than actual memories.
I'm reminded, once again, of the Bob Dylan quote my parent's used when I graduated high school.
Friday, July 3, 2009
Four Word Letter
As a future English major, I was very excited to witness, first-hand, all of the classic English being thrown around London. It felt a bit uncomfortable at first--as my American accent instantly labels me as a lazy, slobby, hick--but most of the people I met and spoke with were very forgiving. The awkwardness of having to ask "Could you repeat that?" did get a little tiring, and I was constantly looking at exactly which coins I had in my pocket--but, eventually, I was able to settle in and try to study exactly what makes the English language a little different.
Immediately after arriving from the Metro station, the change was particularly jarring. Instead of an "Exit" sign pointing us to street level--there was a "Way Out" sign. The obvious differences--such as the "u's" in "colour," "favourite," and "behaviour"--were all very apparent to me before I arrived, but I started to notice even more.
The English are obviously opposed to the letter "z." It is hardly ever used--except at the beginning of proper nouns, and even then I only saw it put to use twice. The letter is also omitted from usually simple words. "Recognize" and "energize" were the first two words I witnessed to become part of this phenomena--but anywhere where I've grown accustomed to a "z," an "s" has been substituted. The change wasn't as drastic as I had expected, but the sheer scale of the switch was quite amazing.
Rather than "line," the British use "queue"--which can also be turned into a verb, with the product being "queuing." This makes the entire process of standing in a line much more efficient--as the act itself has an entire noun, verb, and phrase attached to it.
One of the most surprising uses I noticed was the use of "suspension" as a noun. Rather than saying "No Parking"--a sign on the street would inform of a "Parking Suspension."
The language across the pond is definitely a bit more sophisticated. Simple signs that we take for granted, such as "Exit," are replaced with much more descriptive counterparts. This may have been the nerdiest blog you've ever read--minus all of that Harry Potter fan-fiction (you know who you are)--but, for me, this entire experience was extremely gratifying.
I made my literary pilgrimage to Poets' Corner in Westminster Abbet--where I was able to pay my respects to the authors I've practically worshipped over the years. Shakespeare, Wilde, Keats, Carol, Dickens, and Wordsworth were all memorialized (Did you catch the "z!") in Poets' Corner--and I felt honored to have the opportunity to show my appreciation. I just returned from a trip to the Pantheon, where I saw the graves of Alexandre Dumas and Voltaire. Before going off to college to study--just as these writers had done--I can safely say that I have made my trip to the Literary Mecca.
Immediately after arriving from the Metro station, the change was particularly jarring. Instead of an "Exit" sign pointing us to street level--there was a "Way Out" sign. The obvious differences--such as the "u's" in "colour," "favourite," and "behaviour"--were all very apparent to me before I arrived, but I started to notice even more.
The English are obviously opposed to the letter "z." It is hardly ever used--except at the beginning of proper nouns, and even then I only saw it put to use twice. The letter is also omitted from usually simple words. "Recognize" and "energize" were the first two words I witnessed to become part of this phenomena--but anywhere where I've grown accustomed to a "z," an "s" has been substituted. The change wasn't as drastic as I had expected, but the sheer scale of the switch was quite amazing.
Rather than "line," the British use "queue"--which can also be turned into a verb, with the product being "queuing." This makes the entire process of standing in a line much more efficient--as the act itself has an entire noun, verb, and phrase attached to it.
One of the most surprising uses I noticed was the use of "suspension" as a noun. Rather than saying "No Parking"--a sign on the street would inform of a "Parking Suspension."
The language across the pond is definitely a bit more sophisticated. Simple signs that we take for granted, such as "Exit," are replaced with much more descriptive counterparts. This may have been the nerdiest blog you've ever read--minus all of that Harry Potter fan-fiction (you know who you are)--but, for me, this entire experience was extremely gratifying.
I made my literary pilgrimage to Poets' Corner in Westminster Abbet--where I was able to pay my respects to the authors I've practically worshipped over the years. Shakespeare, Wilde, Keats, Carol, Dickens, and Wordsworth were all memorialized (Did you catch the "z!") in Poets' Corner--and I felt honored to have the opportunity to show my appreciation. I just returned from a trip to the Pantheon, where I saw the graves of Alexandre Dumas and Voltaire. Before going off to college to study--just as these writers had done--I can safely say that I have made my trip to the Literary Mecca.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Observations From London
I need a place to publically acknowledge all of the weird shit that has been happening to me in London so far. This list has mostly been in my notebook--but it's gotten to the point that it would just be easier to compile it here.
June 28th, 2009
- Has anybody ever actually bought anything from SkyMall? There seems to be quite a market for lawn ornaments...
-Nothing can destroy a peaceful, serene Pink Floyd album like a screaming child seated directly behind you.
-Nintendo DSs obviously emit a plane-destroying signal frequency.
-I'm just as excited for the accents as I am for the art.
-People REALLY want you to know what movie they're watching--as assessed by the cacophony
of portable DVD players in my general vicinity.
-When the lights dimmed in the place--after waiting on the runway for almost an hour--I felt like yelling "Woo!" as if I were at a concert. I'm fairly sure others felt the same.
-Flying in the '70s must have been amazing. Everyone would just be smoking and drinking. They should reinstate that policy--as it would make the whole experience much more manageable.
-Whenever I sit anywhere near the wing, I have a sudden urge to pretend to be William Shatner in that episode of The Twilight Zone. Hold your applause, fellow nerds.
-First class seats shouldn't get oxygen masks or floatation devices--just to even the odds a bit and make them a bit more wary of coach passengers.
-The longer the flight, the less space you'll have. I was on a two hour flight to Salt Lake City, Utah--and NOBODY was on it, but the twelve hour flight to London made me feel like cattle.
-Flight attendants speak more about "special credit card offers" than they do about safety procedures. That makes me a bit uneasy--but now that wall-sized map of the world in SkyMall looks much more easily attainable...
-In America: White guy with dreadlocks = Total prick
In London: White guy with dreadlocks = Ladie's Man
-I went into a McDonalds by myself and ordered a large drink. Just for fun, I decided to use a fake British accent to see if anyone would notice. Nobody did. I felt a lot better about myself.
-The British use coins for the 1 denomination. How do they tip their strippers?
And finally--the most annoying thing about this trip so far...
-Anything announced over any sort of intercom will undoubtedly be repeated by my mother or father in the worst British accent imaginable. We ride the subway almost ten times a day. The pain is intolerable.
June 28th, 2009
- Has anybody ever actually bought anything from SkyMall? There seems to be quite a market for lawn ornaments...
-Nothing can destroy a peaceful, serene Pink Floyd album like a screaming child seated directly behind you.
-Nintendo DSs obviously emit a plane-destroying signal frequency.
-I'm just as excited for the accents as I am for the art.
-People REALLY want you to know what movie they're watching--as assessed by the cacophony
of portable DVD players in my general vicinity.
-When the lights dimmed in the place--after waiting on the runway for almost an hour--I felt like yelling "Woo!" as if I were at a concert. I'm fairly sure others felt the same.
-Flying in the '70s must have been amazing. Everyone would just be smoking and drinking. They should reinstate that policy--as it would make the whole experience much more manageable.
-Whenever I sit anywhere near the wing, I have a sudden urge to pretend to be William Shatner in that episode of The Twilight Zone. Hold your applause, fellow nerds.
-First class seats shouldn't get oxygen masks or floatation devices--just to even the odds a bit and make them a bit more wary of coach passengers.
-The longer the flight, the less space you'll have. I was on a two hour flight to Salt Lake City, Utah--and NOBODY was on it, but the twelve hour flight to London made me feel like cattle.
-Flight attendants speak more about "special credit card offers" than they do about safety procedures. That makes me a bit uneasy--but now that wall-sized map of the world in SkyMall looks much more easily attainable...
-In America: White guy with dreadlocks = Total prick
In London: White guy with dreadlocks = Ladie's Man
-I went into a McDonalds by myself and ordered a large drink. Just for fun, I decided to use a fake British accent to see if anyone would notice. Nobody did. I felt a lot better about myself.
-The British use coins for the 1 denomination. How do they tip their strippers?
And finally--the most annoying thing about this trip so far...
-Anything announced over any sort of intercom will undoubtedly be repeated by my mother or father in the worst British accent imaginable. We ride the subway almost ten times a day. The pain is intolerable.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
We All Well Know...
I have never had a spiritual experience--but I came pretty damn close tonight during the mewithoutYou concert. Only a band with an amazing back-catalog and a diverse sound could ever have this effect on me--and I was lucky enough to be there for it to happen.
Chanting the lyrics in a tiny bar, while others around me did the same, was at the same time both therapeutic and deeply emotional. My lungs were gasping for breath at the end of every song--having screamed as loudly as possible.
You know, I always used to scoff at those people in church who would raise their arms to the sky and gyrate along to the music as if possessed--but now I completely understand. I had my spiritual moment tonight, and I feel very different. I still don't truly believe in any God--but I definitely believe in myself more than I ever have. I caught myself raising my hands to something I don't believe in.
Tie me up! Untie me! It doesn't matter at this point. I've let loose my ties to the past and moved on. Her ideas of perfection always bothered me, but part of me always wanted to believe along with her. I wanted to believe her when she said we were "perfect for each other," which, of course, was not true. I was never able to believe--mostly because of my general stubbornness--and I'm glad I never succumbed to those feelings. My spirituality is simply not found within the walls of a church. I found it tonight. Perfection is such an odd concept. It is one theory that can rarely be observed. The "perfect" circle. "Perfect" symmetry." She can believe it if she'd like--but I feel sorry for her. Truly.
Chanting the lyrics in a tiny bar, while others around me did the same, was at the same time both therapeutic and deeply emotional. My lungs were gasping for breath at the end of every song--having screamed as loudly as possible.
She's like a hot cloth on a fevered head,How can I even respond to that? The imagery and sound is just so touching that it's hard for me to even put its effect into words. Aaron Weiss--as Kevin and I were joking--may not be the voice of our mainstream generation, but he is undoubtedly the greatest lyricist I have been able to witness in his prime.
And like a needle she leads me (while I follow like thread)
Tie me up! Untie me! All this wishing I was dead is getting old...
IT'S GETTING OLD!!
... it goes on, but it's old.
-"Tie Me Up! Untie Me!"
You know, I always used to scoff at those people in church who would raise their arms to the sky and gyrate along to the music as if possessed--but now I completely understand. I had my spiritual moment tonight, and I feel very different. I still don't truly believe in any God--but I definitely believe in myself more than I ever have. I caught myself raising my hands to something I don't believe in.
Tie me up! Untie me! It doesn't matter at this point. I've let loose my ties to the past and moved on. Her ideas of perfection always bothered me, but part of me always wanted to believe along with her. I wanted to believe her when she said we were "perfect for each other," which, of course, was not true. I was never able to believe--mostly because of my general stubbornness--and I'm glad I never succumbed to those feelings. My spirituality is simply not found within the walls of a church. I found it tonight. Perfection is such an odd concept. It is one theory that can rarely be observed. The "perfect" circle. "Perfect" symmetry." She can believe it if she'd like--but I feel sorry for her. Truly.
If you fail to see a problem, which I find hard to believe,
Or if you're hanging on from branches licking honey from the leaves;
You say, "The hopelessness of living... and the childishness of suicide!"
But there's a call to love my brother that can never be destroyed.
-"Leaves"
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Fast Women and Slow Horses
Summer always makes blogging feel unimportant. I've either been out around town or holed up in my apartment-like upstairs loft.
Who needs blogging when I can play Street Fighter all day?
Anyway--I'm heading up to NAU for orientation tomorrow. I'll be alone, which should make the experience very note-worthy. I'm hoping to meet lots of new people with some similar interests and to develop some early friendships.
Not much to say. Too much to do.
Oh--and I bought two bootlegs on vinyl that will be sending my children through college. Thank you, Radiohead.
Who needs blogging when I can play Street Fighter all day?
Anyway--I'm heading up to NAU for orientation tomorrow. I'll be alone, which should make the experience very note-worthy. I'm hoping to meet lots of new people with some similar interests and to develop some early friendships.
Not much to say. Too much to do.
Oh--and I bought two bootlegs on vinyl that will be sending my children through college. Thank you, Radiohead.
Monday, June 1, 2009
One Soft Infested Summer
I wanted to grab you and kiss you one last time.
Somehow I held myself back.
That white dress sure as hell didn't help.
Somehow I held myself back.
That white dress sure as hell didn't help.
Atlantic City
My usual sleeping patterns make my nights much worse than I need them to be. The problem is not that I stay up much too late--the problem is that by staying up too late I allow my mind to wander into all sorts of bad places. I've fallen asleep for months to the same thoughts. Thoughts that I'm plagued with because of my own negligence and careless decisions--wrong decisions.
I figured that by now I would be able to partition these thoughts off into the areas of my head that I rarely think about--but that obviously has not happened yet. The Boss helps a little bit, but songs like "Atlantic City" tear me up inside. Look up the lyrics if you want.
This wasn't ever planned to be a huge post; just as a short extension of my usual thoughts.
Sorry if it disappointed.
I figured that by now I would be able to partition these thoughts off into the areas of my head that I rarely think about--but that obviously has not happened yet. The Boss helps a little bit, but songs like "Atlantic City" tear me up inside. Look up the lyrics if you want.
This wasn't ever planned to be a huge post; just as a short extension of my usual thoughts.
Sorry if it disappointed.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Friction
I can't wait to perform that song I wrote about a certain someone's poetry. Maybe that will knock some sense into her.
Once we're out of high school, everything will change. The petty differences and arguments will have washed away--and we'll be faced with the true relationships between every single one of us. I truly look forward to that moment.
My musical retrospective is almost done. I picked five albums that meant a lot to me for each year dating back to 2004. After graduation, I'll be sitting down and going through one year in an entire day. I'm expecting some intense emotions simply from the memories alone. Hopefully the list will be polished enough to be posted--but I would encourage everybody else to go through the same process.
Hearing "Like Vines" by The Hush Sound will instantly bring back vivid memories of Emma and Lanly. Performing with them onstage was a highlight of Sophomore year. Junior year has the privilege of containing "Wish You Were Here" by Pink Floyd. That album--more than any other--helped me through a time where I was completely lost. As a matter of fact, Junior year my be the most intense. Here are the albums for Junior year alone:
"Wish You Were Here" - Pink Floyd
"Grace" - Jeff Buckley
"In The Aeroplane Over The Sea" - Neutral Milk Hotel
"Pink Moon" - Nick Drake
"Down the River of Golden Dreams" - Okkervil River
That will be an amazing lineup to sit through--but I'm actually quite scared about what it will force me to remember.
I'll leave you with the quote my parents used for my senior ad in the yearbook...
“Take care of all your memories. For you cannot relive them.”
-Bob Dylan
That quote inspires me every day--and it is that sense of rememberance that I'm hoping to receive from my backwards musical journey.
Once we're out of high school, everything will change. The petty differences and arguments will have washed away--and we'll be faced with the true relationships between every single one of us. I truly look forward to that moment.
My musical retrospective is almost done. I picked five albums that meant a lot to me for each year dating back to 2004. After graduation, I'll be sitting down and going through one year in an entire day. I'm expecting some intense emotions simply from the memories alone. Hopefully the list will be polished enough to be posted--but I would encourage everybody else to go through the same process.
Hearing "Like Vines" by The Hush Sound will instantly bring back vivid memories of Emma and Lanly. Performing with them onstage was a highlight of Sophomore year. Junior year has the privilege of containing "Wish You Were Here" by Pink Floyd. That album--more than any other--helped me through a time where I was completely lost. As a matter of fact, Junior year my be the most intense. Here are the albums for Junior year alone:
"Wish You Were Here" - Pink Floyd
"Grace" - Jeff Buckley
"In The Aeroplane Over The Sea" - Neutral Milk Hotel
"Pink Moon" - Nick Drake
"Down the River of Golden Dreams" - Okkervil River
That will be an amazing lineup to sit through--but I'm actually quite scared about what it will force me to remember.
I'll leave you with the quote my parents used for my senior ad in the yearbook...
“Take care of all your memories. For you cannot relive them.”
-Bob Dylan
That quote inspires me every day--and it is that sense of rememberance that I'm hoping to receive from my backwards musical journey.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Dear Chandler Education Foundation,
I would like to formally thank you for awarding me with the Vision Collegebound scholarship. The intense work and countless hours of volunteering were more than validated by the $200 check I received on May 7th, 2009. Even more--I was able to take a picture with the principal of my school! The REAL LIFE principal!
Now, I understand that the economy is in a recession. I also understand that budget cuts were recently made. And although I was not exactly disappointed with the aforementioned amount--it was significantly less than what I was promised during my first year of high school.
I was told that if I devoted my time and energy into the community--I would be rewarded with $1000. You see... $1000 is a much larger amount than $200. I realize that something may have happened between now and four years ago, but I would have at least liked to have been informed of this before exhausting myself for a month at the YMCA. Perhaps a mistake has been made--so I will gladly accept a formal apology or a check for the remaining amount. I'm sure this is all a misunderstanding.
Unfortunately, though, I have already spent a portion of the check I was awarded. Obviously, the Chandler Education Foundation was not entirely truthful when it promised me $1000--so I must admit that I have not been entirely truthful with the Chandler Education Foundation.
I did make a promise that your scholarship money would be spent on college-related items. Instead, I've taken a picture displaying exactly what I bought with that money.
I apologize for the obscene gesture as well. It was entirely unintentional.
Thank you for your time,
Casey Reed
Now, I understand that the economy is in a recession. I also understand that budget cuts were recently made. And although I was not exactly disappointed with the aforementioned amount--it was significantly less than what I was promised during my first year of high school.
I was told that if I devoted my time and energy into the community--I would be rewarded with $1000. You see... $1000 is a much larger amount than $200. I realize that something may have happened between now and four years ago, but I would have at least liked to have been informed of this before exhausting myself for a month at the YMCA. Perhaps a mistake has been made--so I will gladly accept a formal apology or a check for the remaining amount. I'm sure this is all a misunderstanding.
Unfortunately, though, I have already spent a portion of the check I was awarded. Obviously, the Chandler Education Foundation was not entirely truthful when it promised me $1000--so I must admit that I have not been entirely truthful with the Chandler Education Foundation.
I did make a promise that your scholarship money would be spent on college-related items. Instead, I've taken a picture displaying exactly what I bought with that money.
I apologize for the obscene gesture as well. It was entirely unintentional.Thank you for your time,
Casey Reed
Monday, May 4, 2009
On a Long Forgotten Morn
A particular trend that I've noticed through most of my high school years is the ability for a teenager to tune the world around them out. Now, this can be incredibly useful at time--such as while on an eight hour bus ride to Utah with fifty Theatre kids--but for other times, I wish that more people would just stop and listen.
The most common practice of achieving this ethereal state is to use standard headphones. Now, I have no objection to listening to music--and I love music as a complete entity--but I would much rather appreciate the events around me rather than having music constantly pumped through my ears. While walking the streets of New York, most of my fellow tourist companions were completely engrossed in whatever they were listening to. I, on the other hand, was listening to a couple break up on 7th street, a car alarm on 5th, and a man trying to sell me a belt buckle in Harlem. These are the things that can only be heard in that specific area--but the modern citizen feels the need to cover that natural beauty with beauty of his own choosing. I simply don't understand.
My relationship with music is deeply personal--and I think part of the reason that I took such a liking to vinyl was that it is not exactly practical. It feels special; as if that slab of vinyl needs to be cared for and cherished--not just thrown on on iPod and picked apart for playlists. It feels as if music has lost that sense of connection to the world and now just acts as background noise.
Granted, that connection can still exist between Man and iPod--it is just much harder to achieve. Someone I go to school with always has his headphones in. Whenever I try to talk to him, I have to repeat the first sentence--after he's taken the buds out of his ears. This isn't what music is supposed to be. I'm not at all religious--but I still believe that there is music everywhere in the world. So why deny to yourself what has been given for free?
The conversations missed, people ignored, and sounds lost just don't seem worth it for a constant stream of auditory pleasure. It makes me think of the the soma tablets in Brave New World--where citizens in the future take drugs to stimulate themselves when they feel any negative emotion. Nobody knows how to deal with their personal problems anymore--they just pop their headphones to their ears instead of facing the problem--using music as an "escape." True, I sometimes use music to shut out my own personal demons--but I don't ignore the problem as if music cures my troubles. It simply helps me evaluate life.
I've learned more about music with my headphones out than I have with them in.
The most common practice of achieving this ethereal state is to use standard headphones. Now, I have no objection to listening to music--and I love music as a complete entity--but I would much rather appreciate the events around me rather than having music constantly pumped through my ears. While walking the streets of New York, most of my fellow tourist companions were completely engrossed in whatever they were listening to. I, on the other hand, was listening to a couple break up on 7th street, a car alarm on 5th, and a man trying to sell me a belt buckle in Harlem. These are the things that can only be heard in that specific area--but the modern citizen feels the need to cover that natural beauty with beauty of his own choosing. I simply don't understand.
My relationship with music is deeply personal--and I think part of the reason that I took such a liking to vinyl was that it is not exactly practical. It feels special; as if that slab of vinyl needs to be cared for and cherished--not just thrown on on iPod and picked apart for playlists. It feels as if music has lost that sense of connection to the world and now just acts as background noise.
Granted, that connection can still exist between Man and iPod--it is just much harder to achieve. Someone I go to school with always has his headphones in. Whenever I try to talk to him, I have to repeat the first sentence--after he's taken the buds out of his ears. This isn't what music is supposed to be. I'm not at all religious--but I still believe that there is music everywhere in the world. So why deny to yourself what has been given for free?
The conversations missed, people ignored, and sounds lost just don't seem worth it for a constant stream of auditory pleasure. It makes me think of the the soma tablets in Brave New World--where citizens in the future take drugs to stimulate themselves when they feel any negative emotion. Nobody knows how to deal with their personal problems anymore--they just pop their headphones to their ears instead of facing the problem--using music as an "escape." True, I sometimes use music to shut out my own personal demons--but I don't ignore the problem as if music cures my troubles. It simply helps me evaluate life.
I've learned more about music with my headphones out than I have with them in.
Saturday, May 2, 2009
I Am Fine, I Am Fine, I Am Fine--I Just Need a Hundred Dollars
Last night, I had people over after our improv comedy show. It was just a relaxing hang out. We made a small fire and talked about music and literature. There were some people there that I had never really sat down and talked with--but my close friends were there as well.
We arrived on the subject of music by usual means--I had a record on in the background--so we moved up into my room. One of my friends grabbed my acoustic guitar and we both started playing songs we had written. Another friend, about a half hour into the small concert, made a comment that I completely agree with.
"You know, I see all those people on MySpace that say 'Music is my life' and that just bugs the shit out of me."
I can't stand those shirts that are just "[Blank] is life," because it gives such a one-dimensional view of life. Music is a huge part of my life--but it does not equal life. "Is" is just a synonym for "equals"--in this sense. Life is something that is bigger than all of us and bigger than the sum of all of us--so I find it pretty absurd that our generation can boil the entire concept of "Life" down into a simple sentence.
Music is not life. Basketball is not life. Even love is not life.
Those sayings are only futile attempts to have a form of identity. That same night--we were looking through my old yearbooks and saw a picture of a girl who said that music is her life. She was photographed lying on the ground--CDs strewn about in the perfect messy-yet-completely-controlled formation. The problem--that we all noticed--is that the CDs were either Greatest Hits albums, "Now!" compilations, or just flat-out blank. I had a good laugh.
Even for somebody like Bob Dylan--who has been making music for fifty years--music is not their life. Other issues are present that cannot be qualified or quantified, and I hate that our generation now feels the need to make a statement about "how much we love music." It's almost as if we have to prove our love for things. Not just things, even--people too. Facebook recently added an app that tracks what people enjoy. You can become a fan of "Music," or "Sleeping," or probably fucking "Breathing."
Music is a form of expression. It is a medium for conveying emotion through form. It can touch our souls and our lives--but being so focused on one thing is quite detrimental to the actual form of life.
Has our generation really lost our concept of identity to the point where we need to shout it from the rooftops and across bandwidth just to make sure that others know who we are?
I do not have to prove my love. Yes--music is a huge part of my life; so is theatre--but I associate myself with people whom I feel don't need proof.
We arrived on the subject of music by usual means--I had a record on in the background--so we moved up into my room. One of my friends grabbed my acoustic guitar and we both started playing songs we had written. Another friend, about a half hour into the small concert, made a comment that I completely agree with.
"You know, I see all those people on MySpace that say 'Music is my life' and that just bugs the shit out of me."
I can't stand those shirts that are just "[Blank] is life," because it gives such a one-dimensional view of life. Music is a huge part of my life--but it does not equal life. "Is" is just a synonym for "equals"--in this sense. Life is something that is bigger than all of us and bigger than the sum of all of us--so I find it pretty absurd that our generation can boil the entire concept of "Life" down into a simple sentence.
Music is not life. Basketball is not life. Even love is not life.
Those sayings are only futile attempts to have a form of identity. That same night--we were looking through my old yearbooks and saw a picture of a girl who said that music is her life. She was photographed lying on the ground--CDs strewn about in the perfect messy-yet-completely-controlled formation. The problem--that we all noticed--is that the CDs were either Greatest Hits albums, "Now!" compilations, or just flat-out blank. I had a good laugh.
Even for somebody like Bob Dylan--who has been making music for fifty years--music is not their life. Other issues are present that cannot be qualified or quantified, and I hate that our generation now feels the need to make a statement about "how much we love music." It's almost as if we have to prove our love for things. Not just things, even--people too. Facebook recently added an app that tracks what people enjoy. You can become a fan of "Music," or "Sleeping," or probably fucking "Breathing."
Music is a form of expression. It is a medium for conveying emotion through form. It can touch our souls and our lives--but being so focused on one thing is quite detrimental to the actual form of life.
Has our generation really lost our concept of identity to the point where we need to shout it from the rooftops and across bandwidth just to make sure that others know who we are?
I do not have to prove my love. Yes--music is a huge part of my life; so is theatre--but I associate myself with people whom I feel don't need proof.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Two Minutes Hate
Hateful songs are some of my favorite. "Idiot Wind" by Bob Dylan is one of the meanest, most disrespectful pieces I've ever heard--and it was all inspired by a girl.
The "Two Minutes Hate"--as relating to Orwell's 1984 is a period where every person shouts at a flashing screen of images. The images are the focus of an entire country's hatred. Everything is redirected towards a single entity--and the subject must accept that hatred whether it is legitimately earned or not. In this case--it really wasn't.
I've written two hate songs in the past two days. I don't feel all of the emotions that I put into them--but it sure as fuck helps flush out my system. It also feels weird that the words come so easily.
The "Two Minutes Hate"--as relating to Orwell's 1984 is a period where every person shouts at a flashing screen of images. The images are the focus of an entire country's hatred. Everything is redirected towards a single entity--and the subject must accept that hatred whether it is legitimately earned or not. In this case--it really wasn't.
I've written two hate songs in the past two days. I don't feel all of the emotions that I put into them--but it sure as fuck helps flush out my system. It also feels weird that the words come so easily.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Euphemisms
I also thought that it would be helpful to comment about my use of euphemisms--mostly names--in my writing.
No. I don't know anyone named "Maria" or "Mary" or "Virginia" or "Johnny"--but I've been using them as euphemisms for specific people in my writing for as long as I can remember.
So, if you're worried that you might be one of these faceless people...
You might be.
No. I don't know anyone named "Maria" or "Mary" or "Virginia" or "Johnny"--but I've been using them as euphemisms for specific people in my writing for as long as I can remember.
So, if you're worried that you might be one of these faceless people...
You might be.
The Trap I Set For You Seems to Have Caught My Leg Instead
I need to start playing shows. I've been writing constantly for the past couple months--and some of these songs need to be taken off of my shoulders. They're depressing. They're disturbing. Sometimes I'm scared at what I write.
I wrote this song about a man being hanged for murder--and then realized it was all an allegory about my experiences from the past six months. And while I didn't exactly commit murder, the story still follows very closely all the things I'm ashamed of doing. Here's the chorus:
I recently wrote a song that I've been calling "This'll Take All Night." Very Gaslight Anthem-y, but I add my own story-based spin. It mostly helped me deal with my dependence issues and where they stem from--and how I don't want my children to wind up like me.
My songs are so self-deprecating. It hurts to see those words in my notebook and know that they're true, but part of the process of writing should be realization. A realization that what's been written is meaningful and expressive--and that's how I've been feeling since late October.
I wrote this song about a man being hanged for murder--and then realized it was all an allegory about my experiences from the past six months. And while I didn't exactly commit murder, the story still follows very closely all the things I'm ashamed of doing. Here's the chorus:
Let me die in slumberI guess I just never knew what a toll the constant jealousy was taking on me. Eventually, I got sick of it and just gave up. This song is called "Another Door," but there are so many others that need to be heard by someone other than myself. A song called "Sounded Just Like Fire" chronicles that period of horrible depression and loneliness--where I had one person who seemed to take a reasonable interest. "Crescendo / Decrescendo"--as most of you know--was what pulled me through the months of November and December. Sometimes I play that song when I'm alone--as loudly as possible when no one else is home.
Send your hope to someone else
I only wish you'd notice
Just how much you have helped
Don't watch me now, Maria
It'll only hurt you more
See me led out quietly
Above another door
I recently wrote a song that I've been calling "This'll Take All Night." Very Gaslight Anthem-y, but I add my own story-based spin. It mostly helped me deal with my dependence issues and where they stem from--and how I don't want my children to wind up like me.
My songs are so self-deprecating. It hurts to see those words in my notebook and know that they're true, but part of the process of writing should be realization. A realization that what's been written is meaningful and expressive--and that's how I've been feeling since late October.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Felt My Fingertips Tingle and It Started to Rain
After much deliberation--and many changed ideas--I've decided on my first tattoo. For a while, I was planning on getting something completely universal: either the bass or treble clef, some simple notes, the opening bars of "So What"--but that all changed once I saw this design on my Gaslight Anthem shirt...
Seriously. Just take a look at that beauty. I'll suck up my pussy needle phobia to get THAT THING on my arm. I figure that it'll be my graduation present to myself.
On that note, my mom is now in the process of planning my graduation party. A graduation party that I don't want. I understand where she's coming from, but I can't stand having a party for myself. I don't even tell people when my birthday is anymore--except for this year, but that was because I came into about $12,000. I felt the need to tell people about that. Especially the guys I work with. Haha
I also recently completed my Gaslight Anthem vinyl collection. I don't know how many collectors actually read this blog--but if you're a collector and you're reading this, you already know the feeling that happens right when the exchange of items occurs. I swear, I'm glad I'm not addicted to heroin--because being addicted to vinyl is ten times sweeter. And--presumably--a lot less expensive.
Here's a breakdown of the collection so far. Mind you, Sink or Swim and the Sink or Swim Demos both have a variety of different pressings--each with a different color.
"The '59 Sound" single - 7"
Señor and the Queen - 3rd pressing 7"
The '59 Sound - 2nd pressing [Signed by Brian Fallon] 12"
Sink or Swim - 3rd pressing (Purple Splash) 12" [Pictured above on the turntable]
"Sink or Swim Demos" - 3rd pressing (Green) 7"
And... My prized possession...
Live at Park Avenue - 1st pressing 10" [Signed by EVERYONE]
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They said that this was the first copy of this album that they had ever signed. It was a Record Store Day '09 exclusive, and I'd like to send my thanks to Zia Records for actually having this set aside for me when I came in.
Seriously. Just take a look at that beauty. I'll suck up my pussy needle phobia to get THAT THING on my arm. I figure that it'll be my graduation present to myself.On that note, my mom is now in the process of planning my graduation party. A graduation party that I don't want. I understand where she's coming from, but I can't stand having a party for myself. I don't even tell people when my birthday is anymore--except for this year, but that was because I came into about $12,000. I felt the need to tell people about that. Especially the guys I work with. Haha
I also recently completed my Gaslight Anthem vinyl collection. I don't know how many collectors actually read this blog--but if you're a collector and you're reading this, you already know the feeling that happens right when the exchange of items occurs. I swear, I'm glad I'm not addicted to heroin--because being addicted to vinyl is ten times sweeter. And--presumably--a lot less expensive.
Here's a breakdown of the collection so far. Mind you, Sink or Swim and the Sink or Swim Demos both have a variety of different pressings--each with a different color.
"The '59 Sound" single - 7"
Señor and the Queen - 3rd pressing 7"
The '59 Sound - 2nd pressing [Signed by Brian Fallon] 12"
Sink or Swim - 3rd pressing (Purple Splash) 12" [Pictured above on the turntable]
"Sink or Swim Demos" - 3rd pressing (Green) 7"
And... My prized possession...
Live at Park Avenue - 1st pressing 10" [Signed by EVERYONE]
.jpg)
They said that this was the first copy of this album that they had ever signed. It was a Record Store Day '09 exclusive, and I'd like to send my thanks to Zia Records for actually having this set aside for me when I came in.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Return to Form
I'm typing this post simply as a way to tell myself that I posted something recently. Hopefully this will kick my writer's ass back into gear.
The Gaslight Anthem show was fucking fantastic. I had no worries that it would be anything different. Talked with Brian Fallon after the show for a good fifteen minutes--while everyone else was sweaty and gross in the car--and then got my copy of "Live at Park Avenue" signed.
I'll leave you all with these lyrics and a link to their page. So glad they played this song last night.
The Gaslight Anthem show was fucking fantastic. I had no worries that it would be anything different. Talked with Brian Fallon after the show for a good fifteen minutes--while everyone else was sweaty and gross in the car--and then got my copy of "Live at Park Avenue" signed.
I'll leave you all with these lyrics and a link to their page. So glad they played this song last night.
The Gaslight Anthem - "Blue Jeans and White T-Shirts"
We are the boys from Little Eden
We are the hardest Saturday nights
Drank from the fountains of the fireworks
Sweat and bone for a better life
We like our choruses sung together
We like our arms in our brothers' arms
Call every girl we ever met Maria
But I only love Virginia's heart
And we sing with our heroes thirty-three rounds per minute
We're never going home until the sun says we're finished
And I'll love you forever if I ever love at all
Wild hearts, blue jeans, & white t-shirts
With wild hearts, blue jeans, & white t-shirts
Some things, babe, they never told you
Some things papa doesn't like
Spend a lifetime just to get over
You always said my mama tried
Still we sing with our heroes thirty-three rounds per minute
We're never going home until the sun says we're finished
And I'll love you forever if I ever love at all
Wild hearts, blue jeans, & white t-shirts
With wild hearts, blue jeans, & white t-shirts
So tonight I'll call you from a fourth-street payphone
But I'll sleep on the beach if I ain't got a ride
Someday I'll buy you that house on Cookman
We could sleep on the beach all night
Sleep on the beach if we ain't got a ride
Sleep on the beach all night
Sleep on the beach all night
Sleep on the beach if we ain't got a ride...
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
It's Not Really Something. More Like the Abscence of Something
Wow. I haven't gotten more enjoyment from a website in months. Check this out.
I'll be posting the obligatory New York post later. I need some time to mull it over.
I'll be posting the obligatory New York post later. I need some time to mull it over.
Friday, March 6, 2009
"Your turn. What do you see?"
I was very young. Too young to be reading this material. But something about that yellow cover with a blood-red stain attracted my naive eye towards it. Flipping through pages produced emotions that run the gamut from horror to sheer joy. Of course, I had read a wide variety of comics at the time--with most of my education coming from the stereotypical heroes: Batman, Spider-Man, Superman, the X-Men. The only one from that group that comes close to being entirely human is, the Dark Knight himself. He was my first real journey into the depths of literature--and watching him grow amongst death and chaos helped a small, fragile mind like mine develop enough to think for itself.
And then, there was Watchmen.
These characters were like no one I had ever heard of. A sociopath who does not let killing stop his pursuit of justice. A rapist asshole who understands the joke--and who was rumored to have shot John F. Kennedy. A human-being who has reached the peak of performance, but still keeps his college-professor demeanor. The man who hung up his suit to lead a better life, and got nowhere. A god among men--who cannot connect with any of them.
So, after almost ten years of waiting for an on-screen adaptation, Zack Snyder has bestowed upon us his view of Alan Moore's cherished baby.
I loved it the first time. I enjoyed myself the second time. And yet there was a twinge of disappointment in the back of my brain. I tried to force myself to forgive Snyder for taking his creative liberties with the ending, but I feel like I've been let down. A book as deep as Watchmen has constantly been called "un-filmable," and I now have to agree. Jackie Earl Haley (Rorschach) Jeffrey Dean Morgan (Comedian) and Patrick Wilson (Nite Owl II) all turn in fantastic performances. It is now impossible to read any of Rorschach's lines from the novel without hearing Haley's haunting, noir narration.
But, looking back and removing my rose-colored glasses, I feel so... underwhelmed. At first, I was fine with Snyder changing the ending, but now--I resent it. It misses the point. The ending is supposed to unite the entire planet under one common goal, but now they pin the whole mess on Dr. Manhattan--who is fine to take the blame. The scenes of Laurie and Jon walking through the rubble and bodies and blood--which takes TWELVE full splash-pages in the novel--is over in barely thirty seconds. If Ozymandias was supposed to feel the guilt of his actions, why aren't they shown?
The subtle details and characters were all there, but they felt empty. I was eager to see how Snyder would pull off Hollis Mason's murder--and he wasn't. In a book that involves so much human suffering--why did Snyder remove the suffering?
Snyder is fantastic at taking a piece of literature, skimming across the top, and producing a polished--if not perfect--work of art. So, while I didn't enjoy 300 as much as everyone else did, I applauded him for his general loyalty to the original material. The movie opens with a fantastically nostalgic montage of the alternate world that Watchmen is set in--which is, in particular, one of my absolute favorite scenes. But then, I was forced to acquiesce to Snyder's choices and fight back my own grievances.
I let it slide that Hollis Mason is in approximately two minutes of the movie. I overlooked that Silk Spectre I may have had the worst makeup in superhero history. I tried to understand why Malin Ackerman decided to over-act to the point of nausea.
Maybe it's because I feel so attached to the source. After the thrill of seeing the legendary characters on-screen for the first time had died down--I was left feeling empty. Perhaps my expectations were too high. Watchmen has always been one of my favorite books to loan out because I love seeing somebody's reaction as they read the same story that affected me ten years ago--and most everybody's reaction to the movie was just the same. But I felt like something was missing from the entirety of the film, and I don't think Snyder could do anything about it.
I knew from the beginning that the movie would never replace the novel. It's just impossible. But it feels as if Snyder stayed just faithful enough to get the point across--a point he casually throws in towards the ending. Of course, we were granted the gift of seeing Rorschach, Nite Owl, and Comedian played completely perfectly--and that is something that will always make the movie re-watchable--but the rest of the cast is played either too shallow or too over dramatic.
I want to love this movie. I really do. But can't you forgive me for not being blown away like I was by the novel? If you've already seen the movie, try to look with an objective eye at what you watched. It took me a while to see, and I'm not entirely sure if I appreciate my new point of view. But I can't change it now, can I?
All of my feelings for this novel can't be expressed in just one short blog post--so if you'd like to know everything that ran through my mind, then we can chat about it.
And then, there was Watchmen.
These characters were like no one I had ever heard of. A sociopath who does not let killing stop his pursuit of justice. A rapist asshole who understands the joke--and who was rumored to have shot John F. Kennedy. A human-being who has reached the peak of performance, but still keeps his college-professor demeanor. The man who hung up his suit to lead a better life, and got nowhere. A god among men--who cannot connect with any of them.
So, after almost ten years of waiting for an on-screen adaptation, Zack Snyder has bestowed upon us his view of Alan Moore's cherished baby.
I loved it the first time. I enjoyed myself the second time. And yet there was a twinge of disappointment in the back of my brain. I tried to force myself to forgive Snyder for taking his creative liberties with the ending, but I feel like I've been let down. A book as deep as Watchmen has constantly been called "un-filmable," and I now have to agree. Jackie Earl Haley (Rorschach) Jeffrey Dean Morgan (Comedian) and Patrick Wilson (Nite Owl II) all turn in fantastic performances. It is now impossible to read any of Rorschach's lines from the novel without hearing Haley's haunting, noir narration.
But, looking back and removing my rose-colored glasses, I feel so... underwhelmed. At first, I was fine with Snyder changing the ending, but now--I resent it. It misses the point. The ending is supposed to unite the entire planet under one common goal, but now they pin the whole mess on Dr. Manhattan--who is fine to take the blame. The scenes of Laurie and Jon walking through the rubble and bodies and blood--which takes TWELVE full splash-pages in the novel--is over in barely thirty seconds. If Ozymandias was supposed to feel the guilt of his actions, why aren't they shown?
The subtle details and characters were all there, but they felt empty. I was eager to see how Snyder would pull off Hollis Mason's murder--and he wasn't. In a book that involves so much human suffering--why did Snyder remove the suffering?
Snyder is fantastic at taking a piece of literature, skimming across the top, and producing a polished--if not perfect--work of art. So, while I didn't enjoy 300 as much as everyone else did, I applauded him for his general loyalty to the original material. The movie opens with a fantastically nostalgic montage of the alternate world that Watchmen is set in--which is, in particular, one of my absolute favorite scenes. But then, I was forced to acquiesce to Snyder's choices and fight back my own grievances.
I let it slide that Hollis Mason is in approximately two minutes of the movie. I overlooked that Silk Spectre I may have had the worst makeup in superhero history. I tried to understand why Malin Ackerman decided to over-act to the point of nausea.
Maybe it's because I feel so attached to the source. After the thrill of seeing the legendary characters on-screen for the first time had died down--I was left feeling empty. Perhaps my expectations were too high. Watchmen has always been one of my favorite books to loan out because I love seeing somebody's reaction as they read the same story that affected me ten years ago--and most everybody's reaction to the movie was just the same. But I felt like something was missing from the entirety of the film, and I don't think Snyder could do anything about it.
I knew from the beginning that the movie would never replace the novel. It's just impossible. But it feels as if Snyder stayed just faithful enough to get the point across--a point he casually throws in towards the ending. Of course, we were granted the gift of seeing Rorschach, Nite Owl, and Comedian played completely perfectly--and that is something that will always make the movie re-watchable--but the rest of the cast is played either too shallow or too over dramatic.
I want to love this movie. I really do. But can't you forgive me for not being blown away like I was by the novel? If you've already seen the movie, try to look with an objective eye at what you watched. It took me a while to see, and I'm not entirely sure if I appreciate my new point of view. But I can't change it now, can I?
All of my feelings for this novel can't be expressed in just one short blog post--so if you'd like to know everything that ran through my mind, then we can chat about it.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Darkness On the Edge of Town
I'll be turning 18 on April 3rd, 2009. Bruce Springsteen will be at the Dodge Theatre that night. The Bruce Springsteen. The Bruce that taught me about high school and love and hope and helped me through more lonely nights than possibly any other person.
I'll be missing that show.
It would have been so perfect.
It would have been so perfect.
Ironically, I'll be performing in Hamilton's dinner-theatre performance that. Theatre has taught me so much as well--but no one comes close to The Boss when it comes to high school.
I like to think that I'll be there in spirit--but I won't. Mine will be out on the stage.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
The Wrestler
So, apparently, if you play a homo or a retard--you win an Oscar.
No offense, but come on. Mickey Rourke had the best performance of the year in The Wrestler, and he's back on the rise from his recent rock bottom. I'll admit that Sean Penn had a great performance, but Rourke got screwed. He played a character that wasn't an Oscar-winning stereotype, and that should have counted for something.
Oh, and The Wrestler should have one Best Picture over Slumdog too. I'm so sick of people slobbering over Slumdog Millionaire. Yay--it's an average movie from the Middle East that just happens to have amazing cinematography, but there's no way it's better than The Wrestler, Milk, or Frost / Nixon. Hell, the kids in Slumdog all out-acted their adult counterparts.
And a big "Bravo!" to Heath Ledger and his family--who definitely had the best acceptance speech of the night. Kate Winslett was great, too.
All in all, it was a very good Oscar night--even though Curious Case of Benjamin Button shouldn't have been nominated for Best Picture. Especially because The Dark Knight was a thousand times better.
No offense, but come on. Mickey Rourke had the best performance of the year in The Wrestler, and he's back on the rise from his recent rock bottom. I'll admit that Sean Penn had a great performance, but Rourke got screwed. He played a character that wasn't an Oscar-winning stereotype, and that should have counted for something.
Oh, and The Wrestler should have one Best Picture over Slumdog too. I'm so sick of people slobbering over Slumdog Millionaire. Yay--it's an average movie from the Middle East that just happens to have amazing cinematography, but there's no way it's better than The Wrestler, Milk, or Frost / Nixon. Hell, the kids in Slumdog all out-acted their adult counterparts.
And a big "Bravo!" to Heath Ledger and his family--who definitely had the best acceptance speech of the night. Kate Winslett was great, too.
All in all, it was a very good Oscar night--even though Curious Case of Benjamin Button shouldn't have been nominated for Best Picture. Especially because The Dark Knight was a thousand times better.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
With a Little Help From My Friends
I have this strange feeling sometimes. Like I'm supposed to write a specific song. Usually, the song produces itself through normal methods--such as brainstorming or just flat-out inspiration. But, for the longest time, I've felt like there was a song in me that I could never get to come out.
In fourth grade, I had a close friend named Bobby Fisher. He was an unbelievable kid. He drew and painted like no one I'd ever seen. Granted--we were only nine years old, but I looked up to him as a best friend and confidant. We were practically polar opposites when it came to art. He could visualize and then create anything he wanted--and I was always the aural counterpart. We had a lot of great memories; my mom and his were even friends in college.
On a cold day in April, Bobby didn't come to school. At recess, we saw smoke rising from his neighborhood. At our baseball game that night, he wasn't there.
I returned home after a night of fun to a news report. An emotionless news anchor delivered the words like a stone--sinking deep into my heart.
Robert Fisher, Bobby's father, had waited until his family had fallen asleep. He then collected his hunting knife, lighter fluid, and camping supplies. He piled the supplies into his truck, lit the house on fire and then drove away--but not before waking each member of the household just long enough to slit their throats.
Bobby was awake when his own father killed him.
After reading a friend's entry on losing someone close, I felt that she and I had a lot of the same common feelings. So, I have to give her credit for this song. It doesn't have a title yet--she hasn't gotten back to me--but I'd like to think of this as Bobby's song.
© Casey Reed, 2009
A big thank you to Lauren for finally dragging this song out of me.
In fourth grade, I had a close friend named Bobby Fisher. He was an unbelievable kid. He drew and painted like no one I'd ever seen. Granted--we were only nine years old, but I looked up to him as a best friend and confidant. We were practically polar opposites when it came to art. He could visualize and then create anything he wanted--and I was always the aural counterpart. We had a lot of great memories; my mom and his were even friends in college.
On a cold day in April, Bobby didn't come to school. At recess, we saw smoke rising from his neighborhood. At our baseball game that night, he wasn't there.
I returned home after a night of fun to a news report. An emotionless news anchor delivered the words like a stone--sinking deep into my heart.
Robert Fisher, Bobby's father, had waited until his family had fallen asleep. He then collected his hunting knife, lighter fluid, and camping supplies. He piled the supplies into his truck, lit the house on fire and then drove away--but not before waking each member of the household just long enough to slit their throats.
Bobby was awake when his own father killed him.
After reading a friend's entry on losing someone close, I felt that she and I had a lot of the same common feelings. So, I have to give her credit for this song. It doesn't have a title yet--she hasn't gotten back to me--but I'd like to think of this as Bobby's song.
Untitled
As the train rattled past the quiet house
Muffled by a heavy sigh
I read the letters that he wrote that night
Signed his name one last time
The walk by the River, the mass that night
Moon reflecting in his eyes
Watched my brother break down
Slipping back through endless life
[Chorus]
He would have been the one to end it all
Caught me right before the fall
We all knew where he was going
Just didn't know where he had gone
Clouds in your heart drew words of love
Silence choked the air
Rolling boulders to the top of Hell
Just to have them roll back down
[Chorus]
[Bridge]
Didn't deserve it, didn't even know
Still has the music buried in the snow
Didn't deserve it, didn't even know
Buried that music deep in my soul
We haven't seen or heard from him
Since he traveled on
Watched the smoke rise up again
Write another sad song and move on
Write another sad song and move on
[Chorus]
He would have been the one to end it all
Caught me right before the fall
We all knew where he was going
Just didn't know where he had gone
© Casey Reed, 2009
A big thank you to Lauren for finally dragging this song out of me.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Blue In Green
Picked up the 50th Anniversary Edition of Kind of Blue. The packaging is amazing, so I thought I would share.
BLUE vinyl! Amazing! It's almost opaque--but you can see right through it!
The packaging is a hardshell sleeve type with embossed "50s" along the outside
BLUE vinyl! Amazing! It's almost opaque--but you can see right through it!
The packaging is a hardshell sleeve type with embossed "50s" along the outside
The commemorative book has two identical posters--one I plan to frame and the other to keep with the rest of the memoribilia. The book contains pictures and essays about the album equalling out to almost 10,000 words!
Inside the gate-fold sleeve are the two CDs, one DVD, and the LP is in its normal spot in the front half of the sleeve. The track listings are next to each CD, and pianist Bill Evan's essay for the album is printed on the inside fold.
Inside this packet, there are five 8x10 photos, a copy of the handwritten essay by Bill Evans, and a reproduction of the original 1959 liner notes and book--which were both included with the original.
All of the contents
Inside the gate-fold sleeve are the two CDs, one DVD, and the LP is in its normal spot in the front half of the sleeve. The track listings are next to each CD, and pianist Bill Evan's essay for the album is printed on the inside fold.
Inside this packet, there are five 8x10 photos, a copy of the handwritten essay by Bill Evans, and a reproduction of the original 1959 liner notes and book--which were both included with the original.
All of the contentsObviously, I'm sort of having a miniature music-nerd freak out. Who else would photograph themselves opening a record?
You know how some people put their arms in front of their kids when the child is riding in the front seat?
I did that with this album.
You know how some people put their arms in front of their kids when the child is riding in the front seat?
I did that with this album.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
The Way Young Lovers Do
I've noticed something not too recently--mostly about my own relationships and dorky crushes.
Most of the girls I've been attracted to, either for a brief moment or a long period of time, have all been very faithful to some higher power. This pattern stretches all the way back to my Freshmen year, but I'm just now seeing it.
I've never been particularly religious, which has been a struggle for me since around 7th grade. I did go to church as a kid--but I never acknowledged those nights as actual spiritual events. The Christian activities we would go through were always just minor inconveniences in the path toward playing around with my friends. These experiences have obviously spilled over into my high school years--but my lack of faith has affected me more than I'll let myself believe.
Is it wrong of me to not want to go to church? My sister is afraid that I'll go to Hell--but even that doesn't convince me to try to change my ways. In all honesty, I don't think I can change my ways. Flipping through channels with preacher after preacher just totally disgusts me--but I can never pinpoint the reason why that is.
But I think I'm starting to realize my reasoning.
During the time of night when most people are praying--I'm listening. When most people are praising--I'm writing. When most people are worshiping--I'm too busy thinking.
I've now learned that I have a negative view towards religion because I've replaced these normal religious activities with my own sense of introspection and thought. I'm not one of these "God Hates Fags" people and I don't protest outside churches, but I feel that my own way of worship is better for myself--so I don't plan on changing anytime soon.
So now I'm trying to fill that spiritual void in myself, with ever-degrading results. Fortunately, this leads me to listen to more music--which brings me to new heights during every listen.
Most of the girls I've been attracted to, either for a brief moment or a long period of time, have all been very faithful to some higher power. This pattern stretches all the way back to my Freshmen year, but I'm just now seeing it.
I've never been particularly religious, which has been a struggle for me since around 7th grade. I did go to church as a kid--but I never acknowledged those nights as actual spiritual events. The Christian activities we would go through were always just minor inconveniences in the path toward playing around with my friends. These experiences have obviously spilled over into my high school years--but my lack of faith has affected me more than I'll let myself believe.
Is it wrong of me to not want to go to church? My sister is afraid that I'll go to Hell--but even that doesn't convince me to try to change my ways. In all honesty, I don't think I can change my ways. Flipping through channels with preacher after preacher just totally disgusts me--but I can never pinpoint the reason why that is.
But I think I'm starting to realize my reasoning.
During the time of night when most people are praying--I'm listening. When most people are praising--I'm writing. When most people are worshiping--I'm too busy thinking.
I've now learned that I have a negative view towards religion because I've replaced these normal religious activities with my own sense of introspection and thought. I'm not one of these "God Hates Fags" people and I don't protest outside churches, but I feel that my own way of worship is better for myself--so I don't plan on changing anytime soon.
So now I'm trying to fill that spiritual void in myself, with ever-degrading results. Fortunately, this leads me to listen to more music--which brings me to new heights during every listen.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Our Lives Will Have Once Crossed By Then
I'm writing about it spontaneously. This is not good.
Not good at all...
Not good at all...
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Crescendo / Decrescendo
Jeff Buckley died at just 31 years of age. He will be defined by one piece of art--and one piece only. I realize the argument. "But we aren't defined by just what we do!"--but part of me still sees that as his only true definition. Grace was what he brought into the world, and it was almost as if he was put on Earth to record that single album before his passing.
After writing my Senior Project song back in November, I was terrified that this will be my final definition for myself. Even during my countless rewrites--it still never felt completely whole. It really only took one line to make me change my mind on the piece.
First off, I had mentally stumbled upon the titled "Crescendo / Decrescendo," which I am extremely happy with. Secondly, I brought out my harmonica to add touches to the beginning and end. I'll post the lyrics here, but expect a recorded audio version to arrive shortly as well.
Crescendo / Decrescendo
We woke up this morning
Different people than we were
Walked back down those side streets alone
But each night I see your face
In every corner shop window
I have to pass as I walk home
But that's okay
What's done is done
And I can't hold you here like that
It's time that I just let you go
Just keep on walkin'
Don't turn around
'Cause I might see that look upon your face
That I know so well
Just keep on breathin'
That midnight air
Right now I feel colder than
Dante's Hell
The Devil weeps upon his throne
Broken heart in hand
Even Lucifer can't please everyone he meets
And sometimes I like to think
I'm not as crazy as I sound
Empty souls carry no memories around
But that's okay
What's done is done
And I can't hold you here like that
Trapped inside these four walls
Just keep on walkin'
Don't turn around
'Cause I might see that look upon your face
That I know so well
Just keep on breathin'
That midnight air
Right now I feel colder than
Dante's Hell
Meetin' with the Man himself
Across the River wide
Hoping judgment comes down on me tonight
And I'm praying for the first time
But probably not my last
Being lowered into the chilly depths of life
But that's okay
What's done is done
And I can't hold you here like that
I'll turn around if you turn first
Just keep on walkin'
Don't turn around
'Cause I might see that look upon your face
That I know so well
Just keep on breathin'
That midnight air
Right now I feel colder than
Dante's Hell
Right now I feel colder than
Dante's Hell
After writing my Senior Project song back in November, I was terrified that this will be my final definition for myself. Even during my countless rewrites--it still never felt completely whole. It really only took one line to make me change my mind on the piece.
First off, I had mentally stumbled upon the titled "Crescendo / Decrescendo," which I am extremely happy with. Secondly, I brought out my harmonica to add touches to the beginning and end. I'll post the lyrics here, but expect a recorded audio version to arrive shortly as well.
Crescendo / Decrescendo
We woke up this morning
Different people than we were
Walked back down those side streets alone
But each night I see your face
In every corner shop window
I have to pass as I walk home
But that's okay
What's done is done
And I can't hold you here like that
It's time that I just let you go
Just keep on walkin'
Don't turn around
'Cause I might see that look upon your face
That I know so well
Just keep on breathin'
That midnight air
Right now I feel colder than
Dante's Hell
The Devil weeps upon his throne
Broken heart in hand
Even Lucifer can't please everyone he meets
And sometimes I like to think
I'm not as crazy as I sound
Empty souls carry no memories around
But that's okay
What's done is done
And I can't hold you here like that
Trapped inside these four walls
Just keep on walkin'
Don't turn around
'Cause I might see that look upon your face
That I know so well
Just keep on breathin'
That midnight air
Right now I feel colder than
Dante's Hell
Meetin' with the Man himself
Across the River wide
Hoping judgment comes down on me tonight
And I'm praying for the first time
But probably not my last
Being lowered into the chilly depths of life
But that's okay
What's done is done
And I can't hold you here like that
I'll turn around if you turn first
Just keep on walkin'
Don't turn around
'Cause I might see that look upon your face
That I know so well
Just keep on breathin'
That midnight air
Right now I feel colder than
Dante's Hell
Right now I feel colder than
Dante's Hell
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Acid Tongue
Tomorrow will start a new period in my life. I'm a little scared of what could reveal itself from the results, but this is something I know I have to do. For those of you who have never forced yourself to do something beneficial--this may seem odd, but this will be an event of self control which will go unmatched for years to come.
I will not be buying any records in the month of February.
Starting tomorrow, not a penny of my small, disposable income will go towards the purchase of any of those damned vinyl discs. Admittedly, this is not because of a recent falling out between records and me--just the fact that I need to save up some money for my ever-approaching trip to New York. Most likely, I will end up spending at least $100 on vinyl in New York--some of my favorite shops are only found in the great city--but that will be in the month of March.
Yesterday marked my last purchasing excursion to Zia Records for at least a month. I bought the new Jenny Lewis album, The Stand Ins by Okkervil River, and Moondance by Van Morrison--for a grand total of $50.39. Do I regret this decision? Hell no. Because from this point forward, I will not be a slave to my addiction. From this moment on, I will not be controlled by outside sources or promising preview MP3s. Until the ides of March, I will be the master of my own domain.
Oh. Until the copy of Astral Weeks I special ordered comes in next week. That's the only exception.
In fact--I retract my previous statements.
I will not be buying any records in the month of February.
Starting tomorrow, not a penny of my small, disposable income will go towards the purchase of any of those damned vinyl discs. Admittedly, this is not because of a recent falling out between records and me--just the fact that I need to save up some money for my ever-approaching trip to New York. Most likely, I will end up spending at least $100 on vinyl in New York--some of my favorite shops are only found in the great city--but that will be in the month of March.
Yesterday marked my last purchasing excursion to Zia Records for at least a month. I bought the new Jenny Lewis album, The Stand Ins by Okkervil River, and Moondance by Van Morrison--for a grand total of $50.39. Do I regret this decision? Hell no. Because from this point forward, I will not be a slave to my addiction. From this moment on, I will not be controlled by outside sources or promising preview MP3s. Until the ides of March, I will be the master of my own domain.
Oh. Until the copy of Astral Weeks I special ordered comes in next week. That's the only exception.
In fact--I retract my previous statements.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Lilac Wine
I hate being sick. It feels like the life has just been sucked out of me, and I've been left as a useless being at home. I don't like missing school or rehearsal or everything else I was planning on doing today. It's just flat out awful.
Bruce Springsteen's new album Working On a Dream is surprisingly good. When he announced the corny titled and played the eponymous song at an Obama rally--I was a little worried. But all of a sudden, Bruce has gone back to his glory days. The record is very reminiscent of Born to Run, my second favorite Springsteen album. It has a lot of very different, odd instruments--new recording strategies, and some very powerful vocals. The final track, "The Last Carnival," pays homage to the late Dan Federici, who played accordion and organ for the E Street Band for as long as I can remember.
Last night, I was lost in a haze of sickness and lack of sleep. Luckily, Mr. D had just given me back my copy of the Legacy Edition of Grace by Jeff Buckley. I spent the next hour or so completely engulfed in an album that I've listened to so many times. The thing I love about music is how each listener can take something completely different. One of my favorite quotes is from Jeff Buckley himself, when asked what he wanted people to take away from his music...
"Whatever they want."
Bruce Springsteen's new album Working On a Dream is surprisingly good. When he announced the corny titled and played the eponymous song at an Obama rally--I was a little worried. But all of a sudden, Bruce has gone back to his glory days. The record is very reminiscent of Born to Run, my second favorite Springsteen album. It has a lot of very different, odd instruments--new recording strategies, and some very powerful vocals. The final track, "The Last Carnival," pays homage to the late Dan Federici, who played accordion and organ for the E Street Band for as long as I can remember.
Last night, I was lost in a haze of sickness and lack of sleep. Luckily, Mr. D had just given me back my copy of the Legacy Edition of Grace by Jeff Buckley. I spent the next hour or so completely engulfed in an album that I've listened to so many times. The thing I love about music is how each listener can take something completely different. One of my favorite quotes is from Jeff Buckley himself, when asked what he wanted people to take away from his music...
"Whatever they want."
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Shelter From the Storm
Gift giving is so touchy. I feel as if most people have simply given up on trying to express their feelings for someone else through something as simple as a gift. Understandably, I'm not the last person on the planet to really search for the perfect present--but things are getting out of hand. I've always considered my selections to be personal and thoughtful, but the world is starting to turn the other cheek.
At a store next to where I work, there is a sign on the door that announces "Stop spending time looking for the perfect gift--buy a gift card!" How boring. How ridiculous. Everything about giving gifts that I love is slowly being stripped away by corporations and managers begging for gift card sales. Even my own store was pushing those drab pieces of plastic to every other customer.
Admittedly, I almost always end up buying somebody an album--but that album will not just be whatever happens to be popular at the time. It will be a piece of art that I know will affect them as an individual and that I know they will listen to over and over again.
Just yesterday, at a birthday party I was invited to, the recipient received three gift cards and one unwrapped ten dollar bill. Meanwhile, I gave her a copy of The '59 Sound. Granted, I did get some glares at work for buying the album for the third time--but what can I do? Everyone loves it.
Are people just getting lazy--or am I just trying too hard?
At a store next to where I work, there is a sign on the door that announces "Stop spending time looking for the perfect gift--buy a gift card!" How boring. How ridiculous. Everything about giving gifts that I love is slowly being stripped away by corporations and managers begging for gift card sales. Even my own store was pushing those drab pieces of plastic to every other customer.
Admittedly, I almost always end up buying somebody an album--but that album will not just be whatever happens to be popular at the time. It will be a piece of art that I know will affect them as an individual and that I know they will listen to over and over again.
Just yesterday, at a birthday party I was invited to, the recipient received three gift cards and one unwrapped ten dollar bill. Meanwhile, I gave her a copy of The '59 Sound. Granted, I did get some glares at work for buying the album for the third time--but what can I do? Everyone loves it.
Are people just getting lazy--or am I just trying too hard?
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Bleedin' Out From All These Wounds
I'm telling myself now that I will update regularly now. A new year has come and practically gone--and I'm afraid at how much has changed. Part of my old-self keeps trying to reason with my new-self about life and comfort and clarity, but neither side can be mature enough to admit that the other is correct. Much like my own personality--even my subconscious is stubborn.
Sometimes I listen to what people tell me about myself. Other times I don't. It's as simple as that. I admit that I'm a horrible snob--but I don't see any reason to try and alter that. And instead of "snobby," I prefer "selective."
While I was writing out my usual list of Top Ten Albums of the Year--namely for 2008, as it was last year--I began to think about how each work inspired my own writing. After being exposed to The Gaslight Anthem sometime in August, I was hooked. It was the modern Springsteen I had been searching for my entire life. Both of their records now sit nicely tucked away in my collection. I finished writing my song for my Senior Project... Should I be capitalizing that? It seems too important not to...
But mixed up in all of the excitement of graduation, life, and music--I'm still able to hold on to what matters most. I'm not exactly sure what that is yet--but my song definitely does.
Sometimes I listen to what people tell me about myself. Other times I don't. It's as simple as that. I admit that I'm a horrible snob--but I don't see any reason to try and alter that. And instead of "snobby," I prefer "selective."
While I was writing out my usual list of Top Ten Albums of the Year--namely for 2008, as it was last year--I began to think about how each work inspired my own writing. After being exposed to The Gaslight Anthem sometime in August, I was hooked. It was the modern Springsteen I had been searching for my entire life. Both of their records now sit nicely tucked away in my collection. I finished writing my song for my Senior Project... Should I be capitalizing that? It seems too important not to...
But mixed up in all of the excitement of graduation, life, and music--I'm still able to hold on to what matters most. I'm not exactly sure what that is yet--but my song definitely does.
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