uninterested.

formspring.me

2010-11-13T10:33:00.001-08:00

if thats how you feel. http://formspring.me/miriamestime

Out There, not the-n

2010-06-09T08:09:00.000-07:00

Created a blog for the consideration of others but I guess it's a good thing because I am just tryna to make it.

Festivities Rushing

2010-05-27T06:03:00.000-07:00

5 may 2010

During the fall of six o’clock, Teddy the Tractable observed the many marital potentials throughout the pit. A father tying three kids to his shirt hem and cuff, eyes darting. He seemed portent to snap. His temporal vein was as bright as the bags under his eyes and his daughter vibrated hyperactively with a balloon disturbing the spirit. Not an Elektra Complex, though. Teddy knew it wasn't that. The baby in the carriage, probably just about a year, sucked on its thumb, which was attached to a tiny bottle. The girl dribbled the rubber on his dangling chain of keys and he eyed her, then huffed, then eyed a blank space that provided patience. Teddy rubbed the ringing out his ears. Perhaps his daughter would grow into him. He rose from the energy. Inflation afloat that stressed the serenity was a supplement to her nomination as well. Moments passed and his patience was already as cadaverous as the escalator being penetrated by the carriage. He feared fearing solitude, which would antagonize him with ideas of fear itself. It was a cycle at six o’clock, he knew. He sat in the pit, birthing the settlement of SPD he was home to. His own lethargy; his reassurance. He knew. A woman’s diamonds met the festive lights hanging from the second-storey balcony and he saw her flapper-painted face. Red lipstick, bright mouth, moderate smoke eyes. Her buttons pinned tight to her pea coat; her nails flossed like candy displays on Springdale in 1940. But she resembled strength. Sternness struck and stuck. The genetic strength of original labor workers; the supposed demeanor of that sooty mangabey. And her skin slid roughly under the tending to and creams. Beneath the feminism so present in gripping and grabbing husky crops and hauling them in sweaty bags for more humid work by their breeding mates, or husbands. Perhaps it was the ladylikeness of a civilly moving urban theatre arts performer, muscles cut through the forearm and the thighs, body probably stiff in a summer dress no matter the product radiance. They were all fighting for civility. Her arms were outspread in the relation of the Venn Diagram. But on the side where beating was less through love, the Nightingale rocked their equal distinction and performance. And they developed the same bone structure and they gave the same strength. Teddy shuddered, deciding that she was fading in potential. A fragile woman rushed in maroon pants. He let her go. He scratched his dirty head and carved the residue from his nails. Everything was yellow. The conurbation combusted like the West Side of town in 1994. Everything was far from flaccid. Eyes opened, necks sturdy. When the time arrived, he’d wonder how he succeeded a point so rejected; so low. She hadn’t even heard his voice, which would have drawn her in, let alone. He liked to believe he was well spoken. Monotonous and enunciating. She wouldn’t suspect the appearance but the appeal. But it was never the appeal but the impression. His ticket read ten o’clock when the matinee was over. A date. Loneliness inviting. Lowliness inviting. A big, serene date, balloons disturbing between but eventually setting his amorous masculinity free. Combustion like in 1994; jocularity like in 1940. He rubbed the ringing out his ears and smoothed his hair parted to the left. He saw purple at the corner of his eye. It was seven o’clock already. A whole day’s passed. Chimes rang. He flashed. Trickery understandably afloat. Teenagers planning on retreating to the garage.

2010-05-27T06:02:00.001-07:00

If he finally let himself fall into this position, it would be a miracle if he didn’t injure his head. And just now he had better not for the life of him loose consciousness; he would rather stay in bed.

The Trailer Home

2010-05-27T05:19:00.001-07:00

19 may 2010

It was on a Wednesday when he realized he didn’t want to be with me anymore. That Wednesday seven weeks directly after he was exonerated. And my hair hung over my face, dripping into a curl from the happy joke the boys rose from. The bucket sat in the corner, seemingly untouched. The paint was on me. And they laughed and they chuckled. I was red with benzene. He never promised this wouldn’t happen. The seven months he gave to me and the fives months we retreated never promised a cold release of red accusations and fury. The fury that coated; the fury I questioned. I was alone always. I felt stupid, to express it brunt. I felt a relapse. He was better and grown and I told him I’d kiss him because we had intimate history. He asked what I’d do and I reassured we were comfortable still. I reassured because we had a spirit. He lifted to know he’d egress easily. As did the chortles and the snickers. Someone choked on his euphoria. My hair dried stiff at the thought of me lying in the grass, the first day in a long time. Him crawling over and owning a smooch on me and returning to something more worth distraction. I looked into the sky, knowing that was how we belonged. Comfort and ease. Sure, ease but not an egress. He already had me. Or I let him think he was coming and going. He was there all along. No, he was coming and going. He trotted in and trotted out and I was his fallacy of hope; a fallacy of his hope. I love you like in texts. I love you like with levity. But I knew that. I just didn’t think its extremity was so juvenile; so middle school. So rageful. I tried. I was one of two set in mind. I was devoted to a bull imitator and the bull imitator’s friends. But all I want is my notebook back because I’ve realized that I consider it as important as he does his red bucket.

Learned

2010-05-26T05:02:00.000-07:00

12 may 2010

What I’ve realized is that he’s a mouse. He’s like one of those who shoot black beads of sweat when portent to be contained because he’s trapped in a corner. Four walls are a horror. There’s no reason for him to be contained. In all the grade school years he had absorbed, he surely accomplished the dames. He gave interest while the rest paid it until he reached that point perceived as a peak because he was with it. Then he was complete. So he took the predator back and she gave him all she had. You know, he’s more like a shark; a loan shark. Because he was at that peak and he was ready to pay interest and she paid all the era permitted her to and hoped serving interest would compensate still. But he felt insouciant and she lost her house. And his substance began to wane. And his interest was still available but his concentration complained and she multiplied some focus and swimming began to stop and the suffocation began to bead. And she knew she didn’t like him. He fibbed intentions. How great to seem to love her company like going to see Ironman 2 and that art show together. But Alice in Wonderland and that diluted party was a cherished invite. Maybe some days he found her name in passing, automatically insisting that she was okay, which hurt her more to infer. She was his insignificant. Their relations were inconsequential unless his wanker felt insight. She wouldn’t go an event without him. She wondered if he’d still go to afterprom. Probably, if it included other kids from grade school. Yeah, she came from a different coast where you learned not to remember who was in your freshman classes. But he was proactively focused and everything he said was dogmatic and went. And others saw her as aggravated and bent out of shape. And she saw him as inherent. That was it. She loved the whole person he was. She loathed the idea of being the one who extracted his fear and his stubbornness; remained in the free spectrum of interest with payments to complement his competence, paying all that the era permitted her to, hoping it would compensate. From it, it was enough. She saw him as inherent so she was pliant. That was the reason. He was wholly the person she amateurely held fervid feelings for; she thought she was, too. But she realized that he, being repetitive to the foundation that made her stumble into hate, was all she clutched alike. Not a filler but a shirt cuff she had to pursue, suffocating and choking with mere obligation. Yeah, he was like a dog, panting beads of saliva, needing a friend. No she was like a dog. Kicked and cuddled and kicked. They were dogs, not neutered, chumming while being the best of someone else more worth it. And I just want my notebook back.

outkast - vibrate

2010-04-24T16:37:00.000-07:00

the slides were touching but this is a song about self-ejaculation..

d.

2010-04-09T06:09:00.000-07:00

http://srhje.tumblr.com/post/167855539

2010-03-23T10:32:00.000-07:00

if america is going to be an anti-abortion nation, the government should provide aids for every accidental impregnation of underprivileged females.

2010-03-15T06:00:00.001-07:00

inadequate service and pending road repairs demand residents to buy their own cars; however, prices for transportation across the bridges and the hoarding traffic do not alleviate the frustration.

Isaac Hayes: A Hip Hop Inspiration

2009-09-18T21:01:00.001-07:00

Isaac Hayes: A Hip Hop Inspiration

Posted using ShareThis

Formspring

2009-09-04T18:52:00.000-07:00

A private assessment site sometimes used for q&a. People tell or ask, you comment or answer via blog. In this labrinyth of trendy technology, interviewing and posting is but a waft of a sigh. It's cool for recreation but as ridiculous as calling blogging a profession.

mine
responses might not be on the immediate page

I Just Want My Pants Back

2009-08-29T21:59:00.000-07:00

Last year, around this time, summertime dubbed laziness and my sister and my mother purchased a book of everyone’s choice. I got I Just Want My Pans Back by David J. Rosen, which was unanimous in my pros against my cynicism against a triplet of MTV books. I guess the lack of a underlining mainstream and the general reality of the plot captured me. I enjoyed the typical egression of tying the climax into an epiphany because his realistic and well-written scenarios kept me turning. The banter at the bar, the leisure at his job, the opinions of his refrigerator intercourse. I saw myself in a nook and cranny as he glided down Nolita, inebriated by the opaque lights and other elements of intake. His similes were modern as he comically related back to renown figures. I interpreted his relationship with his relic neighbor Patty to be a little Finding Forrester but I appreciated the characterization, nevertheless. I’d have been disappointed if he was rolling blunts with his relatable, same-page neighbor. Not to mention the actual growth one gains when surrounding himself with a more traversed and conversant person. Rosen did his literary work and deemed himself a recipient of excelling in natural creativity. I advise this novel and the movie when I make it.

Harness

2009-08-19T17:39:00.000-07:00

For updates on the original populars. Gaga, Lohan, Spears and the sun of the industry that gets revolved around and that sets on their asses.

A Tribe Called Quest: Tribute Beat Contest

2009-08-16T20:26:00.001-07:00

A Tribe Called Quest: Tribute Beat Contest

Posted using ShareThis

Psymun Says

2009-08-11T00:57:00.000-07:00

Tangled, effortless, and effective in all, Psymun is the epitome of the future of psychedelic hip hop. He centers his music on nostalgic moods that remind listeners of A Tribe Called Quest and Blu & Exile. "[Below the Heavens] is where I get most of my inspiration and it's my favorite album of all time." he's said. Personally, I'm grateful he's blessed my iPod with such hip hop value. Although he doesn't anticipate the pushy beats handed to radio stations and recycled to the mainstream of the music industry, he's innovative and progressive in his calm ear for music. His beats surmount aggression and the typical riffs heard during urban programs. This young aspirer, originally from St. Paul, Minnesota, now resides in Hudson, Badger-State Wisconsin and is as sturdy as the animal. The glory of his work is owed to his Ableton Live and Korg Ms2000b Synthsizer, where he solely works in his room. Typically, he exerts the time spent on a sitcom or a drama to complete and perfect a beat. He's cautious about his musical labor, and better kept than plagiarized because his manifesting precision is of great quality. His work include unfinishedbusiness602, unfinishedbusiness622, and his creatively tweaked version of "We've Got the Jazz". Although he's solitaire, he's produced for Co$$ and Prof. He turgidly describes his work as "dope." I call them gray with an impact like no other hip hop advancement. He makes tones easy to freestyle to, slow enough to flow to, and soft enough to set the surroundings to. Psymun doesn't have to say anything; however, you would once you open your ears to his instrumentals and versioned covers. As numerous workers in this genre of the industry would say, "he's swaggerific."

musical movement so stiff

2009-08-06T01:18:00.000-07:00

The Bronx
Waxplotation Artists (recommended by adult swim)
Ima Robot
GCH (of course)
The Morning Of
The Falling
CRAFT Club
Hush Hush Commotion (more upbeat and musical)
Chromeo
The Thermals (more grunge-post areno rock)
Brooklynati (very well done but bitten)
WAZ (grey’s anatomy, nuff said)
Sam Sparro
The Mainland (snow patrol meets counting crows)
Diminishing Returns (if you like melacholic noise)

ODDISEE (authentica than a bih, yesuh but a little ‘03)
Count Your Blessings (just another new millenium punk band)
Otenki (“)
The Vegas Report (if you like band of horses)
William Fitzsimmons (if you like jason mraz meets acoustic allthetime)
3OH!3 (the hellen keller thing wasn’t cool)
Arrica Rose (would sound better over a romantic denouement)
Colour Revolt (great, no question)
NEEDTOBREATHE (just got chills)
Fight Fair (boys like girls)
No Good People (another fuse recipient)
Crown City Rockers (ger-rate, just.. no intro please)
GOOT (so early november, and never attempt a john mayer cover)
Ben Lee (stay on vh1)
2AM CLUB (i bet they look as good performing)

Kings of Leon (is this a discussion?)
Kanye West
Pillow Theory (if you like thoughtless screamo lyrics..)
Cassie Steele (i don’t believe it)
Nobody (always wanted to blog him but his music’s never up)
Ray Lamontagne
J*Davey (they practically made it)
Behn (really standard but mystic and good)
P.O.D. (sure..)
Fall Short (an old friend of mine, idevenk if they still play)
Sir Michael of the Rocks (cool kid)
HOOL (great folk, i’d dl)
George Tandy Jr. (another bet hit)
Daniel Strider (typical indie-pop)
Array (” but i actually like the riffs a little more)

Ricardo Malone (hardcore french melodrama)
Maveric (i hate when you all talk over the intro)
Jesse Passage (pop-folk needed in a cute sundane short)
Tepr (yesss)
Josh Netsky (poppy ballroom psychedelic.. he’s skrate)
Kelsey and the Chaos! (joan jett)
Hope (is awesome, introduced twice)
RJD2 (already know)
J Songz (grew up with this kid)
Releef (same as fall short)
DOOM (mf)
Wiz Khalifa (listen to take away)
The Boys After (on itunes nowww)
Awkward Silence (pearl jam meets wth is concrete)
YELLE

Lindsay Lohan
Sunday Night Scene (not tsh but he tries)
Amos Lee
Shino (yesuh)
Jose Gonzales
Sneakyness (from da ford so of course i gotta repsent)
Scott Joseph Phares
Amie Miriello (myspace celebrity)
Amel Larrieux
everett thomas (great voice, remember him)
freddy hernandez (great covers)
The Secret Handshake
Nice Guys Finish First (stay on staynow)
Guillermo Sohrya (youtube coverer, sweet ass voice)
Refrag (so much originality)

Samantha Ronson
SHINE (a softer stone temple pilots)
Owner
April Cover (pop-punk, eh..)
Michael Jackson (and all the hype)
Tyler is Tizz (pop-acoustic and all the whining, eh..)
Janelle Monae
French Cowboy (western touch but not western in what is necessary)
Obfusc (well done electro-indie)
Zewdy (she covers well)
Airto (he “)
J.Pinder (a rapper)
Oh, Hush! (only to shop to)
direct connect (idk)
Diddy

GMK (he’s cordial)
Potent Da RockStar (intense)
LiCKS the Super Producer (experimental hip hop)
SFH (hardcore rap producer)
Subliminal Camp (lyrical and progressive hip hop)
Brikkk the Super Natural (went to junior high with this kid)
Raphael Saadiq
Brandon Hines (make you wanna bite your lower lip)
Durand Bernarr
The Energy (sound stereotypical and a little placebo)
King ST (lmao)
Little Dragon
Ryan Sallis (electronic folk, vedie nicee)
Brenda Maclean (effortless but effective)
Bonehead Movement (great viben music and he deserves fame)

Cashmere (got to be g, support her on the serious)
Jonathan Blake (another sundance scene)
Vickey Vandetta (south florida parties to bop to)
Kill Heart Tactic (experimental and trippy rock)
Black Kids
California King (rougher black eyed peas type shit)
JQ (he’s a good sequel)
Julian Wright (he got nothin)
W.I.M. Records (great club music, reggae and rap)
The Sweet Hello (need not punk-sing but they are manlier than most)
James West (french techno)
Mr. Grind (stupid comedy)
sotirous (indie indeed and he won’t cut the bulletins down)
Blake Elizabeth (alanis morissette sounds better)
La Fouine (idk why i like awkward ass french rapping)

Ulrich Music Producer (typical rap beats probably made on garageband)
J Minus (another acoustic montage)
Abuz-Dirtybeatmaker (rap)
buckchild (frenetic rap, love it)
The Fashion (as seen on mtv once)
Scorblaz (now, he just sounds like he’s choking francais)
Jayne Doe (soft and cute over grudge but an exemplification of satire)
First Round Pick (just listen to him cos i always do)
Inglish (cool kid)
Tennille (cool kid)
DJ Lamont (florida rap)
Twinkie (da beatmaker, he throws parties, too)
Westland (love the contrast and his heart but why so pitched?)
Travisty TriPp (so pink floydd)
J Raw (he got nothin)

Fast Music by Deerfield Niggas (fla covers, or sped up, never sount so goo)
The Follow Through (such sweet acoustic punk)
tAzIs$oArnold! (accredited, cool rap)
David Jordan (seal)
No Name (he got nothin)
Joe.Branco (okay it’s just bass and funky drums)
Artificial Glitch (tsh, that doesnt sound familar!)
ONEoak (point-across rapper)
Places (sounds as good as little dragon)
CT (never ct, he wishes)
Represent (i should remove the repetition but the fan albums amuse me)
Alserene (metal alright and they nearly have their own template)
DJ Karizma (smooth hip hop but they talk too much)
FireFliers (expectant electronica)
C.S. (what a cute little boy)

Sierra Alpha (nice foreign disco pop)
Deficit (ambient experimental, highly recommended)
George Kirk (showtime-covered techno, nuff said)
Dade County Radio (self-explanatory)
Pluto Jenkins (poppy electronica with an attitude)
Brandon Black (pitchy american idol auditioner)
Hunter Langston (isn’t he on here?)
Tomorrow (new soul meets alternative but never badu)
H*Wood the Heart Throb (techno rapper)
Glass America (they got nothin)
The Day Of (sounds like the goo goo dolls)
Dan Talevski (he sounds nice.. good.. alright..)
DJ Mad (ecstacy techno)
Stuart Webb (asher roth)
Sidney (little girl tyna make it)
Showy Vega (fab techno)

Wisla (impressive and agressive french)
Premium (calm french hip hop)
The Title (electro pop so optimistic)
Asher Roth
Gigi Fouquet (upbeat pop-folk)
Retro Ignite (pop-rock s)
DJ Joker (good friend, support)
Good Old War (chipper folk)
I Got$ Ca$h Moneyz (hardcore-electronica)
The Fastest Kid Alive (pop-rock, you all just vary it up, dontchya)
The SEVENth (hip electronica)
Brad Doggett (does great acoustic covers of r&b)
Learn to Swim (pop-punk but at least they’re progressive)
Clarity (now FIND VIENNA and they’re pretty damn alright for soft rock)
Evinreud (poppish hardcore)

Jack Splash (funky and accomplished r&b)
Keysha Jordan (well, show us what ya got)
Psymun (hip hop yessir)
Killa Black (french hip-pop)
digital underground
AtomtA (grunge, noise, and early punk)
Nouveaux Son (slow french hip hop)
Scarlett Johansson & Pete Yorn
Bleszt (electro club hip hop)
Orchestra Green (pop punk but they sound different)
Earthtone (with brad dogget, acoustic rap, son)
Driven Records (pop-punk on the skirts on whinging screamo)
PT.V (urban request station)
B.B.G, BIGG HOMMIE UNK AKA RUGA REDD (love me some hardcore rap.. but this is a negative)
Young Merch (psychedelic hip hop)

Suave the Ape (original hip hop meets rap ohso niceee)
Soljah Entertainment (rap in its quintessence)
Fast Music by Alex (southern rap)
Justice (chill rapper who beats just right)
Deer Run Productionz (redo of numerous rap songs, catchy..)
Kristen Williams (female electro pop)
My Burgunfy Waltz (folk tunes)
BBNR! (hardcore hyphy meets pop-rock)
Blaspheme95sous (french)
Ameritz (got nothin)
Ching (typical rap)
Anorpha (they got nothin)
MoneyFirst (such gangstas, oo!)
Autumn (hardcore pop-punk, actually alright)
Doni Donzo (upbeat french rap)

The Whisper Effect (they look like douches and this gets annoying)
Needless to Say (just got off warped, julia’s voice is awesome)
Lonley London Lad (trippy ambient grunge)
Dru (brooklyn hip hop aspirer)
Official Rated-R Music (quiet rapper)
smirp (they got nothin)
Wilsonman (he tried on the autotoning.. tired, i like the storytelling doe)
EKlips (french rap so typical)
B@by Zoe (love ze southern rap)
Triple Zut (french hardcore rap and he speaks a bit of english, too!)
Papy-J (french rap better than the aforesaid)
Burn Down the Mission (r&b? great heart but pop.. boo)
G.Black (french gets tired)
Curusbrigan Te (francais francias)
Lady Tru from Got Bully? (cashmere’s group)
Got Bully? (i love cashmere)
The Spin Room (pop-punk, stop spreading my myspace)

Just To Let The Two Who Are Reading Know

2009-07-21T12:45:00.000-07:00

I'm too far from the comfort of my bulky desktop as I am still in my hometown, curing my homesickness. For now I'll be posting something like twitter; following tumblr. Just listen to Little Dragon and feel well informed. Be alright.

Happy to Miriam. fifteen.

Ruckus

2009-07-21T02:17:00.000-07:00

Video be so diesel.

tumble.

2009-07-21T01:26:00.001-07:00

"jtrilla" (4:34:21 AM): like it couldnt be that bad where you live, & you not that much of a deviant

"jtrilla" (4:34:31 AM): go find a normal ass nigga

"jtrilla" (4:34:35 AM): lmao im so mean yo
souruss (4:36:11 AM): lmao

Labor Pains

2009-07-19T08:40:00.000-07:00

How stunning for Lohan to donate her talented time and openness to financial success to a film that went straight to a limited television network. She might as well have been occupied for Lifetime. Of all places like IFC and HBO, ABC Family is veritably a modest choice of showbiz. I guess it makes her less of a Hollywood mandarin. We laud Lohan.

four sisters in the ct.

2009-07-16T20:24:00.000-07:00

Doink.com

2009-07-15T11:09:00.000-07:00

Visit for animating creations and expressive painted color. Just made mine. Not that difficult.

Stamford, Connecticut

2009-07-15T08:00:00.000-07:00

is the city that works. Veritable. Quote that bih.

She's Not Fashion

2009-07-07T14:56:00.000-07:00

Looking Out For

2009-07-07T14:53:00.000-07:00

The absence of sugar is fine in cake and cereal. The only time it’s vital is in cream of wheat. Just lookin out for the health.

Joe Budden

2009-07-05T13:42:00.000-07:00

The JumpOff never leaves me. I would have more to say but the photo says it all.

Tumbling

2009-07-02T14:18:00.000-07:00

Tumblr has been discovered. It's nicely laid out but I’m sick of the replications. Myspace simplified into Facebook simplified into Twitter; perhaps Blogspot simplified into Tumblr simplified into Twitter. I confirm that twitter is at the bottom of the chain. Scores from now it’ll be able to podcast, though.

Follow me on srhje.tumblr.com

Michael, Farrah, and Ed

2009-06-25T18:06:00.000-07:00

I figured Michael Jackson would have lived forever. And with all the strength Farrah Fawcett underwent, death was as unpredictable. Ed McMahon's decease, conflicting in addition, stirs a bereaving attitude in America as well. I always felt desolation occurred as a ricochet of sins.

I grew up on the king of popularity, watching my cousin dance to remixes of his and his sister's music. The Dream, Chris Brown, Justin Timberlake, and Usher shall carry his legacy on with their absorption, however. As for Farrah Fawcett, I've probably seen an episode of Charlie's Angels when I was too young to remember but I understand her actual character and have the same amount of depressed lament. perhaps McG can direct and complete a trilogy in memory of her. And I might not have been familiar with Ed Mcmahon outside his contribution to Britney Spear's fame, but his part in this celebrity recession is as mournful all the more. No time is ready enough.

Death is the typical reflection on the span of life; the duration should be of well conduct, for the self and the ricochet. Death was the wall to their strides, uncontrolled as their vectors and destinations aborted, anyway.

Victor Von Doom

2009-06-19T09:53:00.000-07:00

About a year ago, I was dropping by the MySpace page of a friend of mine and included in his musical preferences were Murs, Uffie, Justice, and MF Doom. Inattentively, I listened to Murs and MF Doom since Justice and Uffie weren’t new to me. They were artists with a celebrity attitude and beats so played I wouldn’t believe they were still amazing. Metal Fingers Doom was my fate, though.

It wasn’t his lyrics, neither his cartoon. In fact, when I younger, I often rejected how meek its plot was. The show was a nuisance to midnight channel surfing. Meatwad was the only one with cartoon characterization but it was that repetitive imbalance in my remote. Now, when I’m in a cartoon-nostalgic state, however, I dawdle with the Force, ignoring the screenplay because it’s still annoying as hell. However, one Saturday, in a hip hop-appreciative mood, I put an instrumental playlist of MF Doom’s Special Herbs: The Box Set on and was fed by his riffs, his covers, his creativity. They were so animated. I understood why he chose to get into cartooning. If his publication boomed like the attitudes of Justice and Uffie, he would surely be a grace to hip hop. The Midas of early 2000 like T-Pain is today. Doomsday was my favorite since Sade is as well but the lyrics that followed her evoking tone were as mundane as his show. His bars truly distracted me from his brilliant underscores. He was probably real but he sounded stereotypical beneath his soundless air. I was as frustrated as watching Honey years later, all over again. Such a great surface with a misunderstood essence. Maybe I was bereft of what he was exuding.

One night, I spent three hours trying to download an instrumental that featured the voice, or a voice that came in extreme contact with Michael McDonald. His every renowned production, renowned in a smaller industry, leaked into my musical library and I was sold listening to Vomitspit. After discovering what MF Doom and MF Grimm and Dangerdoom, the endless producers to title, were advocating, young aspirers like Archie Coolbeans appealed to me with all the more hip hop appreciation. Both New York kindred have true ears for music. Archie, also known as my new favorite rapper, injected my library with Sofa King, Rhymes Like Dimes, and I Hear Voices. Although a section of his music remained trite, I grew to respect his epitome of hip hop.

He works in his head instead of toward the insightful feedback of listeners. His monotone directs a new sound wave of music. His most recent album isn’t conformed, and he’s still bland and important. His nonsense is fitting and lovely in all; his surface is worthy and so as his essence. He begins to lack a cliché theme.

I still want that MP3 of that one Michael McDonald song, too. With his bars.

CCF

2009-05-24T21:08:00.000-07:00

On Friday I decided to pull two wasteful hours out of my exciting life to clean the room I share with my sister out. Not knowing where to start from the junk drawer to the junked closet to cluttered window sill we improvise items on, I turned the television on to Comedy Central where a movie called Senior Skip Day was airing. I took off on Tara Reid commenting how her little brother's allegedly delusional actions was "..so Ferris Bueller's day off." At that point I was sold because I assumed it was actually National Lampoon's Van Wilder Goes to College. It wasn't until the characters gathered into an introduction that I realized it was just as ridiculous.

I believe Gary Lundy had a Jewish accent and if he didn't, in fact, his role was drastically similar to that of Woody Allen's. Fortunately, he didn't source the film its credit so I merit him for not completely duplicating my favorite filmmaker's ways. Speaking to the audience is sketchy in all but at least Woody Allen, and only Allen, has license to that technique.

The characterization was awful and, although it's not necessary, it lacked imagery a great deal. I understand its genre and how the goal of the movie is typically overrated but a little effort to get through any given audience, like any filmmaker would consider, would have been nice. I laughed at the romance like it was satire. It probably was but if it wasn't I still laughed, at it not with it. Such stereotypical portrayal, and I'm not referring to the African-American family.

Aside from their constant asides, the comedy was like any other Comedy Central original. Destitude, predictable, but, above all, a good inside joke to fecklessly laugh at with a given group of friends who were fortunate enough to sustain with unfortunate piece. Not to mention Harry and Barry the Shithouse.

She Is Was Agnst

2009-05-07T21:26:00.000-07:00

I studied her welling eyes on the verge of dripping her liquid-troubles to the floor. Her evening hair and her dining dress soaked in a pitiful quagmire dealt to her from life. Negativity drenched her and built her in burnt orange but I wanted in anyway. She fixed her palms in her forearms, surfacing from a place where school fish and whale mouths misunderstood and submerged her.

“Why do you choke yourself up so bad?” I asked, “It’s all right to be vulnerable.”

But, then, wrapped in the earth, she was stronger with empty pupils and faster gesticulations. Her holiday halo was no different than the philanthropists but she needed to mean more. Not just giving Christmases but contributing them to the expectations of abusive disappointment. Those who were drenched in that same negative sea and the same desperate cry for some lifesaving anything. Those who wanted a direction to drown and others who yearned for rearing.

“I’ve been vulnerable for the first five years of my life,” she started, “Five years is a long time. Imagine five years locked in a basement. That’s torture. Five years as a doctor is a lot of money. Five years is quite a long time…”

I observed her in my vermilion to my old gold to my green to my azure.

“Much too long to depend on someone or something.”

She didn’t realize I had her and that I wasn’t just another she’d carelessly forget about. If I gave up now, she would bitterly classify me as a specific straw to her stable rooftop. But I wouldn’t take that. I wanted to be the needle that was embedded in her pessimistic place, individually stiffened to stay. I would dry her so flawless from any ocean that would consume her and confuse her again. She paced in a state of shuffling the puddle that drained from her. So ignorant to learn that her tear ducts dissolved in the aqua that flailed her. But in a place where she thought she escaped it, she unleash them anyway, drowning in the school fish and the whale mouths and my light blues for comfort them.

“Five years is too long to submit yourself to. It’s too long a time to be helpless.”

She gasped for air and for someone, I knew she needed, to follow her nonstop motions.

“And much too less a time to be a child.”

The Oates

2009-03-25T12:34:00.000-07:00

I spent four months reading a book I picked up on a whim by one of the few authors I've previously supported on different whims. In junior high, I hastily chose a young-adult fiction called "Freaky Green Eyes" by Joyce Carol Oates. A day at Waldenbooks with my family is quizzical and somewhat vexing if you figure the book you chose was a waste. However, I neither enjoyed the book or was displeased by it. By my short-term memory, it was just choppy like a diary and too confusing for my distracted, eighth-grade-verging mindset. Above my foibles, the plot was a good one and I did like the prose that was new and impressive and understandable to me. It was nearly a coming-of-age for me because when I finished it, I contiguously began becoming attracted to Chaim Potok and Agatha Cristie. At the beginning of sophomore year, I came across this Oates again and finished another one of her fictions called "Sexy". It was well-done, still a bit choppy like a log, but all the more well done. I felt like I was in the mind of this teenage boy, experiencing what he really felt toward the female students and the accused male teacher. He was almost a protagonists and I would have enjoyed that role but not all characters can be expectant and perfect. As sexist as it sounds, he only had a male flaw and it was perfectly fine. I didn't discover her affirming endowment until I checked “We Were the Mulvaneys” out before Christmas vacation this year. Books based upstate is always an attraction because I’m interested in references to my Connecticut home state and I wanted to challenge myself by reading a vast novel. I always allow myself a month to complete any novel. After three delinquent notices for my two-month hold of the novel, I was fascinated by her usage of fragments, her tangling imagery, her characterization, and the plot that held it all. I felt like I was bluntly in the minds of these siblings and understood them so. I was, of course, frustrated by the time limit that impatiently waned in my absorption of her masterpiece. Above interpretation, I became more focused on finishing it for the sake of my school and the time so stretched it was ridiculous. After I returned it to my school’s library, I have seen Oate’s name posted as similar search results and on website of The New Yorker. The concurrence had been all but natural. Joyce Carol Oates has become one of my favorite authors especially since she’s read copious prose, the right way to become educated on creative writing, and since she’s, well, skilled. The only thing to complete my exposure to her own literature is to watch the picture that portrayed it. Only I can’t find even a trailer.

Why I'm Not Tycho Brahe

2009-02-15T19:40:00.000-08:00

After watching Deja Vu, I have a different mindset about the "seen again" or maybe my mind is too mundane for the scientific base of the movie. I wonder who the film was referring to in the very beginning when Doug Carlin discovered the wrung towels and bloodstained cloths about Claire Kuchever's house. Assuming he knew his alibi before the tragic event he was investigating, I wonder who was the being who actually provoked Claire Kuchever to interrupt her friend, Beth, during the message. I'm also inquisitive about the existence of two of the same people in two different dimensions. What were his whereabouts during the travel through time? Nonexistent? Was he formulating the future he was initially investigating when the FBI sent him there? What happened to the assignment so that Doug failed and the boat blew up? Who brought him back as the detective who was frazzled by it all?

I conclude that there were three detective Doug Carlins-- the one who attempted to save her (beginning the entire experienced situation that probably aborted and randomly sent him back with the help of the tampering, scientific, FBI team), the one who was introduced to the case (thereafter attempting to save her again when he learned the scenario, discovering he was repeating his former, primary actions before passing away during the quest.. and then, again, if the team had been tampering with his actions those four days ago, Claire's house mess wouldn't have remained), and the one who was introduced, at last (which seems impossible since a nonexistent being can't reappear, especially since we followed him throughout the entire mission.. unless the FBI tampered with his four days ago, once more), experiencing the déjà vu with Claire who experienced it, as well.

Or maybe I just don't know what I'm talking about. Why hadn't she been ghost-struck?

And That, My Friends, Is What You Call An Egoïste

2008-09-09T16:38:00.000-07:00

So I’m sitting in French class contemplating on whether I should do the conjugating exercises or run to the restroom. My bladder is long overdue but I don’t think I have enough time to go. One girl sitting beside me chats away about how cold the school is. Two others, dubbed Girl One and Girl Two, listens and cosigns when they feel it’s necessary. They rub their long, pale arms and flip their curly hair momentarily. I consider with every "ons", "ez", and "ent" that I should grab the ceramic pass and go but their every snivels, I remain.

“Yesterday I forgot my jacket and I wanted to die.” Girl says prolonging the last of her words.

“I always ask this kid in my second block for his and I keep it for the period,” Girl One shivers, “So I’m good.”

“And then when you get outside, it’s like, ‘Never mind!’”

They laugh out loud.

“I know right!”

“That’s so funny.”

I check on Girl Two, for she has not said a word in a whole two minutes. She had a mouthful when Girl brought her summer in Brazil up, informing us all that she not only went to her home country but also every other country she voluntarily chose as ethnicities, which include France, Spain, and Africa. What a summer that must have been. She fondles her memorable photos but they’re done with that. She rubs her arms again but that topic is over. I don’t think Girl and Girl One care anymore than they do of my concern to use the bathroom. Girl Two looks anticipated to relate herself once more as their discussion shifts from ID photos to hair.

“I hated my ID photo.”

“You?” Girl Two responded like Girl was just insane, “That lady was like say cheese and I go, ‘Chee-‘ and end up with this dumb confused expression.”

“My hair was so gross that day, though,” Girl competed.

“But your highlights are so nice.”

“Really?”

“Yeah! It’s because they’re small. Mine are so chunky.” insists Girl One.

“No, yours are nice!”

They then begin a minute of fingering each other’s peach-smelling locks. I agree with Girl One. Her tiny colors would have been preferable compared to my mother’s insistence that a brighter shade would bring my face out. Meanwhile, Girl Two slowly unties her own hair. Her eagerness entertains me.

“Oh, my God! Your hair smells just like strawberries.” Girl One amazes.

“Really? I use a pear-flavored conditioner.”

“Pear-flavored?” Girl One asks.

“That’s what the bottle said… I think.”

They chuckle inside their futility.

“It really smells like peaches.” Girl Two comments.

I wonder when the invitation in bandying's air was offered to her.

“Let me see.”

She leans in and sniffs her hair as Girl One continues to fondle with it just astonished.

“Wow, you guys! It’s definitely like… peachy-smelling.” she laughs.

They all laugh again, in dim-witted unison.

“Yeah!” Girl agrees.

She sniffs her own hair as Girl One wrings hers. Then, with enough donated attention she modestly made the attack.

“This morning my hair smelled just like lavender.”

“Lavender!? What’s that like?” Girl asks.

“Yeah, what’s lavender?”

“I don’t know. It must smell… purple?” she said, immediately blurting out with laughter.