Tumbling

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.

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Michael, Farrah, and Ed

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.