Friday, September 24, 2010
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Why I Love XXL.com
Continue Da Snitchin says:
Fuck 2pac. Fuck Game. Fuck you. Put more of these coon niggas in jail and strengthen up our race. Maybe youngsters will stop wanting to grow up to be dumbass thugs if they realize all of their fake ass heroes are going to spend the rest of their lives in lockdown.
KingOfDaGz says:
FUCK U NIGGA!
I WOULD RATHA LET A CHILD RAPIST GO FREE DAN SNICH ON HIM
ONLY A BITCH WOULD GO ROUND SNITCHIN
FUCK NIGGA U GAYYYYY
Fuck 2pac. Fuck Game. Fuck you. Put more of these coon niggas in jail and strengthen up our race. Maybe youngsters will stop wanting to grow up to be dumbass thugs if they realize all of their fake ass heroes are going to spend the rest of their lives in lockdown.
KingOfDaGz says:
FUCK U NIGGA!
I WOULD RATHA LET A CHILD RAPIST GO FREE DAN SNICH ON HIM
ONLY A BITCH WOULD GO ROUND SNITCHIN
FUCK NIGGA U GAYYYYY
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Kid: Hi Eugene.
Eugene: Move it or lose it, spud.
Kid: Is that all you got to say to me?
Eugene: What else would I have to a punk like you?
Kid: Well, used to be I thought you could gimme some advice. Used to be I thought you might provide an example I could look up to and emulate. It used to be that because I was younger and smaller than you, I looked up to you as a hero. As an example of what I might be when I grew up. But lately, since you been acting all mean and nasty, I guess the only thing you got to say to me is, "Look out for yourself and the heck with everybody else!" I used to look up to you Eugene, but now that you've gone bad I guess there's nothing left for me to do but...well, go bad, too.
Eugene: Move it or lose it, spud.
Kid: Is that all you got to say to me?
Eugene: What else would I have to a punk like you?
Kid: Well, used to be I thought you could gimme some advice. Used to be I thought you might provide an example I could look up to and emulate. It used to be that because I was younger and smaller than you, I looked up to you as a hero. As an example of what I might be when I grew up. But lately, since you been acting all mean and nasty, I guess the only thing you got to say to me is, "Look out for yourself and the heck with everybody else!" I used to look up to you Eugene, but now that you've gone bad I guess there's nothing left for me to do but...well, go bad, too.
Free Form Poem
I have seen the best /minds/ of my generation
served up fastballs on the blacktop.
Someone yells car, and they scatter like
so many leaves.
Then the bell rings and they are sitting back in their class
staring at a pop quiz
served up fastballs on the blacktop.
Someone yells car, and they scatter like
so many leaves.
Then the bell rings and they are sitting back in their class
staring at a pop quiz
Friday, August 27, 2010
Fountain of Love
by anonymous
Each morn I see you
Bend to drink from
love's own
crystal pool
I tremble near you
Try to think
will I forever say you stink?
Am I bound by this tragic rule?
-Helga G. Potaki
Each morn I see you
Bend to drink from
love's own
crystal pool
I tremble near you
Try to think
will I forever say you stink?
Am I bound by this tragic rule?
-Helga G. Potaki
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
"i hangout wit male shauvinist pigs n perverts"
my mother smoked crack i had a premature birth,
im jus a nerd cursed with badly disturbed nerves,
who wanna be the one to step up n get served first,
99 percent of all aliens perfer earth,
so im here to rule the planet startin wit ur turf,
i hid a seceret message inside a word search,
wit smeared letter runnin together in blurred spurts,
i hangout wit male shauvinist pigs n perverts,
who point water pistols at women n squrit shirts,
ben a bad boys since diapers n gerbers,
my first words were bleep bleep n curse curse,
never had sh!t n now i own the earth!!!!!
via (topix)
im jus a nerd cursed with badly disturbed nerves,
who wanna be the one to step up n get served first,
99 percent of all aliens perfer earth,
so im here to rule the planet startin wit ur turf,
i hid a seceret message inside a word search,
wit smeared letter runnin together in blurred spurts,
i hangout wit male shauvinist pigs n perverts,
who point water pistols at women n squrit shirts,
ben a bad boys since diapers n gerbers,
my first words were bleep bleep n curse curse,
never had sh!t n now i own the earth!!!!!
via (topix)
Friday, August 20, 2010
Gerald
Sid: Trash can day is a P.S. 118 legend passed on from kid generation to kid generation for over three years, and our own Gerald is the keeper of the tale. Tell it, Gerald.
Gerald: No one of us knows exactly when the terrible tradition began. However, all agree that Trash Can Day is the most diabolical day ever invented. The day is always upon the first Monday in June - the day before trash pickup - when the rancid refuse of society lies in fly and maggot infested trash containers all over the city. My friends, TODAY is that day! 5th graders aaall over the city search out uncircumspecting fourth graders like us, catch them, and with the most heinous abandon PLOP them, unceremoniously, into trash cans. When the three o' clock bell rings we all of us become fair game! And no one of us is safe from the wrath of the 5th grader.
~
Henry wasn't the biggest or the best looking goldfish, so no one came to buy him for a long time. Then one day a lonely boy came into the pet store. He was...kind of a geek. Really. But, he needed a pet, and he wanted Henry, and that was the start of a beautiful friendship.
Henry was a simple fish, he didn't ask for much: a few flakes of fish food, his little plastic castle, that little guy with the mace, even though that didn't turn out so good. But these were the things he loved. And swimming. Oh yes, swimming was a big thing with him - right up to the end, when he was struck down in a bizarre twist of fate by a runaway...yo-yo. And so we say goodbye, Henry. You were a good pet fish to the end.
Extra Credit
Some post-college reading:
The Grammar of Fun by Tom Bissell
What is it About 20-Somethings? by Robin Marantz Henig
Extra Lives: Why Video Games Matter by Tom Bissell
The Grammar of Fun by Tom Bissell
What is it About 20-Somethings? by Robin Marantz Henig
Extra Lives: Why Video Games Matter by Tom Bissell
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Air Doll
It seems life is constructed in a way that no one can fulfill it alone. Just as it’s not enough for flowers to have pistils and stamens, an insect or a breeze must introduce a pistil to a stamen. Life contains its own absence, which only an Other can fulfill.
It seems the world is a summation of Others. And yet, we neither know nor are told that we will fulfill each other. We lead our scattered lives, perfectly unaware of each other. Or at times, allowed to find the Other’s presence disagreeable. Why is it, that the world is constructed so loosely?
A horsefly, bathed in light, flies in close to a blooming flower. I, too, might have been someone’s horsefly. Perhaps you, too, had once been my breeze.
It seems the world is a summation of Others. And yet, we neither know nor are told that we will fulfill each other. We lead our scattered lives, perfectly unaware of each other. Or at times, allowed to find the Other’s presence disagreeable. Why is it, that the world is constructed so loosely?
A horsefly, bathed in light, flies in close to a blooming flower. I, too, might have been someone’s horsefly. Perhaps you, too, had once been my breeze.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Graduation Thoughts
May 15, 2010
9:43pm
Home
I am sentimental. If you know me, you know this. It can be a reasonable sentimentality – buying presents for friends you may not see for a while – and it can be a peculiar sentimentality. Once my girlfriend left a leaf in my apartment with a note attached that read: Why do we pick up some leaves and not others? I still have the note; reasonable. I also still have the leaf; peculiar. It has long since lost its luster and wilted in my apartment but I kept it around, in plain view right next to the note.
I am also sentimental at the wrong times. Either way before or way after I should be.
I have spent almost the entire day of my graduation not thinking about it. I got up early, washed off the mild hangover, dressed to the high-eights and went through all the motions of the day. I didn’t try to convince myself that it was or wasn’t important, and while it felt a little like both, it didn’t feel a lot like either.
And so Tom Brokaw gave a speech that started out strong, then started to wander, President Sally Mason shook my freshly Purell’d hand and said, “Congratulations,” and I sat down to talk to the girl next to me about the things you talk about with fellow graduates, which, fortunately, does not include the question: what are you going to do? This is not a question graduates ask each other.
While sitting silently with Maggie in the backseat of my mom’s truck on the way to the customary post-ceremony meal, I confessed to her that sitting and watching people decorated with multiple honors cords and safety pinning patches filled with stars to their $19.95 gowns makes one feel a bit like a schmuck. Walking at graduation is really only cool if you are one of these people. She said that’s why she had wanted to walk; she would have been one of those people.
The sentiment I’ve felt since the day I fixed the tassel to my cap and tried it on in the mirror is simple: I didn’t work hard enough for this. There are people who have gotten to this point only after extreme academic rigor and hardships without parallel - I’ll never forget the way Maggie cried while trying to write her honors thesis after her dad’s stroke. It may seem trivial, but those safety pinned star patches and cheap looking cords come to mean something, and when they get to that podium and the speaker announces all their achievements, I know that felt good. When I got to the podium, the highest honor I got was the speaker pronouncing my name right.
To be counted among these people, these real scholars, when I was just some sucker who took an extra year to finish college was…well, sickening. That should have been me. I should have excelled. The waking up early and the dry sausage McMuffin and the cheap cap and gown and 3 hour ceremony would have meant so much more if it had happened with highest distinction. With honors. But I had no distinction. I was not honorable. I was Bryan Murray and I had graduated college and that was it. What a sucker.
People keep asking me if I’m excited and telling me to be excited and wondering why I’m not excited and this is the reason. It’s not the best, nor is it the worst. It’s just me wishing I was more worthy. Me wishing I had lived up to my potential. But in feeling sorry for myself I forget that not too long ago, I was sitting on the hood of my grandmother’s Thunderbird in a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles sweater, wearing shades and looking at the sky. I was with my cousin and my brother, and my dad thought it was cute, so he took a picture. Not too long ago, I was my dad’s little guy, who loved Nintendo and laughed too loud. Now I’m sitting in a gown that doesn’t look so cheap from far away, moving my tassel from the right to the left and it’s the proudest moment in his life.
Sometimes, we walk for ourselves, but often we walk for our parents. To see you walk across that stage for a few seconds on that blurry JumboVision screen is validation that no matter how many mistakes they made, they must have did okay. It’s years of every emotion taken to its extreme wrapped up into 12 steps, a shaken hand, and maybe a shout from the crowd. As I sat in my seat, twisting my name card around in my hands, I realized that it doesn’t matter if I feel like I didn’t do enough to get here. This wasn’t for me. This was for my mom in the farthest row, holding my littlest sister in her arms. This was for my dad, sitting in an office room in Barbados as his heart silently broke at not being able to make it. This was diapers to pullups to overalls to flattops to flag football to AP English to black gowns and white tassels. This was little Bryan, all grown up and I can’t imagine how happy it must have made them.
And so now that’s it’s too late, I can let the delayed sentimentality coax tears onto my cheeks. Now that I’ve already hugged my mom goodbye before she starts the 16-hour drive back to Georgia, I can verbalize how much everything she’s done for me contributed to this moment. Now that I’ve already met Maggie’s enthusiasm with a taciturn indifference, I can see why she wanted to live this moment through me. Now that I’ve dismissed my own graduation as not a big deal, I realize that it really is.
It’s still hard to feel super accomplished, and moving a dangling bunch of strings from one side of a funny hat to the other does not a new man make, but after the ceremony, walking up to my mom and seeing her eyes all messy and smiling, I can’t help but feel a little bit of pride in being the reason for that joy.
9:43pm
Home
I am sentimental. If you know me, you know this. It can be a reasonable sentimentality – buying presents for friends you may not see for a while – and it can be a peculiar sentimentality. Once my girlfriend left a leaf in my apartment with a note attached that read: Why do we pick up some leaves and not others? I still have the note; reasonable. I also still have the leaf; peculiar. It has long since lost its luster and wilted in my apartment but I kept it around, in plain view right next to the note.
I am also sentimental at the wrong times. Either way before or way after I should be.
I have spent almost the entire day of my graduation not thinking about it. I got up early, washed off the mild hangover, dressed to the high-eights and went through all the motions of the day. I didn’t try to convince myself that it was or wasn’t important, and while it felt a little like both, it didn’t feel a lot like either.
And so Tom Brokaw gave a speech that started out strong, then started to wander, President Sally Mason shook my freshly Purell’d hand and said, “Congratulations,” and I sat down to talk to the girl next to me about the things you talk about with fellow graduates, which, fortunately, does not include the question: what are you going to do? This is not a question graduates ask each other.
While sitting silently with Maggie in the backseat of my mom’s truck on the way to the customary post-ceremony meal, I confessed to her that sitting and watching people decorated with multiple honors cords and safety pinning patches filled with stars to their $19.95 gowns makes one feel a bit like a schmuck. Walking at graduation is really only cool if you are one of these people. She said that’s why she had wanted to walk; she would have been one of those people.
The sentiment I’ve felt since the day I fixed the tassel to my cap and tried it on in the mirror is simple: I didn’t work hard enough for this. There are people who have gotten to this point only after extreme academic rigor and hardships without parallel - I’ll never forget the way Maggie cried while trying to write her honors thesis after her dad’s stroke. It may seem trivial, but those safety pinned star patches and cheap looking cords come to mean something, and when they get to that podium and the speaker announces all their achievements, I know that felt good. When I got to the podium, the highest honor I got was the speaker pronouncing my name right.
To be counted among these people, these real scholars, when I was just some sucker who took an extra year to finish college was…well, sickening. That should have been me. I should have excelled. The waking up early and the dry sausage McMuffin and the cheap cap and gown and 3 hour ceremony would have meant so much more if it had happened with highest distinction. With honors. But I had no distinction. I was not honorable. I was Bryan Murray and I had graduated college and that was it. What a sucker.
People keep asking me if I’m excited and telling me to be excited and wondering why I’m not excited and this is the reason. It’s not the best, nor is it the worst. It’s just me wishing I was more worthy. Me wishing I had lived up to my potential. But in feeling sorry for myself I forget that not too long ago, I was sitting on the hood of my grandmother’s Thunderbird in a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles sweater, wearing shades and looking at the sky. I was with my cousin and my brother, and my dad thought it was cute, so he took a picture. Not too long ago, I was my dad’s little guy, who loved Nintendo and laughed too loud. Now I’m sitting in a gown that doesn’t look so cheap from far away, moving my tassel from the right to the left and it’s the proudest moment in his life.
Sometimes, we walk for ourselves, but often we walk for our parents. To see you walk across that stage for a few seconds on that blurry JumboVision screen is validation that no matter how many mistakes they made, they must have did okay. It’s years of every emotion taken to its extreme wrapped up into 12 steps, a shaken hand, and maybe a shout from the crowd. As I sat in my seat, twisting my name card around in my hands, I realized that it doesn’t matter if I feel like I didn’t do enough to get here. This wasn’t for me. This was for my mom in the farthest row, holding my littlest sister in her arms. This was for my dad, sitting in an office room in Barbados as his heart silently broke at not being able to make it. This was diapers to pullups to overalls to flattops to flag football to AP English to black gowns and white tassels. This was little Bryan, all grown up and I can’t imagine how happy it must have made them.
And so now that’s it’s too late, I can let the delayed sentimentality coax tears onto my cheeks. Now that I’ve already hugged my mom goodbye before she starts the 16-hour drive back to Georgia, I can verbalize how much everything she’s done for me contributed to this moment. Now that I’ve already met Maggie’s enthusiasm with a taciturn indifference, I can see why she wanted to live this moment through me. Now that I’ve dismissed my own graduation as not a big deal, I realize that it really is.
It’s still hard to feel super accomplished, and moving a dangling bunch of strings from one side of a funny hat to the other does not a new man make, but after the ceremony, walking up to my mom and seeing her eyes all messy and smiling, I can’t help but feel a little bit of pride in being the reason for that joy.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
The Landlord's Daughter
As I was a ramble, down by the water,
I spied in sable the landlord’s daughter.
Produced my pistol, then my saber,
Said, “Make no whistle, or thou wilt be murder’d."
She cursed, she shiver’d, she cried for mercy;
“My gold and silver if thou wilt release me.”
“I’ll take no gold, miss. I’ll take no silver.
I’ll take those sweet lips, and thou wilt deliver!”
by the decemberists
I spied in sable the landlord’s daughter.
Produced my pistol, then my saber,
Said, “Make no whistle, or thou wilt be murder’d."
She cursed, she shiver’d, she cried for mercy;
“My gold and silver if thou wilt release me.”
“I’ll take no gold, miss. I’ll take no silver.
I’ll take those sweet lips, and thou wilt deliver!”
by the decemberists
Thursday, May 6, 2010
An E-mail From Maggie
subject: Conversation on the bus this morning
2-year-old: Old Capitol?
2-year-old: Old Capitol?
Me: Yes, do you see it?
2-year-old: (gets out rubber ducky from backpack, puts it down on the seat) Duck is riding Cambus, too.
From Grandma's email:
"Looking forward to coffee on the porch- my very best to you-your Mom and Dad, Stephan and Bryan--I have Bryan's card made- Congrats to him! Lots of love,Grandma B."
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Assignments
- Eat food
- Read essays (Jamaica Kincaid "Girl", Lydia Davis "Foucault and Pencil", Thalia Field "Something, I don't know")
- Write 3-5pg essay inspired by one of these
- Read reviews of Byron's "The Corsair"
- Write 5 pg paper about the poem and its time
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Graduation
Full time, Part time Jobs within 100 miles of Indianapolis Indiana United States that were posted to the site in English concerning Art, Architecture, Music that require my education level of Bachelor (BA, BS, etc.)
Sorry, but there were no matches for your search.
Sorry, but there were no matches for your search.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Nonfiction
So I’m sitting in a lecture hall amidst a bunch of frump chic writer types. Nick Flynn is pausing from some evocative reading to gulp down what must be a very refreshing Evian. Pens are scribbling in notebooks and all around me I can hear fingers thoughtfully working their way through bristled beards. I’m not scribbling. I don’t have a beard. I hope I’m doing this right.
Nick sets the bottle down and begins to read again. “All I have is a picture,” he starts. I focus on writing this down and in doing so miss the end of the thought. Frazzled, I look around. I see a few teachers from the past, workshop folks in tights and glasses, business students whose teachers insisted they come to the reading for class. Then there are the elite: Patricia Foster, June Melby, and the crime boss himself, John D’Agata; a veritable Who’s Who of the Iowa City nonfiction underworld. I turn my attention back to Nick Flynn who is still talking about pictures and memories.
A lot of my friends are photographers. They have very developed Flickr accounts for which they pay a premium to upload their fantastic snapshots of life. Page after page is filled with well-shot, narrative, beautiful photos. These friends also happen to be great writers. They supplement their photos with thought-provoking, emotional, honest writing that informs and augments the already fantastic photos. Incidentally, I’m a terrible photographer and the jury’s still out on my writing. Not sure how I got these friends.
As Nick Flynn pauses again to quench his thirst, I doodle a pokeball in my notebook. I’ve been doing this for years and still feel out of place. At readings, that is; I’m perfectly in my element where pokeball doodling is concerned. The room is filled with Writers, little satellites spinning out of their heads, ready to pick up on any inspiration that might reveal itself in this room jammed with creativity. I just want to draw Pikachu eating a sandwich.
Mr. Flynn is almost at the end of his bottle and I’ve only written two things down: “All I have is a photo…” and “how is life spent, day by day?”
How is life spent, day by day? It’s a fantastic question and I’m sure there are all sorts of ways of answering. Here’s one:
Today went to the Wild Animal Park it was like Jurassic Park with the dinosaurs replaced with animals
The next day:
Today we had a sub she was so mean. And we played Nintendo when we got home.
The day after that?
Today mom went to go see grandpa and Chris acted like a crazy bloody idiot.
That’s how I spent today, tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow 14 years ago. I wrote these when I was nine years old in a journal I got for Christmas. The journal itself is pretty cute: smallish, with grape designs on the cover and purple binding to match. I didn’t know how I wanted to use a journal yet, so I just recorded the hard facts of my day - personal opinion doesn’t make an appearance until January 10, 1996. Once I realized that entries didn’t have be all factual details, I really took off. I ended up filling five of these journals between December 29, 1995 and May 26, 2006.
All Nick Flynn has is a picture. All I have is five volumes of the most embarrassing tales ever put to page.
I don’t like to call myself a writer because the term is about as descriptive as, say, “Pokemon watcher.” But let’s assume that Pokemon watching is a very specific, universally understood, not to mention honorable, profession and say that I am a writer. A writer sitting in a room full of other writers listening to the writings of another writer; I used to be all about the ritual of going to readings, spinning your satellite and picking up on other people’s threads that you could then spin into your own fabric. It’s still fun and I still do it, but as Snoop Dogg said, “I don’t do it cuz I want to, I do it cuz I GAT to.” It’s part of who I am now.
I used to have a backpack and baggy pants. Now I have a messenger bag and a plaid cap. I used to want to be there at readings taking down diligent, thoughtful notes in my Moleskine ©, and here I am. I used to want to hang out in coffee shops and talk about Joan Didion and David Sedaris and Michel de Montaigne, but now I just want to see how many times I can mention Pokemon in an essay.
This nonfiction life was the best house party on the block, and I was just passing on the sidewalk, peering in, wishing I could be where those people were. Now I’m on the second floor, standing over the keg of Pabst Blue Ribbon listening to some guy argue that metaphysics is a harbinger of misinformation, trying to avoid spilling beer on my new sweater vest.
I came to this party 4 years ago looking for a good time, and it’s been real, but now I just want to go home and watch Jurassic Park.
Alas, I have to meet some friends at George’s first.
Nick sets the bottle down and begins to read again. “All I have is a picture,” he starts. I focus on writing this down and in doing so miss the end of the thought. Frazzled, I look around. I see a few teachers from the past, workshop folks in tights and glasses, business students whose teachers insisted they come to the reading for class. Then there are the elite: Patricia Foster, June Melby, and the crime boss himself, John D’Agata; a veritable Who’s Who of the Iowa City nonfiction underworld. I turn my attention back to Nick Flynn who is still talking about pictures and memories.
A lot of my friends are photographers. They have very developed Flickr accounts for which they pay a premium to upload their fantastic snapshots of life. Page after page is filled with well-shot, narrative, beautiful photos. These friends also happen to be great writers. They supplement their photos with thought-provoking, emotional, honest writing that informs and augments the already fantastic photos. Incidentally, I’m a terrible photographer and the jury’s still out on my writing. Not sure how I got these friends.
As Nick Flynn pauses again to quench his thirst, I doodle a pokeball in my notebook. I’ve been doing this for years and still feel out of place. At readings, that is; I’m perfectly in my element where pokeball doodling is concerned. The room is filled with Writers, little satellites spinning out of their heads, ready to pick up on any inspiration that might reveal itself in this room jammed with creativity. I just want to draw Pikachu eating a sandwich.
Mr. Flynn is almost at the end of his bottle and I’ve only written two things down: “All I have is a photo…” and “how is life spent, day by day?”
How is life spent, day by day? It’s a fantastic question and I’m sure there are all sorts of ways of answering. Here’s one:
Today went to the Wild Animal Park it was like Jurassic Park with the dinosaurs replaced with animals
The next day:
Today we had a sub she was so mean. And we played Nintendo when we got home.
The day after that?
Today mom went to go see grandpa and Chris acted like a crazy bloody idiot.
That’s how I spent today, tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow 14 years ago. I wrote these when I was nine years old in a journal I got for Christmas. The journal itself is pretty cute: smallish, with grape designs on the cover and purple binding to match. I didn’t know how I wanted to use a journal yet, so I just recorded the hard facts of my day - personal opinion doesn’t make an appearance until January 10, 1996. Once I realized that entries didn’t have be all factual details, I really took off. I ended up filling five of these journals between December 29, 1995 and May 26, 2006.
All Nick Flynn has is a picture. All I have is five volumes of the most embarrassing tales ever put to page.
I don’t like to call myself a writer because the term is about as descriptive as, say, “Pokemon watcher.” But let’s assume that Pokemon watching is a very specific, universally understood, not to mention honorable, profession and say that I am a writer. A writer sitting in a room full of other writers listening to the writings of another writer; I used to be all about the ritual of going to readings, spinning your satellite and picking up on other people’s threads that you could then spin into your own fabric. It’s still fun and I still do it, but as Snoop Dogg said, “I don’t do it cuz I want to, I do it cuz I GAT to.” It’s part of who I am now.
I used to have a backpack and baggy pants. Now I have a messenger bag and a plaid cap. I used to want to be there at readings taking down diligent, thoughtful notes in my Moleskine ©, and here I am. I used to want to hang out in coffee shops and talk about Joan Didion and David Sedaris and Michel de Montaigne, but now I just want to see how many times I can mention Pokemon in an essay.
This nonfiction life was the best house party on the block, and I was just passing on the sidewalk, peering in, wishing I could be where those people were. Now I’m on the second floor, standing over the keg of Pabst Blue Ribbon listening to some guy argue that metaphysics is a harbinger of misinformation, trying to avoid spilling beer on my new sweater vest.
I came to this party 4 years ago looking for a good time, and it’s been real, but now I just want to go home and watch Jurassic Park.
Alas, I have to meet some friends at George’s first.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Polyglots
Myself: Kuro-chan, 先生 after my own heart, 今学期、日本の音楽のラヂオプログラムをしている。もっとよくなプログラムをするのために新しい音楽を探している。Es que tiene usted algunas sugerencias? Artistas favoritas o algunos que sienten que les gustaran los escuchadores (read: 日本語の学生 et al.)? 私に助けてくれなああいいいでしょうか？？？
Kurokawa-sensei: Hey bro! My current favorite band is かりゆし58, songs like 「さよなら」(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Quv9IhgPswc) are good. They have other great songs too. Y ahora me fascina esta cancion que se llama "今夜はブギーバック" (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1Scy6u15QFM), que ya hace 15 anos since it was released the first time. Esta version no es del cantante original, pero me encanta.
Tambien me gusta una artista que se llama 中村中（なかむら あたる）, pero a lo mejor es un poco pesado para 日本語の学生.
I can't get enough of this.
Kurokawa-sensei: Hey bro! My current favorite band is かりゆし58, songs like 「さよなら」(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Quv9IhgPswc) are good. They have other great songs too. Y ahora me fascina esta cancion que se llama "今夜はブギーバック" (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1Scy6u15QFM), que ya hace 15 anos since it was released the first time. Esta version no es del cantante original, pero me encanta.
Tambien me gusta una artista que se llama 中村中（なかむら あたる）, pero a lo mejor es un poco pesado para 日本語の学生.
I can't get enough of this.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Little Jerks
Exhibit A: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lCotPIA4vn8&feature=related
Exhibit B: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XUmG7Fkw760&NR=1
So, Jerkin' is what the kids do. Lots of people think it's corny, lots of people think it's cool. I, personally, am drawn to it because of the parallels it shares with nascent b-boy culture of yester-generation. I like the idea that a bunch of kids formed a unique style despite the oppressive tenets of popular black culture that for so long has dictated what black people "should" be like. If nothing else, the popularity of jerkin' provides an alternative to the internalized stereotypes people have come to associate with hip hop culture, and by extension, black people; to say that rap is mostly about killing people and wearing oversized clothing doesn't make as much sense when 11 year olds in purple-checked skinny jeans are bowing their legs skipping backwards down the street. So in that regard, I think jerkin' is cool.
One of the most romantic images I have of b-boying is two crews meeting in a park, having words and deciding to throw down in a battle instead of a brawl. The fact of the matter is, these videos are probably what that was like: goofy, awkward children firing lame insults back and forth before twisting their prepubescent bodies into amateurish dance moves. Sure, maybe they good and became part of the Rock Steady Crew, but they had to start somewhere. When it comes to b-boy, we don't really see the development, we just see the finished product. Luckily for us, or maybe not, history repeats itself and with what I like to think of as b-boy 2.0, we see all the ridiculous youthfulness that such a cultural movement requires.
Exhibit B: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XUmG7Fkw760&NR=1
So, Jerkin' is what the kids do. Lots of people think it's corny, lots of people think it's cool. I, personally, am drawn to it because of the parallels it shares with nascent b-boy culture of yester-generation. I like the idea that a bunch of kids formed a unique style despite the oppressive tenets of popular black culture that for so long has dictated what black people "should" be like. If nothing else, the popularity of jerkin' provides an alternative to the internalized stereotypes people have come to associate with hip hop culture, and by extension, black people; to say that rap is mostly about killing people and wearing oversized clothing doesn't make as much sense when 11 year olds in purple-checked skinny jeans are bowing their legs skipping backwards down the street. So in that regard, I think jerkin' is cool.
One of the most romantic images I have of b-boying is two crews meeting in a park, having words and deciding to throw down in a battle instead of a brawl. The fact of the matter is, these videos are probably what that was like: goofy, awkward children firing lame insults back and forth before twisting their prepubescent bodies into amateurish dance moves. Sure, maybe they good and became part of the Rock Steady Crew, but they had to start somewhere. When it comes to b-boy, we don't really see the development, we just see the finished product. Luckily for us, or maybe not, history repeats itself and with what I like to think of as b-boy 2.0, we see all the ridiculous youthfulness that such a cultural movement requires.
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About Me
- Bryan Adam
- Bryan is an English major at the University of Iowa, also dabbling in Spanish, Japanese, and Turkish.