Dear Prudence, Why Don't You Come Out And Play And Get Out Of My Writing Journal

I have the innate devotion to the marriage between words, and yet the darker side of me believes wholeheartedly in torrid love affairs. Why should we deprive our beloved words of passionate happiness?

Saturday Night Lullaby

Saturday Night Lullaby

Bill Withers from Jesse Thorn on Vimeo.

The Wire Rant

Okay so here's my gripe. In trying to have a sensible conversation about favorite TV shows with some kid from one of my classes last week I started telling him how I couldn't wait to get home from class so I could lay in my bed and be sick and watch Gangland on Netflix Watch Instantly. That led him to tell me that one of his favorite shows of all time is The Wire which I completely understand, it's a great show, one with depth and compelling plot lines and ... get the picture. Then he tells me how he completely empathizes with a lot of the characters on the show and well I sort of maybe lost it a little. My rant went a little something like this, "You empathize with them ... really? Do you sell drugs? Do you live in the projects? Are you a detective or a politician on the take? Are you from Baltimore? How do you empathize with those characters!?! I mean I love Gangland, but I can't relate to anyone I see on it. I'm pretty sure the only people allowed to EMPATHIZE with anyone on these shows are people who have been in at least one street fight and have been arrested once in their life for something OTHER THAN lewd behavior for a senior prank that was supposed to make you look cool to all your hipsters friends on the DANGEROUS streets of Boxford, MA. I'm sorry but your Andrew Jenks cap covering your Justin Beiber haircut coupled with your non-prescription Buddy Holly glasses and Kanye West-schmedium sense of style is throwing me off."

His response, "I actually live in Hamilton and my friends and I were never arrested for drawing penises all over the freshmen lockers."

I am Jack Donaghy.

Look, I say I love Gangland, but the most hood thing about me is that I have a favorite episode of the show. My "street" friends like me because I'm myself with them. Black men like me because I ask stupid questions like "No, really how would I know if I'd love your black thunder if I don't know what your black thunder is?" I know what it is, but asking stupid questions is my defense mechanism in uncomfortable situations ... along with vicious rhetoric.

Yep. That's right.

So I like Tumblr because it's so much easier to view and share little tidbits of interweb greatness. But I miss the personalization of my Blogger. So I'm going to work on some healthy median between the two. Any way it ends up going down . . . the Bitch is Back!!!

Really Boys?

I love matinee Celtics games, but if you guys lose ... I swear.

gr

I just want to tell people to "Fuck off!!!!!!!!!!" so bad, it hurts.

Why don't you put it on a blog . . .

I can't help but crank the volume up on the last half of the song. The rest of it is meh.




One of the sexiest videos I've seen in while.

I Believe in The Miracles

Don't you?










I definitely get down to the last one when they play that at the Marsh.

Soul knows no genre or language barrier. It's the foundation in art and it's either there, or it's not.

Que Sera Sera

Llorando

Skylark

A Trip to the Moon

Thank you NPR for the replay of the documentary on Rosemary. Made my day.

"And the melody [is] a stage on which the drum of a lyric is played out . . ."




Here's hoping we meet now and then.

Good night, wherever you are. ♥

Embarrassing moments

So I'm pretty sure the last time I saw my cousin, Paul, I was 4 and dancing on the feet of our Uncle Rock. (Yes, that's an actual name.) Then there was an awkward moment with his aunt (my 2nd cousin) who tried to gave me his email address in high school when I was struggling with math. I really don't know much about the man but yesterday at a family function my mother decided to embarrass me by telling every one that I, too, am a writer but that the only story I've ever let her read was one I wrote back in the 4th grade about my grandmother's cats as Private Detectives Peanuts and Popcorn. It was a murder mystery with a talking parrot as the key piece of evidence that helped solve the case. I've been buying my mother Lehane books and Raymond Chandler books this past year and she's taken to none of them. This morning she begged me to get up early and grab a copy of the Globe with a story about Paul in it. Now she wants me to go on a search with her to buy his books. "Don't order them online," she says. "If we make a store order them, maybe the store will catch on and order more." That's my mom, the thinker.

Kill me. Somebody please kill me.

The Real

I think it was in Kierkegaard's Either/Or where he describes a "real moment." You'll just feel it. You'll stop whatever it was you were doing and move. Like a panic attack, with all the anxiety, but rather than run from the thing, you'll run towards it. Can you even imagine the exhilaration? I imagine this song describes "real."

So good

(No matter where you're going.)

RE: list of things that make me happy 2010 (machine color)

a list in picture form and in no particular order


flipping people off, old people, vacation-wear, the beach


babies with fuzzy hair, cake messes


adidas all the way


books, wine, cakes with fruit toppings, burlesque dancers, queens, vests, ruffles, fishnet tights, boobies


Elvis, Hawaiian shirts, lays, ukuleles

Pirates are sexy

An interview worth reading.

I found this interview inspiring in a number of ways. I like that he came right out and said that what he was doing was illegal, and not morally sound (he did try to justify it, but I found some of those points compelling).

Maybe if the twinge of guilt is still there and the appreciation for the art itself remains intact, perhaps the means to acquire said art could be considered a secondary sin at best, er worst.

So kudos, The Real Caterpillar. Great handle!!

You wanna talk about games ...

Poor Ender Wiggin

The one real thing, the one precious real thing was his memory of Valentine, the person who loved him before he ever played a game, who loved him whether there was a buggar war or not, and they had taken her and put her on their side. She was one of them now . . . He had had only one memory that was safe, one good thing, and those bastards had plowed it into him with the rest of the manure--- and so he was finished, he wasn't going to play.

And who could blame him? We cherish the memories that remind us we're human .... whatever that means.