Enjolras

Amy Winehouse - All my lovin' (The Beatle's cover)

2012-01-08T06:10:00.000-06:00

man we'll miss her.

Building the Portfolio

2011-10-24T22:40:00.000-05:00

As many of you know.

I also write for Thefoxisblack.com and laimyours.com

Here are some of my favorite recent articles for you to read on your free time. Please star this or save it so you can come back to it. I want to keep things timeless - so read like its timeless!

Austin Peralta's Endless Planets
R.I.P. R.E.M. - From a Fan

The Digest: Lukshon
The Digest: Picca
The Digest: Musso and Frank's

And in terms of editorials:

Enquire Within Upon Everything

Film Review of The Cave of Forgotten Dreams.

I hope you enjoyed reading these as I enjoyed writing them. For you.

Will "you'll never walk alone" movie trailer 2011

2011-10-21T00:21:00.000-05:00

Nearly cried watching this. And I hate tear jerkers... but really.

Today / Tomorrow

2011-10-12T23:07:00.002-05:00

Today / tomorrow by The Redford Rise

On Xibalba

2011-10-09T23:02:00.000-05:00

In a recent conversation with a friend, the topic of Mayan mysticism came up.

Ok, it emerged because we were both talking about The Fountain, Darren Aronofsky's incredible failed masterpiece, but that's besides the point.

Xibalba, in the roughest possible translation, means a "place of fear." It is the home of the twelve Mayan death Gods who rule the underworld - and these death gods are no joke. With two main Gods who are the overlords of death, the other ten Gods are the Lords of human suffering and pain. Each represents a different way that people die and fall apart. In the middle of Xibalba is a ball court (we people with indigenous American blood created basketball thousands of years ago) that is played with a bladed ball. This ball court was most famous when two twins tried to rescue their dead father from Xibalba and, through many trials and trickery, were able to survive the gauntlet.

Xibalba is a place in the stars as well. If you have never read about Mayan astronomy, I highly suggest even a glance at their intricate system of mathematics and space science. You can see in the image the two twins, Xbalanque & Hanahpu, fleeing the cosmos through a portal. That's where Xibalba should be as they flee it. Xibalba is our dusty Milky Way Galaxy, still visible today, yet as far away from us as the Mayans who first spotted it hundreds of years ago.

We are a part of the Milky Way Galaxy too, aren't we? And what is a galaxy but a collective of stars and planets, earth and space colliding on an absolutely massive scale. We are talking the 200 billion stars we call home.To even see a part of it, with your naked eye, is proof of your existence in the cosmos, as a piece of the universal dance of matter and anti-matter. To some extent, the idea of Xibalba, in Mayan culture, is as alive as humanity is. It is unknowable, gigantic, and breathing. Somewhere out there in the heavens, there is someone dancing or playing a game on a ball court. It could even be a reflection of ourselves.

I guess that concept is bigger than just stars and underworlds. It's more of an appreciation for the vastness of the place we live in. The planet is minutae in the scope of the galaxy. And the galaxy is minutae in scope of the universe. And we are all little parts of it. Bits of molecules that eventually will be reshaped into matter and gas and recycled throughout the planet. In turn, the universe. Is there a difference between death and life in the cosmic scheme of things? And the beauty of Aronofsky's film, then is that life and death are inseparable, essential to each other.

"In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till thou return to the ground; for out of it wast thou taken: for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return." - Genesis 3:19, King James Bible

R.E.M. - Pilgrimage - Murmur

2011-09-22T01:45:00.000-05:00

This is an unbelievable song. I highly recommend putting on your headphones and sing with me.

PILGRIMAGE

HAS GAINED MOMENTUM

TAKE YOUR TURN

TAKE YOUR FORTUNE

You will feel invigorated by its chants, its simplistic beats, its passion. RIP REM

Enjoying life

2011-09-14T13:19:00.000-05:00

My great friend Furi Kuri wrote a fantastic post about self motivation, living life, and overcoming doubt.

In that vein, I would like to offer a koan that has gotten me through a lot of life.

------
Buddha told a parable in sutra:

A man traveling across a field encountered a tiger. He fled, the tiger after him. Coming to a precipice, he caught hold of the root of a wild vine and swung himself down over the edge. The tiger sniffed at him from above. Trembling, the man looked down to where, far below, another tiger was waiting to eat him. Only the vine sustained him.

Two mice, one white and one black, little by little started to gnaw away the vine. The man saw a luscious strawberry near him. Grasping the vine with one hand, he plucked the strawberry with the other. How sweet it tasted!

------

There are many lessons to be taken from this story and so many of them can be considered correct. That is the beauty of zen. Unlike our capitalistic world, there are multiple answers. With multiple meanings.

To me the story is not about the appreciation for the little things. First, you must appreciate the inevitability of life: the tigers at both ends of it. The two mice gnawing at the vine (some people say they are yin and yang) are there slowly dictating your fate. But to taste the strawberry, be in the moment, and forget all that? A Priceless Choice. Perception is everything. It is the ONE thing you have the most control over. External forces will always dictate a part of your position. But you can dictate your immediate happiness through your own actions and reactions.

Life is filled with opportunities. Talent IS luck. But it takes courage to make it flourish.

Sam Cooke - Blowing in the Wind

2011-09-01T02:12:00.000-05:00

This is a moment I wish I always connected to. It is so raw, contrived and perfect. Sam Cooke steals the show from Sam Cooke.

More on this later.

Tigres del Norte + Zack De La Rocha(RATM) Unplugged

2011-08-25T02:28:00.000-05:00

ok fuck that intellectualizing... this is amazing.

Drake - Marvins Room

2011-08-24T23:05:00.000-05:00

A cross between Aphex Twin and Boards of Canada with amonotonousloopingvocal. That's all Drake provides in his latest single The song is a skeleton. Chunks of flesh being ripped from it as we listen. The body might not be alive - maybe nothing in the song is alive - but by the end all that is left is the scattered bones of the singer and the dozens of girls that could provide inspiration for this song. I think everyone has dozens of someones that could have a song written about them. And this is
My friend described this song perfectly last night. In the process of analyzing why this song is so amazing (trust me it is), we came to the conclusion that Drake doesn't get the girl at the end of the night, gets really drunk, calls another girl who picks up the phone but isn't even real on the phone call, he's just calling... 90% of men totally relate.

These lyrics are pretty raw. Maybe it is a ploy but it is more real than some of the "indie" and "pop" that is out there. This is a love song even when it isn't about any one person. It's about people, perceptions of life, and just doing it anyways. "I think I'm addicted to naked pictures. And sittin' around talkin about bitches that we almost had." Almost every line is desperate and calculated. Whether these emotions he feels are real are inconsequential to the desire of the one you never had, the lover you scorned and the one you let come back in. It is depressing, intoxicated, but enchanting.

Kilian Martin: A Skate Illustration

2011-08-18T20:21:00.000-05:00

To follow in furi Kuri's love of sick bicyclists... here's a skater who blows my mind.

Paradise Drive

2011-08-07T17:35:00.001-05:00

Paradise Drive by Hatchbackbeen really feeling this track. Great so cal driving... hell any driving

Completely obsessed with the Yonaguni pyramids

2011-08-03T17:00:00.001-05:00

My love of the paranormal and unknown is well documented. I was voted the kid "most likely to have a 'I Want to Believe'" poster in grade school.

But these are truly fascinating. Discovered 10 years ago outside of Okanawa, near an island called Yonaguni, these rocks are so well cut that they look machine made. Speculation is rife as to how they have appeared. But I would love to scuba down there and check it out. bucket list, #115.

Amy Winehouse Grammy Performance

2011-08-03T16:02:00.000-05:00

I've never seen someone with actual talent be this happy to win a grammy.

What a great performance

Cast Your Fate to the Wind

2011-07-21T14:57:00.000-05:00

I've been wanting to write about sports again. Suffer!

The remarkable turnaround in Liverpool FC the past 7 months has been nothing short of astonishing. Sold at a cut rate price to New England Sports Ventures (the owners of the Red Sox) from another set of Americans, the brands identity has changed seemingly overnight. First to go was the coach, treated as a stopgap between ownership who led the team, unmercifully, into the bottom half of the division. He was replaced by a man who represents the club's glory years, winning the league both as player and manager. Second, the removal of a troublesome yet transcendent player, sold at a showstopping price. His replacements: an unproven talent and a showstopper.

It was the the loss of an icon. It was the return of legends.

With lavish spending in the offseason on English players, the club has set clear direction. Much like the Red Sox of the past decade, it is rooted in balance. Healthy, game killing talent will be acquired while young to encourage resale. Home raised talent will be acquired / developed for first team action. Stagnation will not be allowed, nor will players who languish in it.

But surprisingly, all this talk of change might mean very little for the starting eleven. Only two, possibly three spots in the squad are up for debate: left back and center midfield. The addition of Stewart Downing, a Premier League iron man and English international, instantly adds quality in a left midfield position that hasn't been filled for years. The emergence of solid homegrown talent - Pacheco, Kelly, Flanagan, Sterling, Coady, Wisdom, Amoo and the list goes on, honestly - has created a reserve squad of possibly staying talent. There will be rotational analysis and competition for those slots. Nothing makes a squad better than development from within.

Last year's iron men have to prove their spot in this squad. Kuyt, one of my favorite players who led the team last year with fifteen goals, will not start in the position in which he thrived and might only be afforded a spot on the bench. Lucas, fans player of the year last season, faces serious competition for his spot in the center midfield with Henderson, Adam, Meireles and Aquilani.

With such additions and removals, it is up to the manager to bring the season back. Kenny Dalglish, a confirmed legend of Liverpool, is expected to make the right choices. He is a man who loves the institution, a man who is product and evidence of the club's illustrious history. Yet he is the institution as well. He can't fail.

It's the stuff legends are made of. Another compelling season taking place less than a month away. I can't wait.

2011-07-08T14:03:00.001-05:00

fixed the soundcloud post. now to figure out how to embed it... everywhere.

Experiments of loops

2011-07-08T00:12:00.001-05:00

The farthest deconstruction of sky by The Redford Rise

Music production is simpler than ever before. With an APC 20, several gigbytes of music, and a live version of ableton pro, music production is so easy i bet "the next hot artist" will be some kid under 5.

Anything is possible. The above loop is an experiment with a jazz classic, looped and filtered into a distorted haze. This work is as much a product of my respect for ambient music and the cynical loops of the last decade. It is unlistenable. It is satisfying. It's that track you skipped for 4 years but now can't stop listening to.

But it was fun to make. That matters.

Shabazz Palaces - Blast It (from the Village Beat film, Tough Bond)

2011-06-23T18:32:00.000-05:00

This is some heat right here. Shabazz Palaces are out of Seattle and seem to really get the new school hip hop scene without the cynicism and hate that is so popular in our art today. This is just the bomb though.

That's a topic for another post: cynicism and sarcasm in all forms of music. It's cool to be a hater. Maybe it's the socio-economic environment, where race isn't an issue but money always is. Who knows.

Count Bass D - Seven Years

2011-06-22T14:42:00.000-05:00

One of my favorites to play on WRVU FM back in the early part of this millenium. I can't take credit for finding him: Egon, my former boss and mentor, had been doing gigs with Count since the late 90s and introduced me to Count at the 50th anniversary of our now defunct radio station.

Count's sense of melody oozes through this record. A former Juliard man, he may perform hip hop but his records might as well be soul or jazz.

Categories aside, this song is just the shit.

Jon Brion - "I Believe She's Lying"

2011-06-20T14:38:00.000-05:00

I'll be seeing Jon Brion this weekend and hopefully have a similar performance to this one. Brion puts on great performances in Los Angeles on a consistent basis. I think he might be the best all-around musician living and performing in LA. Singer, songwriter, session musician, producer... The man wears many hats, but entertainer might be his best.

Ana Tijoux - What's In My Bag?

2011-06-16T16:03:00.000-05:00

I have a mini crush on this girl.

So it's good to see that her taste in music is pretty similar to mine. Some Fela, old Brazilian music... Score one for her!

Peter Gabriel and Bon Iver on 'Flume' and 'Come Talk To Me'

2011-06-09T18:10:00.000-05:00

A great understanding of music from two artists. Please enjoy.

Federico Aubele - Bohemian Rhapsody in Blue

2011-06-05T20:18:00.000-05:00

The genre isn't exactly new, but this is the Lounge music of this decade. Recorded with enough reverb to make you think you're in Jamaica in the 1970s, Aubele's music is exemplary of what downtempo folk should sound like. It's as methodically smooth as a drag of a Gaulois or a Baron de Lustrac Armagnac, so much so that this music can be enjoyed in similar contexts. Late nights on balconies, intimate encounters, introspective evenings or historic cocktail bars seem to be the setting for this type of music.

Yet another reason for me to move to Buenos Aires.

Peter Gabriel - No Way Out

2011-06-04T11:30:00.000-05:00

What a crazy band he put together for this recording... and this video.
What a beautiful song.

What beautiful lyrics.

Peter Gabriel has been one of the most inspiring revelations in my life for the past 10 years. Just because he is known for his "hits" more than this stuff doesn't weaken this material. If anything, it supports he is a world class artist and musician.

"im taking my talents to hollywood"

2011-06-01T18:57:00.000-05:00

Just want to say I'll be contributing music, film, and food reviews to thefoxisblack.com . This is a great website made up of great writers / designers from around the globe discussing graphic design, art, style, etc. I hope my two cents is worth a lot more there. But for my more personal musings on life, poetry, zen, sports etc, this is the spot.

Frank Ocean - Novacaine

2011-05-30T17:01:00.000-05:00

Another member of the Odd Future Wolf Gang Kill Them All ("OFWGKTA") releases a record that sounds nothing like Odd Future. That's not that shocking. The fact that a sexy pop and R&B track is related to Odd Future is shocking. But Frank Ocean has been ghost writing for years now, doing songs for Bieber, John Legend, and Brandy, so a song so smooth and easy to love makes that much more sense.

I still just love the lyrics:

"Brain like Berkeley, Met are at Coachella,

I went to see Jigga, she went to see Z-Trip,

Perfect"

Exactly.

Excerpt from The Book of the Five Rings

2011-05-30T04:00:00.001-05:00

Hotei watching the cockfight

""To become the enemy" means to think yourself into the enemy's position. In the world people tend to think of a robber trapped in a house as a fortified enemy. However, if we think of "becoming the enemy", we feel that the whole world is against us and that there is no escape. He who is shut inside is a pheasant. He who enters to arrest is a hawk.

You must appreciate this."

- Miyamoto Musashi

The painting accompanying this quote from Musashi's famous Book of the Five Rings is Musashi's painting of Hotei. You know him better as the laughing buddha. Carrying a sack, he has damn near nothing in common with the real Siddhartha. He is a creation of the a famous zen koan, affectionately called "the Happy Chinaman." For your pleasure, I have reproduced this wonderful story below.

It is the Tang Dynasty in China. Hotei has no desire to call himself a Zen master or to gather many disciples about him. He has chosen to walk the streets with a large sack into which he would put gifts of candy, fruit, or doughnuts. These he would give to children who gathered around him in play, creating his own school.

Whenever he met a Zen devotee he would extend his hand and say: "Give me one penny." Whenever someone asked him to return to a temple to teach other devoted followers, again he would reply: "Give me one penny."

While Hotei was engaged in his activities, two Zen masters happened along and inquired: "What is the significance of Zen?"

Hotei immediately let go of his sack his sack down on the ground in silent answer.

"Then," asked the other, "what is the actualization of Zen?"

In an instant, Hotei plopped the sack over his shoulder and continued on his way.

I've Got This Friend, The Civil Wars at Eddie's Attic

2011-05-21T22:51:00.000-05:00

one of the best new bands. I've always been a fan of singer songwriters - especially those from nashville origins. These two got it on lock. A great live performance if you ask me. The is the right one that came along. Joy Williams voice bridges the gap between girl and woman. The lyrics reside in that spot between love and affection. John White's guitar walking the precipe between playful and calculated.

This is a song not just for right now, but for many years from now. I will play this song for your grandmother and she will love it as much as I do. I guarantee it.

Bibio - The Ephemeral Bluebell

2011-05-21T22:18:00.000-05:00

And summer is around the corner....

Bibio is easily one of my favorite artists. This kid reminds me of myself in so many ways: a boy who loves his guitar, his four track, and draws his inspiration from the minutiae of life. There is a cross pollination of a youthful exuberance, engineered rigidity, and playful improvisation that most musicians rarely blend into one band. But from one man? Cheers to that.

The Naked And Famous

2011-05-02T00:46:00.000-05:00

I dunno if that's true, that these guys are the sound of 2011, but this does fit a radio-friendly-psychadelic-party vibe that is taking over the music industry.

Happy May Day. This 2011 is moving so fast, sometimes it helps to sit and listen to a song that feels so right now you date yourself just by saying you like it.

A little west coast for you all.

2011-03-23T15:02:00.000-06:00

A few short stories are coming up. A lull in work has given me free time and I dissecting parts of my brain in order to get the creative J.U.I.C.E. flowing. Not your typical variety creative juice. More blood orange.

A chance at redemption

2011-01-20T14:10:00.000-06:00

In an era where professional athletes rake in cash and expect the world to cater to them, one can only wonder what drives Dirk Kuyt.

For club and country, Kuyt has averged over sixty games a year for the past five years. He plays in the most physically demanding league and never misses an international competition. While Liverpool has struggled through three managers in one year and an influx of mediocre talent, Kuyt is still there, starting in the midfield or as a forward, and working his tail off.

Resiliency is not a trait of the modern footballer. But in Kuyt, petulence is replaced by perseverence. Style is replaced by stamina. Kuyt is not the footballer who will wow you with 30 yard goals or flashy tricks. A cursory glance at his goals in the past three years reveal a player with a sense of position and timing that few in the world can match.

When replacing Rafa Benitez, Liverpool supporters expected new manager Roy Hodgson's rigid style to bring them to Cup glory, like a stronger form of Fulham's Europa run of 2010. Instead, Hodgson's desire to play underperforming incumbents, buy mediocre aging players, and use marginal tactics brought a downward spiral of defeats and team spirit. Title challenging was over before December; playing for a European competition seemed gone midway through January.

Yet with the return of club legend Kenny Dalglish at manager, the bad habits and morose nature that infected the club appear to have been cured. Frustrating aging players were dropped from first team action, letting tenacious youngsters Jay Spearing and Martin Kelly start in the Derby match. Star striker Fernando Torres appears ready to attack opposition, not wait around to get injured or subbed out.

And Kuyt is still in the starting 11 working his tail off. His 5th goal of the season, a penalty in the 215th Merseyside Derby to tie it at 2-2, was a reward for his ongoing pursuit to better himself for the team. For a player with such a tempermental first touch, Kuyt's accuracy in front of goal is uncanny. Yet he is there for the rebound, the deflection, the last second diving header, the last ditch tackle, and the first line of defense. He may not be the best at crossing, finishing, or gifted in technique, but he was born with the greatest gift of all: Determination.

As Liverpool hopes to rebuild its season at the Molineux on Saturday morning (ESPN2), Dalglish should stick with the formation and tactics that worked so well against Everton. Dirk Kuyt will start and try harder than anyone on the field to prove the critics wrong about his club. People say "I'd want a whole team of (insert superstar player here)," but in Kuyt's case, only one of him is more than enough.

Slum village - fall n love

2010-09-18T00:33:00.000-05:00

Just another classic J Dilla beat. To paraphrase a cliche, this sounds as new as yesterday.

The Orange and the Fury: The World Cup Finals

2010-07-17T16:55:00.000-05:00

Now that the vuvuzelas have left a scar on eardrums around the world, we can clear our minds from that constant ringing and examine the actual football played for the past month and a half.

Ironically enough, the final game of the entire tournament might have been one of the least compelling matches played. Historically, World Cup finals lack the compelling play that teams demonstrate throughout their progress through the tournament. 1994's most remembered moment (besides Maradona's unfortunate removal from the tournament) has to be Roberto Baggio's missed penalty kick to give Brazil victory. Home field advantage played into France's hands in their 3-0 victory over Brazil in 1998 yet they generally employed only three offensively minded players. In 2002, Germany dominated possession but efficient counter play by Brazil created the opportunities for their 2-0 victory. 2006 was a famous stalemate that was highlighted by Zidane headbutting away France's chance for glory as they lost in penalty kicks.

This game was destined for the same sort of tentative, counter attacking play simply due to the make up of each team. Spain relied on its intricate passing and movement from Xavi and Iniesta backed up by two of the best defensive-minded midfielders on the planet, Xabi Alonso and Sergio Busquets. Pedro and Villa would be available to receive the ball in quick turn-and shoot due to such refined style of play. In turn,the fantastic Dutch midfielders of De Jong and Van Bommel were to serve as defensive counterpoints. They would release Arjen Robben up the right side while tireless, energizer-powered Dirk Kuyt could drift back to stifle Spain's marauding right side. Truly a game of point (Spain) and counterpoint (Holland)

Both plans nearly worked. Spain dominated possession and effectively played with complete control of the right side of the field. Sergio "El Comanche" Ramos overwhelmed the Dutch left side, supplying the Spanish artists with a larger canvas to splash passes through. Yet Van Bommel, De Jong and Heitinga kept most of the Spanish play on their right due to (what some pundits have called) "anti-football."

Allow me to rant for a second here. Taking a defensive, counter attacking mindset to the World Cup is a completely rational thing to do when your opposition is just filled with stars. While this game produced more yellow cards (15) than any other final in World Cup history, physicality has always been the foil to finesse. This is true in ALL sports. In the NBA, the 1989 Detroit Pistons, the 2008 Celtics stand out as two prominent examples of defensive mastery that brought down the offensive juggernauts of their times. In the NFL, defense decides Superbowl victories - just ask Steelers, Bears, or Giants fans. And yes, in the MLB, pitching is always the key to playoff success. Hockey is all about the defense as well. If Randy Moss could have caught a 90 yard bomb but was tackled 20 feet before the play, I get it. Pitching around Babe Ruth, I get it. Quadruple teaming Kobe and hitting his injured finger? I get it. But don't call defensive play against an offensive juggernaut "anti-football," call it necessary.

The Dutch were exceptionally lucky that some of their fouls weren't judged as harsh as they actually were. De Jong's Double Dragon flying jumpkick into Alonso's chest was as close to a red card as you can get and probably should have been judged as one. Heitinga's brutal tackles could have seen him sent off at least twice and Van Bommel didn't take it easy on any of the Spanish players. And, lest we forget, Spain received as many yellow cards as Spain. To that extent both teams were at the pinnacle of "anti-football," content to tackle each other until the other team tired out. If Robben had converted his two runs at Casillas, pundits of the game would be lauding the team for stifling the creative energies of Spain and utilizing patience, anticipation, brute force and pace for victory. Rant over.

Spain's victory shouldn't come as a shock. Before the tournament started they were 4/1 odds in Vegas. Possessing elite players in every position, the most difficult part of Spain's trip to South Africa was mentally waking up and playing within their faculties each match. Fernando Torres' constant injuries led to his late appearance but it was a success nonetheless - his chip in to Fabregas led to Iniesta's unblockable strike with only a few minutes left before penalties. While it wasn't the prettiest end to the tournament, the contrast in styles made it compelling to the dying second. Let's hope Torres will hold another trophy in 7 months, wearing the same scarf.

Top Three Awesome Things About the World Cup - Group Edition

2010-06-22T01:35:00.000-05:00

I think I just wrote a phrase that is factually erroneous. Everything is awesome about the World Cup. From the Vuvuzela's burning eardrums into oblivion to the fact that North Korea not only has enough people for a team but was good enouigh to MAKE the world cup, this Cup has been filled with surprises. Here are the best so far.

1: The 6th French Revolution.

It's not like France are a bad team. Although they sneaked into the tournament due to some sleight of hand, even the most conservative pundits had France winning at least one game by now. With an arsenal of superstars from La Liga, Ligue 1, and Barclays Premier League, firepower was never a question. Yet the team has failed to score a single goal in this tournament. Analysts have claimed that coach Raymond Domenech's 4-3-3 formation has failed the team. But maybe Zidane's retirement made the team lose it's emotional centerpiece, folding easier under pressure and lacking the creativity in the midfield it needs to open up scoring avenues. No player or coach can doubt the creative zeal and speed of Franck Ribery, the poacher's mentality of Nicolas Anelka, or their jealousy of Domenech penciling in that impervious back 4 to guard one of the world's best keepers. But when Anelka told Domenech "Go f*** yourself, you son of a whore" after a 2-0 drubbing by Mexico, clearly more was amiss than a loss and a tie.

Anelka has since boarded the next flight back to London, receiving word from the French Football Federation that he is to leave the World Cup. The next day his teammates refused to take part in practice or drills, defying the FFF and presented Domenech with a letter supporting their teammate appropriately nicknamed "Le Sulk." Disgusted, FFF team director Jean Louis Valentin resigned. Team captain Patrice Evra expressed further anger at the "traitor" within the team who leaked this row to the press. In order for France to advance to the top 16, they need to not only beat South Africa but beat them handily - a score of 3-0 will suffice - and pray Mexico holds Uruguay to no goals. If not, Les Blues will continue a tradition of impressive tournament runs followed by forgettable ones. Maybe this isn't a shocker after all.

2. Don't Cry for Me, Maradona.

One of the great superpowers since Diego Maradona shone in the 82, 86 and 90 World Cups, this Argentine squad boasts a collection of envious striking talent in Gonzalo Higuain, Diego Milito, and Carlos Tevez. This front-line is actually led by a player so skilled that few doubt his abilities on the pitch: Lionel Messi, the little flea with a cunning dribble and an ability to score with both feet. Their coach, however, left much to be desired leading up to the World Cup. Argentina stumbled just to reach the tournament, having to win their last game in the South American tournament. It wasn't for lack of talent. It was tactics. An inability to place players in their natural positions. Sticking with veterans over the burgeoning young talent. And somehow, a lack of chemistry between the team as they lost 6-1 to Bolivia.

Now all that is gone and the coach is vilified. Indeed, El Diego has seemingly silenced his critics after the squad crushed South Korea 4-1 and held an efficient 1-0 victory against Nigeria. While Messi has yet to score, the 4-3-3 formation - the same one Domenech has been so widely criticized for - has allowed Messi, Higuain, and Tevez to shift positions in the opponents half and create a disaster of man marking. Maradona has bottled lightning in Javier Mascherano's bone crunching midfield tackles and the ability to call in his son-in-law, Sergio "Kun" Aguero, to add more punch from any offensive position. All the false starts and failed experiments leading up to the World Cup have been forgotten as Maradona, with any luck, can take this team further than the talent. That's pretty far.

3. Tea, Ties, and Tumult.

That England and the United States would tie didn't seem far fetched. The U.S. has an uncommonly high ranking according to FIFA, 14, while England only are ranked 8th. In Vegas, the odds of the U.S. are a booze-friendly 10-1 odds to take the Cup while England sat at 5-1. Yet the two teams played to a stand-still a week ago, both aided by egregious errors. Robert Green's gaffe to let in Dempsey's speculative shot lent credence to the phrase "You can't score unless you shoot" while Oguchi Onyewu has been unable to find his legs, letting Gerrard break the central defense and take an collected shot past Tim Howard.

Since that "they are who we thought they were" tie, both teams have proven simply that: Their faults are as apparent on the surface as the San Andreas. England's Wayne Rooney has been invisible and their two world class midfielders, Gerrard and Lampard, haven't been able to play with each other to any success. First choice left back Wayne Bridge refused to join the team (thank John Terry for finding his baby mama) and injuries to Rio Ferdinand and Jamie Carragher have forced third choice center back Michael Dawson to start in a pivotal game against Slovenia. In a similar situation, the United States haven't strung together a hint of offensive or defensive continuity. Dempsey and Donovan, the best field players the United States has to offer, need to play more forward to generate opportunities alongside striker Jozy Altidore (a physical clone of Derrick Fisher, if you can imagine that). In both games, the defense has leaked within the first fifteen minutes. Despite that, who commands the midfield? Individual brilliance from Donovan and Dempsey aside, the team has both benefited and mired by luck the whole tournament. So has England. Both teams are tied on points and only one can advance. If England beats Slovenia, advancement is guaranteed. If the United States beat Algeria (a team that held England goalless for 90 minutes), advancement is guaranteed for them as well. But if both tie or only one wins, the other is going home. Yankee Doodle Dandy, my ass.

That's all for now, watch tomorrow and enjoy the remainder of the most controversial group stage since... the last one.

get out of my dream, pt. 3

2010-06-18T11:49:00.001-05:00

It's a pungent smell. The menus detailing the various ways venison can be consumed. Venison chili, venison steaks, salad with venison, rabbit risotto and as much artisal food as I can possibly get my hands on. How can a stove get up here? The windows overlook the lake and I've never been more impressed with lakes and, now upstairs, how great venison and rabbit can smell. Blackberries seep into my nasal passages and my inhibitions are gone, my senses overloaded by hunger, not satisfied by the smells...

"What do you smell, dude?" She asks.
"I smell onions, meat searing on a pan, blackberries, and my hunger going away real fast." I say. With that response she jumps into the closest table, fists both her utensils and makes a robotic, demanding face. I don't mind the table she's picked and I follow suit, banging my fists on the table in mock demand for food. A teenager waiter comes up to ask us for our order and she orders something small and I order nearly double the amount of food, knowing she will pick from my plate. I order a souffle early. Red wine is poured and I settle down for another litmus test. I catch her eye.
"Why do you look into my eyes like that?" She asks softly, expecting a serious answer.

"Because they've been in my dreams and I want to make sure I got the color right."
"Did you?"
"Not exactly. See I know a few girls with eyes that that shift colors. In light or shadows they would take on grey tints or sometimes a green hue. Yours don't. Yours just get... bluer. More blue." I play with my fork and steak knife as she relaxes into my gaze. "Bluish. More bluish. Bluisher."
"Maybe their eyes aren't really blue."

"Or maybe I need to figure out a way to get your eyes out of my dream."
"Why are they in your dream anyways? What am I doing in your dream?" Her look is angry, maybe appalled at my desperation but betray hope for sexual tensions. She rubs my leg with her foot under the table. My hand drops my knife and it falls harmlessly on the table.

"Believe me I wish they were those type of dreams. You're with me at a concert. You're on a boat with me. You smile a lot and then something terrible always happens."
"To me?"
"No, to me. You're always fine, Adrianna. I mean... you've always been hot. You know this. You... are in each dream long enough to be a part of it but short enough to never be a part of the action. Inevitably I end up fighting someone or something and the dream ends mid'-" and I karate chop the air. Food arrives and we both start eating. "I guess that's why I want to spend time with you today."
"How is this any different from your dream then, Roger?"
"It isn't." I swallow a huge chunk of rabbit to give myself a break from explanations. "I guess I'd trade a weekend of my life for a part of the dream to be real. For me it's not just physicality, you know. We could both be with tons of different people but it makes me feel cheap. I'd go in debt for another moment like the ones we had. If you kept me here, would I even have a dream?"

"That's all the time we've had together, Roger." And we ate the rest of our meals until the souffle came out and made a spectacle out of it. I hold her hands and make forgettable talk and forgettable smiles and forgettable jokes, each one worse than the next. I drive us back to Michigan, songs blaring out the windows. She falls asleep. When we get to North Avenue I don't get out of the car. She smiles at me and reaches over and kisses me. I hand her the bottle of wine in the back of the car and wave. I take the car straight to the rental location at O'Hare and sleep in it for 4 hours. I catch my flight and can't sleep the whole way home. When I arrive in LAX Jessica is waiting in the car. We fly down the 10 to the downtown apartment so I can change before dinner with her parents off lower Sunset. We make it to dinner on time but I can only drink coffee, her dad wants me to drink beer but I feel like a zombie. I tell her father my trip was fine but Seattle is nothing like being in Chicago with his daughter and it's great to have her in LA. He's pleased and toasts. I can't wait to go to sleep.

get out of my dream, pt. 2

2010-06-12T03:00:00.001-05:00

I close my eyes and remember, several months ago, pacing between a subway stop and a bar. I couldn't decide what was the most appropriate place to wait at and fortunately I chose neither. I kept pacing between the two, four blocks apart, unable to decide which was the most suitable place to be when I picked up the phone. Eight minutes of pacing later, when she called, I was two cigarettes in and close to the subway. I kept us moving to avoid the rain but I gave up my jacket that night when the rain hit. I got drenched, even when I made us hide in the subway stop. Rain starts to seep down through the forest canopy but not strong enough for me to really care. Adrianna doesn't notice and has a giddy smile on her face. I think she's immune to these kinds of things. Once again I let my guard drop. All I hear is the light pitter patter of the rain, our steps cradled by the soft ground.

Down the trail I see the entrance to something that appears to be stairs into the forest. Or a treehouse, something insulated and elevated above the ground and the nearby lake. I figure this is where we are going. It's made out of wood and looks like a Tolkeinesque hut but I realize it's just some Amish or post-Scandinavian invention to survive above the marshland. I can't say it's pretty, but there's an allure to surviving in the middle of nowhere. I'm still egotistical. I still think I'm from somewhere. The path takes the long way. It's made for tourists.

I shuffle her towards the staircase and go hold her hand till she reaches the top of the stairs. She pretends to farts in my face and giggles. We enter an upstairs foyer with a huge staircase leading upwards, possibly three stories into a mess of trees. I smell food from upstairs but I resist the urge to sprint towards it. The walls are a white teak that I have never seen before. Rooms fan out on either side and the door frames are large enough to move machinery through. Curiosity takes over and I walk to the room on the left and she follows. A gigantic loom sits in front of of us with barrels of yarn on either side of it, pouring over the loom onto the ground. There are six of them in the rooms, none being used now, all with cloth in various states of completion. I don't really care where she is but I assume she's behind me.

I city-walk into the next room and see wood shavings across the ground. Cabinets, chairs and tables appear to be made here with a certain continental design. I guess it is of a Germanic design, passed down through generations of woodworkers. I run my hand on a birch table and try to let a splinter puncture my hand. It doesn't. I want blood on my hand. The room empties out into a large chamber that has stairs to the spongy ground. Gigantic doors are slightly ajar to the outside. It has to be a loading dock, built years ago, repaired endlessly to perfection.

"Have you ever been to a place like this?" Her voice calls from some corner in the room. I turn my head a'lil and look at her out of one eye.
"Hell no. I mean... No. I don't know. I don't know Amish from Yiddish."
"Well, this is that real Amish. This is Mennonite Amish... you know what that is?" She asks.

"Men of might and fish? What? I got no effing idea." She doesn't find that as funny as I do.

"It's a real strict Amish order... we can't really cuss here."

"That's good cause you know I"m Catholic."
"I thought you were part Jewish."
"I'm kinda both, remember?"
"You're neither and you're both at the same time, quit confusing yourself." She punches me in the shoulder and I pretend to wince.

"When I get married I want it to be in a church, stomp on the glass, and say 'Chutzpah.' Duh."

"You're never getting married, Roger."
"Not on your watch, right?" I try to wink.

"Not until you get what you're looking for first."
"I'm not looking for anything." She laughs at that.

I grab her hand and drag her out of the room, moving her like a rag doll. She laughs. I smack my hand on the doors trying to get some blood on my hands but everything is too smooth, too worn, too sanded for safety. We start walking up the stairs which stop at the second floor. There's a room that is perforated by trees with very little actually in it. I wander into the maze of branches and she walks behind me, cautiously. I try again to get more blood on my hands but this entire building is safer than my apartment.

"I figured out when things went wrong between us, Adi." I say, finally finding a sharp point on a tree and try pressing my finger on it. Nothing.
"When?" She probably knows the answer.
"We were in bed. You said there were certain things you'd only do when you're in a relationship with someone. You smiled at me. I didn't know what to say back."
"You think that's when things went downhill?"
"Well you broke up with me four days later. I never got to talk about me leaving."
"You didn't need to. I got it." She pulls my arm between two branches and now we're maybe less than a foot apart.
"No, I don't think you do."
"Roger, I get it," she says again. "I got it the first time. You talk a lot about everything. You don't need to say things to be heard."
"What if... what if I hadn't made my mind up about me leaving?"
"But you had."
"I guess." I kick some sawdust and watch it float in the air.
"You had, everyone you know knew you had, your friends said you were dreaming of that day."
"I told you why I came to Chicago in the first place, right?"
"For business school." I turn around, knowing I spoon fed her this answer, and smile.
"Not exactly."
"Leave the coast again," she guesses. I smile again, knowing I spoon fed her this answer.
"Almost there."
"Does it matter?"
"I think it does."
"Rog, I coulda kept you here if I wanted to."
"What do you mean?"
"I don't want to say it."
"I'm dumb, you know this." I buy time and hope for an explanation that's not the one I am expecting to hear.
"It's not something we want to talk about, okay? That's why we haven't talked since then." I get it.
"I get it." I look into her eyes and try to see if there's something I'm missing, but this litmus test comes back acidic. Her cornflower blue eyes have a grayer tint in them and beg for privacy, burning like an chemical fire or an acid rain. I grab her hand and it is limp and her breathing is faster, I can feel her veins pulsing quicker and I don't know the right thing to do except the polite thing to do, the trained response. "Come on, toughie, let's get dinner upstairs."

She stares at the ground for a second trapped in her own thoughts. I can't say anything to shake her mind out of it and I know a kiss would feel forced and a hug would feel cheap so I have to resist the obvious wrong answers even if they feel right. I offer her my other hand. She reluctantly takes it and I feel her sigh. She blushes, this time with color, and shakes the trance out of herself. I pull her to my side and put my arm around her while she presses her face partially into my chest, channeling relief and frustration at the same time. I'm used to being people being frustrated at me. We walk upstairs where it smells like venison.

Strasburg Heights.

2010-06-09T01:11:00.001-05:00

His name sounds more like a neighborhood than a baseball player.

And when you hear the word "prospect," it's easy to chalk it up to being just another kid getting another break in the big leagues.

Little about Strasburg is pedestrian. The most hyped pitching prospect (ever?) of the past five years had a debut that exceeded expectations.

Consider that Curt Schilling - of bloody sock, Yankee killing fame - went on the air saying that when Strasburg hits the big leagues he might be the best pitcher in it. Of course, no disrespect to Johan Santana (in 2004, Santana went 20-6 with 265 punch outs), Tim Lincecum (18-5 with 265 punch outs in 2008) or Ubaldo Jimenez (11 wins, 1 No-hitter, and 93 strikeouts in the season so far). None whatsoever. This kid is just that good.

Consider in his first start in Triple A - the minor leagues, mind you - 13,000+ showed up. In all of his minor league starts, more than 10,000 people came to watch the kid pitch. That number is higher than some Cleveland Indians or Baltimore Oriole games last year. Consider that Nationals Park, of 41,888 capacity, was standing room only for a team in last place. Tickets were being sold for up to 1,000 dollars. And that was a deal. An additional 2,000 were sold, and officially Nationals Park was a fire hazard.

In reality, the fire hazard was the pitcher. Strasburg pitched 7 innings, punched out 14, including his last 7 batters, and walked no one. He gave up one fly ball - a 2 run home run to Delwyn Young, who smacked a change up going for the dirt into left center - and induced the other 7 batters to ground out. Every Pittsburgh Pirate took three strikes against him. The fastball reached 100. He didn't walk anybody. No pitcher in the history of baseball has ever had 14 strikeouts and 0 walks in his debut. Only 5 have ever accomplished that feat in baseball history: Clemens, Mussina, Javier Vazquez, Randy Johnson, and the soon-forgettable Brad Penny.

His rookie season, already, might be one of the best of all time. Even with the strict pitch count and inning counter. Kerry Wood was abused his first year in the majors but ended with a 3.40 ERA, 233 strikeouts in 166 innings pitched. Mark Prior, held more carefully than Wood, finished his rookie campaign with a 3.32 ERA, 147 strikeouts in 116 innings. The great Fernando Valenzuela was even more impressive with a 2.48 era, 180 strikeouts, 11 complete games, 8 shutouts and a Cy Young Award as a rookie. By comparison, Roger Clemens had 129 strikeouts and a 4.32 ERA his rookie campaign.

While the kid gloves are on Strasburg, a rookie season not unlike Clemens, Prior, or even Nolan Ryan is not unfathomable. I'm not ready to anoint the kid as a savior of baseball but for all intensive purposes, nobody knows how high his ceiling is. Unphased by the media circus, dedicated to the craft, and light years removed from the steroid scandal. When Bryce Harper hits the big leagues next year the Nationals will have a foundation to make a real run in the NL East. Baseball is a sport of parity: the next great player can come from anywhere, at any time, when you least expect it. We all saw Strasburg coming. Just not like this.

imperial bedrooms

2010-06-07T23:48:00.004-05:00

I might be one of the few reviewers of this novel to have a very similar life experiences to the author and/or protagonist. No, I don't mean the detachment from the world, ambiguous carnal desires, and morbid fascinations that Clay uses for distraction. No, I don't mean the fascination with murders, disinterest with "struggling actors," and escapist tendencies. I mean this in a sense of a native born Angeleno who leaves his hometown only to return unable to see how much Los Angeles has changed in that brief amount of time. Four months away a new strip mall replaces your burger joint; your best friend goes from beverly hills to deep into the valley, and it's hard to care.

Indeed, Los Angeles is a city of impermanence in places, things, and people. "Imperial Bedrooms," set 25+ years after the events of "Less Than Zero," continues this trend of jaded fascination with the lifestyle of those in Los Angeles through the same protagonist, Clay. Now a successful screenwriter flying between L.A. and NYC, he returns to L.A. after a few years to help cast for his new movie. Like the old L.A. stories, negotiations take a different course in the casting of a bit part character in his movie and Clay becomes attached to the actress he is considering for the role. But in L.A., "I know him," "I like your work," or even a smile has multiple meanings, and Clay delves into the subculture that made him run from the city in the first place.

In that regard, Ellis' novel places him the legacy of Los Angeles writers, dating from Fante, West, Chandler and Ellroy. His first person, present tense writing glosses over the minor details and keeps the reader engaged in Clay's perceptions but not necessarily his thoughts or aspirations. While "Less than Zero" is a remarkable achievement for the young author, "Imperial Bedrooms" evidences his maturity while keeping the characters true to themselves after 25 years of dormancy. Like Los Angeles, a face can change but that doesn't change the what's underneath it. Clay's disaffected nonchalance has grown up, Blair as desperate as ever, Julian still a wayward compass. The dramatic conclusion, while shocking to some, is simply the manifestation of years of dissatisfaction with the life they live. They've heard seen most of the good movies, all of the bad ones, heard every story get pitched and 99% of them get rejected. We are that jaded, that unable to hear a new story because they've all been told. The darkness and depravity of the human soul is all that's left to see. For these characters, it's all they have left.

"Imperial Bedrooms" isn't by any means a perfect book as its plot sometimes loses itself underneath the layers of subplots dominating Clay's consciousness. Yet the writing style is impressive, sometimes as drunk or drugged up as the narrator. Its frenetic pace taps into the mindset of the jilted generation in a way few books can. When you've seen it all, had it all, then nothing's shocking. In its frankness, transparency, and lucidity, the book is a success, showing a Hollywood that has nothing to lose and too afraid to be themselves except in its most private moments. A worthy sequel and maybe his best since "American Psycho."

get out of my dream, pt. 1

2010-06-07T01:21:00.001-05:00

It took some persuading, but I managed to convince her to a drink with me on Friday. I was nothing but apologetic. She didn't know why I was apologizing. But I know I did something wrong two months ago and I had to say I was sorry. I was just too good of a liar for her to realize it and she was too smart to see me when I had to fly back to Los Angeles. I never had the chance to fess up. As the drinks wound down I said we should do something on sunday. She asked what and I didn't tell her what, I just said, be ready at around 1 and I'll swing by. I had to leave Monday anyways. She agreed.

I dust off the my sports coat, put the keys in the ignition and let the engine idle for a few minutes. I run inside to pour myself a glass of juice with a dash of vodka for the drive. Three bottles of wine are in the back seat coupled with some water, water crackers, and some cheese. I hope they stay unopened. I drive on North Avenue to Ashland and make a right and let the sedan idle for a minute.

I call and say 'I'm here' and hang up the phone. She takes several minutes to come downstairs and I take advantage of the graded tint on my sunglasses to hide my stare at her slow shuffle towards the car. Adrianna looks agitated. I have never picked her up in a car before. Her brown hair is messier than usual. I still complement her on it when she opens the door. I smile. Adrianna blushes with no color in her cheeks. She gets in the front seat, throws her handbag in the back and I peel out towards the highway.

Adrianna reclines on the seat. 'It's gonna be a little ways, isn't it?" Her perfume creeps in. The notes of lilly of the valley, tangerine, and rose pepper always work. I accidentally fall at ease.

'Maybe' I reply and the smirk sticks on my face without me realizing it. She gazes over and her blue eyes try to meet mine but I focus on the road. I want to save that litmus test for later. The highway is relatively clear as we burn through the south side of Chicago and reach Indiana before I can even start a conversation with her.

I steal a glance to see if she's smiling. When my dark brown eyes meet her blue eyes I lose what little control I had in the drive. 'Ok you have a choice,' I say. 'I always give you choices so here's another one. We can go to a farm in southern Indiana and pick apples or to an Amish inn and store on a lake in your home state, Michigan. I haven't been to either place. But I have been in so many cities lately. When was the last time you left Chicago?' She shrugs, taps me on the shoulder, and points to the east. I know we're going to Michigan but I have to figure out how to get there. I stay on the expressway and follow the signs to Detroit knowing I'm not going to Detroit.

'Roger why do you always ask me what to do.' She says. Her saccharine voice intonates in my head. My ears are sensitive to musical tones and her voice hits notes like a hammered dulcimer.
'Because I want to do what you want to do.' I say.
'But you come up with all these ideas.' She says. 'All of them.'
'You did take me for some old world cooking.' The sun is high in the sky, nestled between clouds. I can see Michigan has the clouds and might be raining. We pass the Pulaski highway a second time.
'That was after you took me out five times. We did something completely differenteach time.'
'I want you to make the choice. I like your decision making, though.'
'But you came up with all these ideas,' she says. I can't respond so I turn up the mp3 player and roll down my window. So leave it behind cause we have a night to get away, so come on and fly with me while we make a great escape...

I turn inland and start passing country lanes with plain names. Browntown, elm valley, snow, hill, sparta, portland, and I even find Michigan avenue in Michigan. I try to avoid using the navigator or pulling out my phone for directions. I keep car fast enough to prevent her from facebooking or googling the entire drive. I don't want to be gpsed by her phone or mine. I can tell thats pissing her off, but I'm enjoying it. I don't know if I'm enjoying driving fast or pissing her off anymore. Probably both. I turn up the mp3 player.

St. Johns, mt. pleasant, greenville, northview, rockford, maple island.... the names don't even matter anymore. Chicago is far enough away and our car is the comet reaching its elliptical apex of orbit. I keep looking for the gravitational point we will pull for but it appears to be one more plain named street away. Adrianna says nothing and appears to smile. She never changes the music. My songs keep playing and she just watches the road, humming along with tracks I don't think she knows, or if she does, only heard in the five dates we had. Love is an open book to a bad verse of your poetry, and this is coming from me... But I can change.

Now I hope this all the driving I have to do tonight. I see an open area that leads to a trail through the woods and fifteen cars, mostly minivans and SUVs, parked around it. A whole bunch of middle America, smiling and enjoying the tourist trap purchases. But they don't look like bad purchases. the chairs are sculpted, the blankets woolen and heavy. Adrianna looks at me quizzically. I smile back and avoid her eyes.

"We're going here?" She asks.
"It's not what you expect, Adi."
"Really," she says, agitated.
"You know I wouldn't drive to nowhere for nothing."
"But I know you'd drive to nowhere to get time with me." I wonder why we didn't talk this much on the drive.
"I didn't want time with, you Adi. I wanted to go somewhere with you. You can trust me, you know." I don't know if she needed that reminder or I did.
"I know I can, Roger. But why are we here?"
"For the best treehouse within five hundred miles of here. I didn't spoil you enough in Chicago."
"All you did was spoil me." She stretched and hit me in the head as she reached out. "Sorry."
"No you're not." I smile. I decide to take the litmus test and try to meet her eyes. Her blue eyes are soft, cornflower blue, and I fall at ease and let her read my face. She shakes her head and breaks the communion.
"Ok let's go." She puts her hand on the arm rest and on my arm and pushes off of my arm, opening the door, flinging her tiny body out of the car. I grab my sunglasses, even though it's sundown, my coat, and a bag with the bottle of Chateauneuf-du-Pape in it. My legs creak out of the car and the soft, wet ground acts like a sponge to my rigid body. I triangulate my right arm on my hip and motion for her to put her arm through it. She obliges. We walk through the young families to the path, out of place, out of style, and out of care. I just hope this works.

Forehead of the rose

2010-05-24T22:10:00.000-05:00

Despite the open window in the room of long absence, the odor of the rose is still linked with the breath that was there. Once again we are without previous experience, newcomers, in love. The rose! The field of its ways would dispel even the effrontery of death. No grating stands in the way. Desire is alive, an ache in our vaporous foreheads.

One who walks the earth in its rains has nothing to fear from the thorn in places either finished or unfriendly. But if he stops to commune with himself, woe! Pierced to the quick, he suddenly flies to ashes, an archer reclaimed by beauty.

-Rene Char

tulip season

2010-05-24T02:54:00.001-05:00

tulips invade the downtown streets.
an event caused by the absorption
of light into each flower.
sometimes it is the theft
of water by each flower from another.
one of the crimes of the spring season
is its theft of this beauty from the city after two months.

how different it was when you were here.
the breath of the tulip into the sky
rivals an effusion from perfume broken on sullied concrete.
the dew collected upon the tulip lip
is the salt foam off the first wave of spring.
the soggy reminder that a season
was a theft citizens suffered for ten months.

how different it was when you were here.
the light of the flower
bounced from the river off your reflection
to the shoreline of the gulf between you and i.
i will not harden into concrete.
i cannot see the gaps between our flowers,
a crime that will haunt me until next year.

I come when you remember me.

2010-05-22T22:06:00.003-05:00

Snow turned to slush and the lake cracked under the heat, thin sheets of ice succumbing to the waves. I juggled a pack of Dunhills in my hand, fumbling for the lighter with the other. The warmest day in six months rode in on a gap in the clouds, melting our ice and thawing our faces. The city chose this morning to remind me that, yes, spring was desperately making headway through the bitter cold that shook the core for what I stand for. Water fowl danced on the concrete headway behind me, squawking through the revving of engines and lurching of tires during the morning deadlock. Turning my back to the wind became a necessity, whipping my hair into the cigarette. Tar and tobacco, I love it.

I turned my attention to the boats drifting south towards the ports, lumbering across the horizon. I smiled. So many times I had been here unwillingly, lamenting that it was simply an "inferior ocean" in my mind. The first time I came here was on the rooftop of a hotel, trying to boil the grey water with my hatred. The second time I was trapped on a boat, watching fireworks while I spiked my own drinks so every double was really a triple. Colleen and I watched the city lights from miles offshore, the waves rocking us nearly to sleep. And now the sun dried my chapped lips and raised the hairs from my hands. I started to cough, violently. Cigarette still in my hand, I turned around and breathed in the fierce wind, closing my eyes. When I opened them, a girl was there, on her bike, burning holes through my eyes.

"What are you doing here?" She said.
"I needed to thaw out, I can't take this damn city."
"I didn't know you were still here..."
"You're right, you didn't." She just kicked the dirt under her bike and started looking at the traffic. Cars roared as traffic began to pick up."You haven't talked to me for nine months..."
"What are you going to do, get mad at me for that?"
"I guess I can't." She looked disappointed. "You know I think about you."
"I figured as much."
"You think about me too."
"Oh really."
"I come to you when you remember me."
"I was actually thinking about Colleen, you know."
"There is no Colleen."
"You sure can keep your tabs on me, dear."
"So you're engaged now?"

I had no choice but to laugh. And after laughing some more, I shook my head.

"You came out here to ask me that?"
"This was a coincidence, Roger. That or you remembered me."
"I actually didn't remember you. I just remember how mad I was at you that night, but I forgot what you looked like."
"So you're engaged now?"
"What makes you think I'm engaged?"
"I have my ways."
"Well trust them and don't bother me."

Her hair was purple again, tinges of red through it. She might as well have been that crazy bitch from the fifth element without that whole importance to humanity shit.
"I still have a lot of your stuff."
"Keep it."
"Even your dad's blanket?"
"Mail it to me or keep it, you decide."
"Well my mom threw away half of it."
"That bitch is crazy."
"Yeah. She is." We both laughed, half a smile crawling to our face. I put my hand out and smiled.
"Take care."

She just stared at it, laughed, and got back on her bike, heading south to the University. My cigarette was just a filter stub in between my fingers, blown out minutes ago. Turning around, I stubbed my toe on the concrete bridge leading me back to the boulevard. The world grew dark as a cloud passed overhead. When you're already in Chicago, you don't need a bus to get there.

Peter Gabriel - Mirrorball (Scratch My Back) (2o1o)

2010-05-14T02:06:00.000-05:00

A musical legacy such as Gabriel's really doesn't need introduction. And I know I reviewed this album 2 months ago.

But geez, man. This IS orchestral pop. This is the genre, as well crafted as a Van Dyke Parks album. As wry and prickly as a millennial Belle & Sebastian b-side. As emotionally transparent as a Nick Drake album cut. Elbow's clever lyrics balance the strings and oboes,, which tense up when "everything has changed" and release into an outpour of melodic orchestration we rarely hear any artist take the liberties to execute. Even rarer so well.

Rock journalism is dying if not dead. Long live the music.

3 Girls.

2010-04-26T02:32:00.004-05:00

   3 drops of bleach can clean damn near everything. It can purify water and remove anything from my white shirt. Is white really purity? Does bleaching the shirt purify it? I cannot tell, I bleached the shirts you gave me a thousand times until they were slivers of thin cotton and still the smell of your perfume remains, the bloodstains remain, these immutable characteristics of these rags. I have attempted to purify those years of my life with bleach and alcohol. Alcohol, the astringent of memories. We cannot erase our guilty deeds or fess up to crimes we never committed. It's impossible to pretend what really happened but harder to remember how things were. Memory stacks itself, compressing each layer to where they are a blur of colors and laughs. Imprinted like dinosaur bones, the sediment around it is the broken connections in the brain, muffled by years of wine and bourbon.

   Our photos are the excavation tools and they only give us part of our picture. Not even a snapshot of your smile, conflicted against the harsh rain that pummeled us last night underneath the subway station, could replicate that moment that I experienced. Or maybe it is the harmonious unity of the rain and smile, the two existing within each other as a singular revelation of a soul stretched out. You were safe then, and so will your smile be safe in my memory. Oh Chicago, you and your lovely grit, the only city where you can kiss under the subway, outdoors, raining in the sun.

   Still it's almost a shame that so much of the memories are colored by the weather. It's too consistent of a reference point for my likings. Sometimes that's the first thing that seeps out of the brain, inconsequential as the weather from the age before recorded time. On a boat slowly coursing down river, we talked about the the fracture in our life. I don't remember the exact words because I was oblivious to their reality. All I cared about was the rare luxury I was experiencing. An arm around a small beauty, the slow rock of the vessel, Venus passing the Pleiades above us. I, Sisyphus, with an arm around my Merope. Me, eternally pushing a rock uphill in Hades, and you, your anger unseen due to my blindness from staring at the stars. Just like the rain, we'll never change.

Mastered: From Tiger to Human

2010-04-18T14:47:00.000-05:00

"It's a cathedral of golf courses. Enemy bombers would spare it in a war.

Outside its lordly magnolias, the surrounding countryside is Tobacco Road. But inside, you can almost smell the incense. It's not a course, it's a shrine." ~ Jim Murray

While this weekend was an eventful one for me - an opportunity to see Thom Yorke and Flying Lotus in concert and classes with a former Libertarian vice presidential candidate (more on this later) - the sporting world turned its eyes to Augusta National Golf Club. To become a member here your resume needs the words 'oil tycoon' or 'CEO' or 'President of the United States' to even get a cursory glance from the memberships board. This brazen exclusivity -the first black member joined in 1990 and no women have been made members- might be a remnant of shameful southern traditions, yet the club's ecology represents the best of the Southern U.S. Each of the eighteen holes are named after the flowers that color it. This former plantation turned golf course has housed America's best tournament for over 75 years.

In that respect, it's a perfect juxtaposition of new and old America. Tournament winners get to wear the elusive green jacket, the dream of so many golfers worldwide. Winning this doesn't give you a legacy. You become a part of a legacy. You are stepping into an American tradition just by being invited to play here. And to play in the Masters? It is easier breaking into Guantanamo.

Unless you're Tiger. Tiger's return to the PGA tour was surprisingly calmer than expected. Woods could play in relative serenity - although the pilot of this airplane might disagree - and the gallery gave reserved, appreciative applause for golf's biggest icon. Although the jokes were too easy to ignore (more than one writer has reflected on his final day score, his frustration when he wound up putting from the rough, the fluidity of his swing, his ability to find the finely trimmed greens and rhythm of his game), Tiger's game received different interpretation. Instead of his hostility towards the crowds, he acknowledged them more than ever before. He didn't win or even place in the top five. His trademark temper tantrums for an errant drive were interpreted as juvenile as his love life.

In the isolated confines of Augusta National Golf Club, Tiger was able to restart his career in a place as private as his life was two years ago. No Joe-average-golf-fan was present, a blessing for such a momentous return to his workplace. Losing at Augusta might have been the best thing for him. Mickelson got a fourth green jacket, kissed his ailing wife in the clubhouse and smiled to the camera. The golf world righted onto it's axis, but Woods was still on his own planet. Following his own compass. Saying all the right things. Smiling to the cameras. Plotting his way back to the top.

A passage from Musashi, by Eiji Yoshikawa

2010-04-08T17:27:00.001-05:00

It wasn't that he had forgotten the lesson Takuan had taught him. The truly brave man is one who loves life, cherishing it as a treasure that once forfeited can never be recovered. He well knew that to live was more than merely to survive. The problem was how to imbue his life with meaning, how to ensure that his life would cast a bright ray of light into the future, even if it became necessary to give up that life for a cause. If he succeeded doing this, the lgnth of his life - twenty years or seventy - made little difference. A lifetime was only an insignificant interval in the endless flow of time.

Bundy Pon De Floor

2010-04-06T15:35:00.000-05:00

this is one of the reasons youtube exists.

the birthright

2010-04-05T22:15:00.000-05:00

The divide between man and boy sometimes never occurs in an individual's life. Midway through the male life he reaches a point where he physically matures towards manhood. But the mind might never mature, sometimes staying fully rooted at the age where the male was most secure in life. It is a single-mindedness; a manifestation of insecurity and complete security at the same time. Why be concerned with old age, death, our inevitable progression through life when there are brazier straps to snap, skirts to chase, cars to tinker, toys to occupy himself with and become fat off of his triumphs and conquests. He may look all grown up but he might have never accepted it mentally. And he couldn't be happier.

Of course, he would through it all away to be the age of his mind one more time. There is an inevitably envy of youth in any form. I am sitting in a flying sardine can right now, staring out the eastern window into the grand expanse of the Southwest. A 3 year old Chinese child is sitting next to me, sucking her index finger; a reaction leftover from pre / post-birth. The beauty of youth is in its promise = The unknown future for that soul, a chance to create a life that will outlive almost everyone alive right now.

But evreyone passes away one way or another. Even this three year old child sitting next to me. And we would be fools to think that due to our education, health, Western medicine and finely tuned environments can in any way deviate the inevitable. Humans are not Ming vases that are only broken when the world effects them; they are just another animal completing a life cycle already mapped out for them. Mentally, we may ignore reality all we want. Your perception of the world is the only thing they cannot take away from you, whether you are a 'free thinker,' 'propoganda washed,' 'educated,' or 'jaded,' you can choose what you believe and whether it matters. You wee only given rational thought once in your life. Don't stop thinking you're too old for anything, as you only will be when you stop breathing.

Paul Simon - Biko

2010-03-30T17:55:00.001-06:00

And the back scratching has already begun.

The original "Biko" by Peter Gabriel was written in 1980 about the death of Stephen Biko, an apartheid activist who was brutally murdered in jail after being arrested for protesting. While the South African police claimed he died from a hunger strike, the multiple wounds to his face and head told a different story. Biko's death - which occurred in police custody - did not find justice in the courts, as the statute of limitations (expiration date, for you non-lawyers) on a murder trial had passed and a lack of sufficient evidence.

While an entire generation of kids are growing up without knowing about apartheid, even fewer know about Steve Biko. The ignorant hatred of apartheid, the blatant stereotyping of 3rd reich, and the blind hatred of the KKK might all be things of the past due to the awareness of songs like this.

Flying Lotus - Cosmogramma

2010-03-17T00:47:00.001-06:00

In case you didn't get the memo; there are no young hip hop artists anymore. I know, it's hard to believe. But rappers have shed their title of Master of Ceremonies for the freedom to use any beat they want. Mainstream rappers use club, r n b, hyped up remixes, and genre-bending collaborations more than a straight hip hop beat. And the underground guys are willing to take risks in beats just to not be labelled generic. Even the most authentic hip hop groups around today are relics of the golden era.

This is not a loss. If anything, it's a great to see these guys become treasured icons of American society. Popular artists, such as Outkast, Jay-Z, or the Wu Tang Clan, have embedded themselves into culture to the point that 'rapping' and 'beats' are not simply hip hop terms. They have embedded themselves into contemporary musical jardon. Even the under-celebrated artists -J Dilla, Mos Def, and El-P, to name the some of hip hop's most divergent yet talented individuals- have cult followings that will ensure a memory greater than a wikipedia footnote.

Only in the past five years have we really seen the development of internet influenced music. Back in the 80s and 90s, having a dj rig, an MPC or a synthesizer was the way to create hip hop music -the Roots being a notable exception-. Back then, any kid who got one of those items was halfway to being a dj, a producer or a rapper.

But in the post-Kid A world, spending 1200 bucks to get a sick keyboard is impractical. Buying 2 technics 1200s and a mixer costs 1000 bucks and THEN you gotta buy records, ranging from 6 - 20 bucks a pop. The MPC, the tool of beat producers since the 1980s, are around the same price. MP3s, for all intensive purposes, are nearly free and computer software allows sound to be manipulated in ways we'd never dream of. The internet has allowed music to flow faster than ever before. And releasing it, even easier.

These musicians in the post Kid A world seem to aspire to be ethereal and formless as the MP3 itself. They use some of the tools of the past, some of the genre of the past, and some techniques of the past. But the final results are rarely steeped in the mystique that they afford their influences. Sometimes purposely riddled with imperfections to purge the sterility of computer creation, digital music is so synthetic that it needs to be dusty and sometimes so dusty it needs to be synthetic.
So the young hip hop artists of today... They are there. They just aren't making hip hop anymore. They are processing so many genres. Glitch, soul, afrobeat, brazilian jazz, riddim, IDM, dubstep, UK garage, what have you. It's all there. A fusing that could only be brought on by technological advances of the new millenium.
Los Angeles based artist Flying Lotus is not a hip hop producer, but hip hop is one of his influences. He is a new generation artist in every sense of the word. His new brand of fuzzy, Mars transmission-esque beats could be categorized as the product of an 8-bit upbringing (read: Zelda, Mario, and Final Fantasy music) and an adderall / ganja attention span. But that would miss so many of the questions his songs create. How purely digital sounds can augmented into emotive concepts. Or how hip hop doesn't have to have a traditional soul, funk or jazz backdrop to still feel like it has those influences. Or maybe how digitally processed ambient noise can convey musical thought better than a piano concerto. A Mpc and the laptop... all you need to get on Radio 1

When FlyLo's new record Cosmogramma drops in a month, so many of the same adjectives will be used to describe it. Beats from space, glitch hop, beat nerds, etc. And the music won't be much more divergent than his previous release, making the labelling even easier. But a new style of musician has been created in the past 10 years, one that has never been seen in human history. It's not about violin playing, guitar playing, piano playing, or djing in your room. It's about arranging sounds for mass appeal, borderless forays into exploration. If we don't listen now the music will pass us by. Just like hip hop.
Sometimes playing guitar in your bedroom for years pays off. Who would have thought you would never have to leave your bedroom for the whole world to hear it. Flying Lotus will be opening for Thom Yorke this spring.

Peter Gabriel - Scratch My Back

2010-03-09T16:10:00.002-06:00

Peter Gabriel made an odd career choice late in his career. After thirty years of being a progressive artist - one who went from prog rock to pop to middle eastern rhythms and African percussion- in multiple genres, he decided to put out a cover record.

Scratch My Back is ambitious in that regard. An endeavor to literally scratch the back of the artists he loves, Gabriel's overactive musical snout picks out songs that he wishes he could have wrote. In bringing his clout and his following to these artists, he, in turn, expects them to cover one of his songs in the next year or so. The record includes songs by David Bowie, Paul Simon, the Arcade Fire, the Magnetic Fields, and Lou Reed. Most of the tracks are interpreted in drumless, symphonic pop method that are so exemplified in the song above. This cover of Bon Iver's 'Flume,' a song already known for its sparse, cold and listless atmosphere, gets dropped down half a step and reimagined with soaring vocals, simple piano arpeggios, and dramatic crescendos when the song hits its dominant points.

While the record is a mixed bag, its highlights are worth checking out. 'Listening Wind', by the Talking Heads gets special treatment. Paul Simon's 'The Boy in the Bubble,' a bouncy pop song coupled with incredible social commentary, becomes contemplative, nostalgic and tragic. Of course, covering 'Heroes' or 'Street Spirit' always is a challenge and they are creatively covered, just not executed to the effect of the original songs. No matter. Scratch My Back is such a great sounding record and a concept that makes me want to cover Peter Gabriel songs, more than I want to already.

Black and gold: Vanderbilt Football

2010-03-02T17:05:00.000-06:00

College football is as American of a tradition as the bald eagle. Sometimes collegiate pride is stronger than state or national pride. Even when a team is in the dumps, losing horribly, or simply getting outplayed, the fans won't ditch the team.

Vanderbilt Football used to be a storied exercise in futility. Long outclassed by the SEC football giants, this private school in the south has long had the luxury of playing the best college teams in the United States. And losing. There hadn't been a bowl victory since 1955 nor a winning season since 1982. Its fans would show up late and leave early, like dodger fans except more liquored up. Vanderbilt was regularly booked as the Homecoming treat for teams like Georgia, Alabama, Auburn and Florida.

In 2002, things looked like they were going to change. Bobby Johnson, a hard nosed division II coach, replaced the ineffective Woody Widenhofer. 'Bojo,' as he was affectionately called, amped up recruiting in the south and banned cussing during games. Johnson's work was not substantially better than Widenhoffers, but success followed him into the history books. Vanderbilt finally had a winning season and won a bowl game in the past decade. Johnson produced 2 freshmen of the year, one offensive player of the year, the best wide receiver in the SEC for three years and won the SEC coach of the year award.

But sometimes history etches itself deeper than it expects, providing unexpected endings. During Johnsons 2002 season, a freshman named Kwame Doster provided hope for the future. This SEC freshman of the year was also the greatest freshman in Vanderbilt history, setting records for combined yards, single game records for combined yards, and ran for four one hundred yard games. Doster was shot in his car the night of Christmas, 2004, and bled to death in the streets of Tampa, Florida. Doster's death is still too innocent to believe: some bravado and bragadocio on the streets lead to someone pulling a trigger, murdering a 21 year old college student.

In other times, history writes stories differently from the start. George Smith, someone who I can still call a friend, could have been the best wide receiver in Vanderbilt history. Smith was blessed with height, hands, and size, the prototype for success in the collegiate level and beyond. During his red-shirt freshman year, however, he couldn't feel his hands and his feet. In early 2004 he was admitted to the hospital with transverse myelitis, a neurological disorder that put him in a coma, made him lose 35 pounds, and his ability to walk for 2 months. After getting blood transfusions and filtrations, George was back on the field a year later, catching his first touchdown in September 2005. Yet that same evening, visiting fans went to an on-campus party George was at. While leaving, a fan pointed a gun out of the elevator, firing blindly down the dorm hallway. George was hit in the shoulder with an explosive bullet, leaving metal shards in his shoulder for months.

The tragic loss of Rajaan Bennett is another one of these instances. Albeit slightly different, the loss of Bennett before he even started one game for Vanderbilt continues this sad reality of youth athletes getting derailed by events so unbelievable, so unexpected that nobody could see them coming. Bennett, with a 3.8 gpa, active in the Christian communities in Georgia, and one of the best prep running backs in Georgia history, could never have been pegged to be in a murder suicide. Nobody could expect that his mom's boyfriend would shoot him in the head. Accomplishment and opportunity was ripped from his life before he could ever appreciate them for even a second. To be a Vanderbilt student, to be a college athlete... both gifts he could never open.

Like year after year, Vanderbilt football with trudge through the season knowing they will play heavyweights like Georgia, Alabama, Auburn, Florida and Tennessee. This season, like most of the past decade, they will play with a heavy heart, Bobby Johnson has had a role larger than coach for the past year. He is the crutch for the team to lean on, the motivator to get through a grueling day, the encouragement to move past the loss of a friend. Like the tragedy of Doster, the frustration for Smith, the loss of Bennett gave the team another heavyweight to fight for the next six months.

'My drive cannot be stopped or even slowed down, because every obstacle has a way around it. Every day I become stronger, from the weights, physically; from the books, mentally; and from life, emotionally. There is no limit to my strength. And at the end of the day, I want to be known as the strongest.'

- Rajaan Bennett, 1991 - 2010

February 14

2010-02-14T22:51:00.002-06:00

I have done everything in my power to avoid writing about John Terry, Wayne Bridge, Vanessa Perroncel. The dailies do a much better job covering controversy and all of its bells and whistles. A story this big should be handled by the pros.

So let's talk about today.

Winter dolldrums hit in full effect by mid February. It is a worldly moment of revelation. Will the winter ever end, will spring ever come. There is a certain irony that the one Hallmark holiday that could benefit the most from warm weather is Valentine's Day. Nothing really says 'I love you' like a weekend get-away, some place warm. Yet in the darkest hours of winter, a holiday was put there to keep people at home, snuggled together and warmed up by affection. Only the Saints - or Roman pagans, you pick - could mingle fertility and love so effortlessly.

And so, flowers, chocolates, gems, love notes, cards, songs, words written from the heart are exchanged. Whether this is for physical reciprocation or emotional consolation, I really don't know. I've been on both sides of that coin. If anything, Valentine's Day can be an exercise in honesty with yourself. What do you really want in that person that you made your Valentine? What do you expect back? Should you expect anything? Do you deserve what you got... or do you deserve anything at all?

For me, it's all about the honesty. My mind is corrupted by so many different understandings of love that I cannot decipher which parts are imagined and which parts are real. The events of the past and those I anticipate in the future... I want them to be honest. My present reminds me of my past which reminds me of my future which is only the present a couple days from now with the same decisions, the same choices, the same paths, the same results. I don't want to be caught staring, frustrated only when I figure out this end was the same as the last one. Just like the rain, we'll never change.

E-Bow The Letter

2010-02-14T01:11:00.001-06:00

Look up, what do you see?
All of you and all of me
Fluorescent and starry
Some of them, they surprise

The bus ride, I went to write this, 4:00 a.m.
This letter
Fields of poppies, little pearls
All the boys and all the girls sweet-toothed
Each and every one a little scary
I said your name

I wore it like a badge of teenage film stars
Hash bars, cherry mash and tinfoil tiaras
Dreaming of Maria Callas
Whoever she is
This fame thing, I don't get it
I wrap my hand in plastic to try to look through it
Maybelline eyes and girl-as-boy moves
I can take you far
This star thing, I don't get it

- michael stipe

my favorite actor was dennehy long before he played knight

2010-01-31T16:35:00.004-06:00

He didn't need this to prove himself.

After years of success, it became inevitable.

But still this was the sweetest moment of his career.

Landon Donovan's first goal in European professional competition wasn't even necessary. He could have just stayed in Los Angeles and waited for the MLS season to begin after taking his team to the finals last year. Or getting rest for the upcoming World Cup stint. Or maybe sleeping for once.

Snubbed by Bayern Leverkusen during his four year stay under their contract, his time with the LA Galaxy has been nothing short of a success. But a loan spell to England is not something simply bequeathed upon you. Donovan's goal against Brazil in the recent cup tournament and relatively cool demeanor in the MLS title game brought attention from the Merseyside.

And so Donovan went to Everton FC in Liverpool, England, his starting status in doubt. He contributed on the attack in the first two games - the first two starts of his European career - patrolling the right wing, sending crosses and corners into the middle. Most people figured him a temporary replacement. With Pienaar and Arteta returning from injury, staying in Everton's midfield is harder than cramming a 10 ounce beer into a 12 ounce glass.

His goal has a learned finesse, a midfielder's touch on the ball. A finish perfected through repetition. Whatever you want to call it, it was a defining moment in his career. Evidence that he can survive outside of the West Coast and that US soccer can produce offensive talent.

Europe had looked to the US with tempered expectations for talent. We produce the occasional midfielder and have three great goalkeepers. Yet outside of Dempsey, Beasley and Adu, for such a huge country the US lacks quality strikers and offensive midfielders. Scoring for such a storied club, Donovan has erased the years of disappointment for himself and for US strikers.

With Dempsey at Fullham, Altidore on loan with Hull, and Donovan at Everton, it appears something is building. But how many of the U.S.'s best athletes will grow up playing soccer over football, basketball, or baseball? Donovan's goal erased doubts that undersized U.S. athletes can't compete on the international level. Each goal or assist he scores in England is proof that Americans can be athletes, even if they don't have the athleticism of a basketball player, the strength of a football player, or a freak physique like Lebron. Donovan scoring yet another notable goal is just proof that these new role models - Donovan, Altidore, Dempsey and Howard - exemplify what makes soccer the world's sport. In soccer, hard work is rewarded, and class is always appreciated, and creativity creates superstars.

It is a softer form of diplomacy. America can be though of in terms of soccer to Europeans and not simply Obama, Bush, or our military. As long as he keeps scoring goals, Donovan is to England what Beckham was to America: A cultural trojan horse, scoring goals for the future.

the wolves at the door

2010-01-25T19:55:00.000-06:00

Sorry for the tardiness to finish up the list and a lack of posts. The holidays hit like a bag of bricks and chili cheese fries: a fattening assault that, at times, kept me in bed for days. Sitting around and trying to finish a very detailed process of picking from a decade's worth of music.

Doing that felt like I was staring at a pollack painting: a rhyme, reason, and rhythm was in place, I just had to find my bearings in the 10,000 different records I listened to.

More to come in the vein of short stories and sports commentary, plus some music reviews in the works. Stay tuned.

NUMBER JUAN - KID YAY

2010-01-14T15:14:00.001-06:00

KID A

If you've actually followed this list in any way shape and form, you might have noticed my veiled hints towards this record and this band. Any list that does not have this in the top 5 has their committee of (generally) one with their head too far up their ass. I'm not calling them dumb. I'm calling them ignorant.

A band puts out one of the most defining records of the 1990s. It rocks, kicks ass, takes America by storm. Yet their follow up record has no singles, . It has no press releases. No promo copies until a week or two before the record drops. The band leaks the record on the internet. Let people bootleg copies from their live shows in Europe Radio disc jockeys are puzzled by what songs to play. The buzz was huge. Millions were lost in downloads and bootlegs.

But still everyone bought the record. It went to #1 in the UK and the USA. The haunting music seemed to convey the world's uncertainty towards a new millenium. Not only the Y2k buzz but towards the changes in society taking place. Music was changing fast as well. The excess of the 1970s rock seemed farcical in the face of "The National Anthem," the moodiness of grunge cheap with the harrowing emptiness of "How to Disappear Completely." The highlights of the century's most recent musical genres - techno and electronica - couldn't compete with the sneer of "Idioteque." The bliss of dreampop can be defined by "Motion Picture Soundtrack. Radiohead hit every musical genre out of the park with this one.

Of course, the further one pushes oneself to break the mold, the less molds there are to break. Guitarist Jonny Greenwood put down his rock aspirations and started to arrange string compositions in the vein of Pendrecki and Messiaen, Thom Yorke let his neurosis compound itself by listening to Aphex Twin and Autechre. The band took their recording influences from Brian Eno and Can. Once you've done that, almost every border to musical discovery and invention has been broken. And when you've broken every expectation for yourself there's no other way to shock the world. Everything Radiohead has done ever since - still some of the best music the world has ever produced - hasn't been as surprising. Kid A shattered so many notions of what the listening audience considered music that now nothing's shocking. Not even it's place as the best record of the decade.

Kid A - Radiohead

NUMBER 2 - WHITE BLOOD CELLS

2010-01-14T00:28:00.000-06:00

The White Stripes - White Blood Cells

Rock and roll is dead.

We've heard it hundreds, maybe thousands of times. And not just rock and roll. Punk is dead. Hip Hop is dead. New Wave is dead. Raving is dead. Boy bands are dead. Jesus is dead. Hitler is dead. Mr. Miyagi is dead. Drugs are dead. And on, and on, and on, and on.

By the turn of the millenium rock and roll was considered dead. Punk had been bastardized into pop punk, metal had been bastardized into nu/jock metal, even the best rock band - or potentially best rock band of the millenium- gave up MAXIMUMROCKNROLL for synths. Stick a fork in this bitch.

Fortunately the deadest city in America, Detroit, became a breeding ground for garage and alternative rock. Dance rock, hard rock, dirty blues rock all started to slowly come out of the woodwork. When White Blood Cells dropped, college press and the critics already knew who the White Stripes were: a two piece band, possibly brother and sister or a married couple, who played simple rock songs. What they didn't know was that White Blood Cells was the Trojan Horse to the Jack White musical forays into country, folk, salsa, merengue, all under a classic rock aesthetic. "Dead Leaves..." might rock harder than any track not written by Mastodon this decade. "Fell in love with a girl" is the perfect 2 minute guitar pop song, complete with a catchy hook and an unforgettable riff. The slow piano dirge of "This Protector" to end the album stands in direct contrast to the third single, a little love ditty called "We're Going To Be Friends." It is some miracle or work of craft that makes White Blood Cells work. Every song is so different, so varied in style or tempo or mood, yet they all don't sound that different.

Maybe that's the craft, maybe that's the miracle. Regardless, it's the work of Jack and Meg White. Their empire is gigantic now. You knew this band would be big, just not selling-out-110k-Azteca-stadium-in-Mexico-City-big. Jack has a record label, produced country legend Loretta Lynn's last record, owns a couple boutiques in Nashville... You get the drift. It's impossible to talk about this Decade without talking about the last rock band standing. And their best record. White Blood Cells is that record.

White Blood Cells - The White ...

NUMBER 3 - YANKEE HOTEL FOXTROT

2010-01-06T01:02:00.001-06:00

Wilco - Yankee Hotel Foxtrot

I guess it was inevitable I would move to Chicago or at least let Chicago influence me in some way. When I bought this record 8, 9 years ago, whenever it was, I had no idea that these semi-iconic towers - The Marina Towers in Streeterville, downtown Chicago - were real, meaningful, and possibly an icon of the pseudo-Americana art that permeates the Midwest. In many ways this record is that pseudo-Americana music that has taken over the heartland. Sometimes it is rock, sometimes it's country, sometimes it's western, sometimes it's bluegrass, sometimes it's applachian folk, sometimes it's just folk. Whatever it is at any time, it's got the makings of a truly AMERICAN record: honest, polished, simple, and the product of hard work.

This is truly the album that never was supposed to be, cancelled and dropped from labels and inevitably put out to acclaim that nobody really expected. It spawned only a minor single in "Heavy Metal Drummer" but that's not what drew people to the record. It was the fact it was a complete record, feedback and echo constantly droning underneath layers upon layers of instrumentation brought it a certain allure. This allure became its bane to industry heads who demanded singles to create record sales. Their label refused to release it.

In a true Chicagoan way, Wilco bought their way out of the situation, inevitably buying their rights back from their label and had the record released a year later. Of course, it went Gold, proving Warner wrong. This was true blue American conventionalism at work. They paid $50k for 11 songs that maybe had 4 or 5 chord changes in them, none of them with perceived commercial appeal. But the sonic alchemy at work made the songs irresistible, the lyrics instantly unforgettable. There were calls for "undressing like cross-eyed strangers," skyscrapers were scraping at something, and each star was a setting sun. Lead singer Jeff Tweedy had reservations about so many things but none that the listener couldn't get. Each song was simple enough to memorize but filled with production tricks and complexities that you had to keep it on repeat for years just to really "get it.

That being said, this record might have been one of the last true albums of all time. While more people are interested in releasing either singles or collections of singles, Yankee Hotel Foxtrot is a truly an album. It embodies the sensibilities of the heartland; a product of work ethic, craftsmanship, and homespun creativity.

Yankee Hotel Foxtrot - Wilco

NUMBER 4 - SPEAKERBOXXX / THE LOVE BELOW

2010-01-04T23:52:00.001-06:00

Outkast: Speakerboxxx / The Love Below

Another easy choice. Although most critics may choose to pick Stankonia as their de facto Outkast name drop record, it's hard to beat what this record is. This record has it all and everybody: Cee-lo, Lil Jon, Kelis, Ludacris, Jay-Z, Antonio 'L.A.' Reid, Norah Jones to name a few. This was a record everyone wanted to be on, including yours truly.

It's two records actually. The Player and the Pimp.

The Player showed how neo-soul can be as hip hop as it gets. Lets face it - Drake and Kanye owe a lot of their "I'm hard, love but I still got feelings like love and I can talk the game too, baby girl" comes straight from this unexpected genre swap. Andre made dressing up cool again, and not like a pimp or a hustler, but as a plaayyerr, a smooth man with varying degrees of sophistication. He started singing too, something that Kanye might be afraid to admit he took a note a note from as well. "Hey Ya!" was the cross over single of the decade, simultaneously great for soccer moms, ATL cruisers, and hot summer days. "Prototype" is the best Prince song that Prince never wrote and a tender duet with Norah Jones in "Take off your cool" showcased a songwriting from Mr. AH-HA, HUSH THAT FUSS.

And the Pimp? The Pimp provided bangers for the dance floor and the bed sheets. What else can we consider a song called "The Way You Move?" "Ghetto Musick" envisioned B-more and ATL strip clubs. The cockiness of Big Boi is apparent on every track - even if the hit isn't a bonafide banger, it was a banger in almost every club in America. Killer Mike slays his guest appearance and Lil Jon and the Eastside Boyz provide that southern crunk that was all the rage in 2003. This was music to look good in the club to, the VIP section where you hear your own tunes throughout the club.

The dual nature of this record was early signs on how hip how was about to split down the seams. Big Boi's pure rap and club tracks were direct predecessors of Usher's synthed out club pop, Wayne's lollipop, and other Southern club bangers. Andre 3000 opened up the world for rappers like Kanye West, Drake, Cee-Lo, Akon to sing. Thankfully he didn't instigate the autotune fad - fuck off Akon - but he was still the best singing rapper since Queen Latifah and certainly the most creative. I could try and justify this record with the pop charts, but Grammy awards, topping the Hot 100 charts, and going 11 platinum - did you say 11? - confirm what we already knew: this was a great record.

Speakerboxxx/The Love Below - ...

NUMBER 5 - YEAH. YEAH. YEAHS.

2010-01-04T00:51:00.001-06:00

Yeah Yeah Yeahs: Fever to Tell.

This is yet more proof that the committee at work here is not biased. Any of the past five records could have busted into the top five just on how much I listen to them. But to deny the best NEWYORKCITY band of the decade a spot in the top five would be unjust.

Sure a lot of bands came from NYC this decade. Interpol, The Strokes, Antony and the Johnsons, Grizzly Bear, Vampire Weekend, and the National all had their time as critic darlings and indie icons, spawning or improving various subcultures of rock and roll. Some of them really hit the mainstream too and put out nearly perfect records. Turn on the Bright Lights might not have a single flaw on it. But a three piece provided all the swagger and attitude to rock and roll that it was sorely lacking. Street art? Check. Sass? Check. Sexy and absurd outfits? Check. Playing like you just don't give a fuck? Check.

The Yeah Yeah Yeahs are the perfect package. A beautiful lead singer combined with a virtuouso guitar player and a solid drummer. A great name. A live show that can headline Lollapalooza or The Smell. Attitude both on the record and in the venue. They had hype before they even recorded an EP. And when the EP dropped, the songs spread faster than bird / swine / insert-your-own flu. Somehow the songs could combine sexiness, simplicity and brashness at the same time. Lead single "Maps" catapulted the band from buzz word to dictionary definition. Tracks like "Date with a Night" and "Y control" both demonstrate the range of songwriting that was only being scratched at. The follow up records only showed further progress in their craft. Show Your Bones polished the formula of Fever to Tell while It's Blitz showed some new dimensions in their respective instruments. Yet by the time this decade has ended, this band became an essential chapter in the indie / garage / art rock scenes. Sometimes, you got to respect where the wave started and not the wave. Fever to tell is the butterfly in China creating a storm in New Jersey - it's effects being heard all the way to American Idol and X factor - and that's the closest i can get to completing the turn of phrase.

Fever To Tell (EX)/Show Your B...

Top 10 Records of the Decade We'd Want to Forget: #6

2009-12-30T04:18:00.002-06:00

A defining characteristic of the past decade is the rise of the Middle East . You can't talk about the years 2000-2009 without mentioning Iraq, Afganistan, India, and Pakistan. The Western World woke up to a "sleeping," culturally dormant group of over 2 billion people. Months, maybe years from now, that will seem like an absurd statement. But the arts economy had already accepted the market and understood its as a viable product. Heavy medal rocks Baghdad. Dreamworks is in India now.Time will tell whether the 8 Oscars for Slumdog Millionare were well earned. I think four of them were.

How didn't you love this girl when she came out? A London born girl who grew up in Sri Lanka with her revolutionary party parents. Civil war mobilized her family in her early teenage years. She went back to London, got a degree and became an artist. Art gave her this career. Doing cover art introduced her to musicians, they introduced her to the Roland 505, one of the best production tools ever created. After writing six songs, she printed 500 vinyl copies of Galang. One mp3 drop later and the rest is history.

Sadly, I didn't love her as much as I should have. Individually her beats are some weird cross of british house, Sri Lankan tribal rhythm and a bollywood movie. I didn't expect that. Her videos were bollywood too: bright colors, low budget special effects, complete with a dance sequence. Except her dancing had swagger (not jubilant elation), the colors were on tanks and bombs.

So how does she sell that product? She hooks up with Diplo, a Philly-based DJ. He taking the tracks she has for the album and flips them into a mixtape. Who needs a publicist when you can create a product. With Diplo providing a sonic retexturing and and dropping pop references all throughout her work. She could do it in her work He put 'Big Pimping' on her track 'Bingo,' put 'Goodies' on 'Amazon' right when mash-up djings was really taking flight. All of a sudden her voice sounded like it should be talked about like Jay and Ciara. The record let the world know that there was a new MC and beatmaker running around. Diplo did his job. It's a DJs oldest job: supporting the MC.

From this record she played Coachella, toured with Gwen Stefani, and inevitably put herself in Grammy talk four years later. Even Time magazine took notice and placed her in the Top 100 Influential People list. Such a meteoric rise of talent, a star was born with a simple machine some creativity and some style. M.I.A. used what she was given in life and did something with it. She was a recessionista before the recession hit. A girl whose ambition was rewarded. Look no further for a defining record of the past 10 years.

This shit ain't on lala, sorry crowd.

The Top 10 Records of the Decade We Want to Forget: #7

2009-12-28T19:26:00.003-06:00

At the Drive-In: Relationship of Command

The hardest thing for anyone compiling lists and ranking art is first assessing where your objectivity begins and personal preference ends. I have tried very hard to be objective with this list, but personal bias somehow always comes in the way of critiquing. Inevitably I cater to my own tastes and perceptions of the world.

Not here. If I had it my way this record would be in the top 5. Maybe top 3. It was, and probably still is, that important of a record in my own life, but that is irrelevant. This decade was not MY decade. But theirs. The efforts of four boys (now men) from El Paso, Texas would set punk rock back 20 years to its roots, renovate post-punk for the new millennium, and make progressive rock a viable genre again.

Relationship of Command is not your typical post-90s punk record or hardcore record. Latin jazz butts heads with Krautrock, fusion jazz digressions collide with walls of noise. Not only was the music the prototype for the screamo / aggro rock culture. Skinny jeans, Afros, out of fashion glasses, Chuck Taylors and lumberjack plaid were remnants of the grunge era - well except afros - until they were reinvented in the North Mexican / West Texas sun. Now every stupid ass hipster kid from the Mission district to the Lower East Side, from Wicker Park to Austin, looks like these guys. Too bad none of them have half the talent.

Relationship of Command is a hard record to inhale on your first try. It's almost like huffing gas: After your senses get rocked for the first couple minutes, you become more receptive to the head change. "Arcarsenal" hits the listener's ears with shouts to BEWARE, with Cedric Bixler-Zavalas questioning who is in charge and wanting to confront whoever this person is. These sort of cryptic, paranoid, urgent lyrics get propelled into the stratosphere by staccato guitar playing and a grinding rhythm section. Jim Ward provided the steady guitar playing to Omar Rodriguez-Lopez's wild forays into guitar abstraction. "Invalid Letter Dept" famously describes the Juarez murders that plagued the city over the bridge from El Paso, letting the loud / soft dramatics that characterized hardcore / emo reach their full potential. Iggy Pop appears on two songs, once as a fictional kidnapper, the other hysterically singing verses and choruses. Tracks like "Cosmonaut" assault you with thoughts of dying aimlessly, alone in space, condemning the listener to their fate with a guitar assault we haven't heard since genesis of punk.

Legendary producer Ross Robinson essentially pitted the band against each other in the studio as a challenge to make a great record. Somehow this record reached the Billboard Top 200 and the band fell to pieces on tour, citing irreconcilable differences. The rest of the story is now rock and roll history: half the band became The Mars Volta, the other half emerged as Sparta. While both bands are successful in their own right, it is when these two halves are put back together that you get the best music West Texas has ever produced.

Relationship Of Command - At T...

Top 10 Records of the Decade We'd Rather Forget: #8.

2009-12-28T15:23:00.000-06:00

Happy Holidays.

Animal Collective. Merriweather Post Pavillion

2009 should have been a year of positive change.

We didn't need to imagine how great times were before the recession hit. Everybody had money, jobs, and enjoyed what they had. Until, of course, reality hit. The world was slow to react to the economic shift. Governments were crippled by a financial crisis that is still too harrowing to be honest about. If it was a quick fix it wouldn't be talked about in 2010. So this entire country, heck, the world has had to make due. Make due with what they got already. Value what we already own, value the intangibles in our lives. The whole world was riding high until the world seemingly fell to pieces in a recession that claimed jobs and lifestyles. There's a reason that club techno and 80s rock was all the rage. We partied like it was American Psycho, minus the dead hookers. At least I didn't have any.

So the joyous caterwauling of the Animal Collective in 2009 was probably the best news to happen to most people. Brooklyn-based-starving-artists-slash-organic-water-farm owners, even skinnier than usual since ramen's 10 cents a package became too expensive, had some positive news to hear. Instead of aspiring for such great heights of Manhattan, they listened to Noah Lennox declare "I don't mean to seem like I care about material things or a social status. I just want four walls and adobe slats for my girls." Under a swirl of sound that reminisced the Flaming Lips or early Pink Floyd, this conviction in their first single rang out across the land, tempering the expectations of soon-to-be lawyers and bankers. Second single "Summertime Clothes" reminded us how great it was to walk outside with a lover, a joy forgotten when New York, Chicago, and Orange County were economically contracting. Third single "Brother Sport" asked people to use their voices again, be creative and yourself when everyone under the age of 35 was flotsam falling from their aimlessly drifting corporate ships.

When most people's day jobs were shrinking and removed, the swirling psychadelia, invasive harmonies, and unbridled optimism of Merriweather Post Pavillion made pleasure a tangible and aural experience. Somehow breaking the Billboard Top 20 this year, it's a tremendous achievement in a time where we thought music would stagnate like the world around us. It might be the most unforgettable music release from our most forgettable year of this decade. Thankfully we welcomed it with open arms.

Merriweather Post Pavilion - A...

Top 10 Records Of The Decade We'd Rather Forget: #9

2009-12-21T20:00:00.001-06:00

Sigur Ros: Agaetis Byrjun

Ironically a lot of the most important records of the new decade were released in the year 2000. I don't know why this happened. Maybe it was a one thousand years of pent-up creative energy erupting onto one year. Maybe a lot of artists wanted to project their views on the new millenium then. Regardless, the twentieth century was the first time that the recorded music was bought and sold. As a result, twentieth century music genres have evolved at the speed of light in comparison to the relics from the rest of the millenium. Ok, it was more than just the birth of recorded media. It was also drugs. but we're talking about four boys from iceland who don't do drugs. Anyways...

Jazz was first bluegrass, then swing, then bop, then hard bop, then cool, then free, then fusion, then funk, then acid, and then melded with hip hop. One of its off-shoots, rock and roll, was a popular derivative of the jazz and country styles of the time. It was a pop form, with singable words and digestible chords and hopefully some good looking young guys to sell a bunch of records. It's evolution into mainstream consciousness has made it one of the few commercial entities the record industry has still got. The creation of electronic instruments augmented it further to the points where people were just experimenting with the sound of the electric guitar. Glenn branca took advantage of its sonic capabilities. Brian Eno, through his study of Steve Reich, figured out how to make it even bigger, larger, atmospheric and single-handedly made glam and prog rock more than just 'rock'. When My Bloody Valentine came out it only made sense that the guitar could shake you physically as well. By the mid nineties, groups like Godspeed You Black Emperor could make literally drop bombs of sound on audiences. 40 years of rock and roll evolution - and i do mean evolution, not simply reinventing the past - made the style more varied than ever before. You didn't have to BRING THE ROCK for two hours to be considered rock anymore. Post-rock, as a genre, was created when the dynamics of rock and instrumentation were most suitable for sound and atmosphere. Not melody. While the stress on rhythm, timing, and dynamics might make this sound similar to math rock, the rhythm and timing was only a mechanism for sonic texturing. When Hendrix first used a rotating Leslie speaker to his guitar solo in purple haze, he might have inadvertedly created post-rock.

So four boys from iceland combined this post-rock sound with the maudlin folk of their homeland. Their first release in 1997, Von, lended more to their predecessors. Yet Agaetis Byrjun, their sophomore release in the year 2000 took the symphonic aspects to a different level. drone was muddled with feedbacking melody lines, falsetto singing coloring different aspects of sound. To say this record was unexpected was one thing; it was a weird vision into a future of music that people knew was there but nobody had the guts to write. The melody lines are so catchy but the dramatic touches keep them more divine than poppys. Listen how the fourth track layers a retardedly slow drone pattern with different rhythmic melodic touches into.. a ballad. It seems almost effortless because it moves so slow but the craft is there. You wouldn't perceive it if it wasn't.

That's just one of the many tricks they pull on this record. precussion leads melody lines, string sections placate the abrasive moments. There are lyrics, they're just in Icelandic. If you wanted to translate them you'd get lost anyways as some of the lyrics are in a made up language. But the trick isn't listening to what they're saying. It's how it's being said, to what capacity, and how it's being enforced by the music. Ny Batteri's low droning horns initially sound aimless, hitting different notes of a chord, and get swallowed by reverb and frantic drumming. Svefn - g - Englar's initial notes become a part of the wall of sound brought on by Jonsi's feedback / violin-bowed guitar playing. It only makes sense that the interludes are included in the tracks, that each song takes nearly a minute or two to build up. The songs are patient, demand patience, and meet the patient listener's expectations. The record is not an exercise in ADD influenced mixing or songwriting. It is the slow progression through life, an exercise in maturity for both songwriter and listener.

Agaetis Byrjun ended up giving these guys a real career as well that matured as the decade continued. Critics ritually fawn over any of their releases, regardless of the year. Cameron Crowe used multiple tracks for Vanilla Sky - most famously at the end of the movie with Tom Cruise's revelation - and was used by Wes Anderson for The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou. The BBC ended up using Sigur Ros tracks for the first season of Planet Earth; the World Cup used some tracks for television commercials. A few years later they collaborated with Radiohead. By midway through the decade, the band was playing the major concert halls in the U.S - the Hollywood Bowl, for example - and conducting world tours. It always was a marvel that the world was going to latch onto this music. In previous generations, this music woulda wound up in a church or gotten you punched for being too much of a pussy. But this millenium you didn't need to play 'Every rose has its thorn' in order to serenade a girl. A glockenspeil in your band and some honesty did more for you than being a cliche. Maybe that is the lesson of Sigur Ros in this millenium. You can be from anywhere and sound like nothing else on the planet, just don't bullshit your life or your creations. Success is the reward for ambition like this; and this record is a success.

Agaetis Byrjun - Sigur Rós

The Decade We'd Rather Forget... in music

2009-12-14T17:28:00.002-06:00

Just to let you know the top 10 albums of the Decade will be posted all by December 31st. Enjoy. I will try to provide links and song snippets if i can.

Top 10 Records Of The Decade We'd Rather Forget: #10

2009-12-14T15:10:00.003-06:00

Madvillainy

Hip Hop this millennium was kind of underwhelming. While great talent is all over the place, the cats who have ran the game are the same cats who ran it a decade ago. Jay was there. Wu Tang was there. Even Kanye was there. There are some real new cats (Dr. Relax I'm looking at you), but we can't say Luda or T.I. are as big of a players as Jay Z or Eminem. It was getting so bad that... producers started rapping. A lot. Somebody had to change the game again. In 2005, someone did, creating the most smoked out hip hop to ever haze in our headphones

The best dinosaurs were the guys who laid low for years. Madlib's rap group stint with the Lootpack and jazz freestylings of Yesterday's New Quintet didn't prepare you for what was to come. MF Doom's schizophrenic releases, particularly King Geedorah and his early years with KMD, teased listeners with their authenticly augmented view on hip hop. So when these two schizos sat down to make a record, personalities weren't the only things that were split in half. Doom wanted Madlib's wildest beats, Madlib wanted Doom's wildest rhymes. Somehow that created Madvillain.

The supervillain, Madvillain didn't just exist in the name pairing (MADlib and Doom's alter-ego, the Vaudeville VILLAIN). Madlib cut comic book and retro cartoon dialog into the tracks, creating interludes that weaved (if we can call it that) a fictional character. The super villain, a Mad Villain who was both a criminal and musical genius, became obsessed with smoking, girls, and finding more booze. Doom's lyrics are playful and devoid of the "get money," "get girls" mentality. Instead of rapping about pushing drugs, landing the hottest babes, or how he's bigger than NYC, Doom is more interested in talking about how he finds hot beats faster than how he finds fat asses, rigging dice games, and doing a tribute to "Rhinestone Cowboy." Madlib's beats are all over the place. From Sun-Ra free jazz to making his own version of a jazz classic in "Great Day Today," nothing about the musical side of this record is common, typical, or in any way something you heard before. Interludes run recklessly into songs, songs run recklessly together. A sloppy yet polished feel encompasses the record, making it the one hip hop record you can say you'd never think you'd listen to, enjoy listening to, and end up buying.

This music fucked up kids heads and destroyed all the critics lists who pledged not to have a hip hop record in the top 10 for that year. It was a reasonable commercial success but record sales don't make a record the best of the decade. It also accelerated Madlib and Doom's career: Doom ended up doing "DangerDoom" with Dangermouse, a record that charted in the Billboard Top 50. Madlib produced for Erykah Badu, Busta Rhymes, Talib Kweli and did some ghostwriting on the side while still releasing a countless number of solo releases at the same time. . It opened avenues of sound for a lot of the young acts like Flying Lotus, The Cool Kids, Dabrye and Dizze Rascal, M.I.A. and more.

Brian Eno famously said that "While only a few thousand people bought the Velvet Underground record upon its release, almost every single one of them was inspired to start a band." While an excellent record in its own right, Madvillainy is the Velvet Underground of hip hop. Everyone who listens to it wants to produce or rap... or both.

Madvillainy - Madvillain

No Tigers in my Woods

2009-12-10T19:19:00.003-06:00

Since I've tackled two sports (and will probably tackle one or two more), let's notch on a third.

"All golf, like Caesar's Gaul, is divided into three parts: Tiger's drives, Tiger's chips, and Tiger's putts."

- Jim Murray

Before 1994 golf was a land of legendary dinosaurs and young'uns. I was there. These figures were part men, part myth, and all style. You had The Great White Shark trying to win his first championship against Chi-chi Rodriguez, SuperMex, and an aging Golden Bear. The Golden Bear didn't care much for Supermex because he already face the best players of all time: The King and the Black Knight. The Golden Bear had already beat them, and these men had remarkable control of the ball. But if Hogan never got hurt, that would have been a different story on who the best was. Hogan, well, Hogan won championships after fracturing his hips trying to save his wife from death.

The beauty of golf used to be the legend of its players.These guys were colorful, driven, determined players of a largely country-club oriented game based around enjoying the outdoors and the competitive spirit of the game. Victory was not about overcoming your opponent, it was overcoming nature and yourself. It was a celebrated event ever since it was simply a club sport, boozy functions. Why else would you get a cup for winning? You'd have to imagine the parties when Hogan won six championships in the two years after retirement. I wasn't there. Jim Murray was. Jim Murray said that golf was a sport Don Quixote would have no problems understanding. It was about the impossible dream.

Jim Murray, an LA times sportswriter from 1961 until 1998, did as much for the sport as any of the players. The transition any sport from backwoods byproduct to commercial entity can only be assisted by people who can communicate the game well. Murray reminded you that there was a certain magic at work here. Men had perfected the art of ball flight in unknown weather conditions. His writing even influenced the players. To tell a classic story, Arnold Palmer, facing a near impossible shot, saw Jim Murray watching form the gallery. Palmer asked Murray, "since he wrote so much about Hogan, what would Hogan do in a situation like this." Murray said "Hogan wouldn't be in a situation like this." Golf was a mystical, unknown science that was part alchemy, part elbow grease and part sleight of hand. Each player did it their own way.

Murray died right before the time Tiger Woods took over the sport. But he saw the machine at work. he wrote twelve articles on Woods in his six professional years of covering golf. Woods was only a professional for two of them. Murray loved prodigies and was friends with people like Brando, Ali, and Jackie Robinson. He didn't report on boring or typical. Tiger's emergence into golf is still one of the best American stories of all time: multi-ethnic military boy becomes golfing great, challenges all time records, popularizes sport beyond its wildest expectations. While Murray did much to get the sport in the printed press, Tiger brought young people to the television and driving range. He was equal parts Magic Johnson's cross-over appeal, Jordan's sweet tooth for winning, and Ivan Drago's work ethnic. Men like that are only made in America.

And like Ivan Drago, Woods doesn't seem real. Very few people have perfected a talent the way he has. Fewer still work on even the outside facets of their success. Woods' work out routine is as unknown and essential as Kobe Bryant's, Alex Rodriguez's, and any other major sports star. He's perfected his body to physically accomplish the sport. He trains like it's his job... because it is. And through years of repetition, he's perfected his mind to mentally accomplish the sport. He trains that like it's his job... because it is. His dedication to his work is superhuman and the results have written themselves into history books. The land of Bears, Sharks, Kings and Knights got upstaged by a Tiger.

Come to think of it, we aren't talking about sports anymore. We're talking about perception, once again. And now the world, again this year, is riveted by the fall of one of its first superheroes. By now I think we know everything we possibly could about Tiger Woods. Who hasn't he slept with in the past 10 years? Gatorade's "Tiger Focus" brand has been pulled from the shelves. Gillette's advertisement with him, Roger Federer and Derek Jeter was last broadcast on November 29. By the time you read this, another one of Woods' mistresses will emerge from the woodwork (no pun intended). When I first started writing this it was seven. Now it's eleven. Or twelve. Or thirteen. I can't tell. The mistresses are now hiring lawyers. Let's put it this way: it's already too messy for the lawyers. Woods is engaged in bidding wars against tabloids for his story.

It turns out that the biggest enemy of Team Tiger was Team Tiger itself. It's tough to uphold a near impossible standard of morals and ethics on a young boy to create the greatest American endorser of all time. The biggest enemy to any plan is human error. And years of locking up up Woods on a driving range, creating a flawless image, had its consequences. Golf isn't exactly the sexiest sport and after playing it his entire life it seems he still wanted another part of the American Dream: the big tittied cheer leader that only the high school quarterback got. The high school golf team captain never got that girl. It's hard to leave the nerd club. Golf was not "jock" enough for those girls.

So a foreign model wife and going to Stanford could never have been enough for Tiger. He needed the hot waitress, the stripper, the porn star to validate his star. Being the nerd-sport hero with the hot wife wasn't enough to him. He was bored of that. Bored of saying the right things to the right people. Bored of winning for the right audience. Bored of his perfect kids, perfect wife, perfect day, perfect life. Bored of flying commercial. None of that made him cool. Nobody told him how to be satisfied with what you have, to find emotional security in success. In the end, Woods' sflaw was trying to assuage his own perception of himself. He was bored of plain Tiger.

Murray wrote in 1996: "It was easy to believe there is no such person as Tiger Woods. They made him up, right? Everything about him is too perfect. They sent down to Central Casting and they came up with the right guy for the part. Best bit of casting since Clark Gable as Rhett Butler. It's John Wayne on horseback, as heart-warming as a Lassie movie. Beaver Cleaver with a two-iron." Murray was right: maybe there is no such thing as "Tiger Woods." There's Eldrick Woods, a misunderstood child. There's Eldrick Woods, paper tiger of success. And there's Eldrick Woods, an every man who just needed to get his rocks off after working for "the man." Once again, it's perception against reality. Tiger just got both.

Kaito - Trust

2009-11-30T12:47:00.000-06:00

Kaito's music can only be described as music by a house DJ who can't shake pop but definitely can shake house. Born in Tokyo to a musicians family and educated in Boston at Berklee College of Music, Hiroshi Watanabe had his first US#1 hit in 1998 while being one of the more prolific DJs in NYC. In 1999 he moved back to Japan to be a producer, remixer, and occassional touring DJ. Due to his variety in tastes he has several monikers. Whereas Guillermo Scott Herren is known as Prefuse 73, Savath y Savalas and Piano Overlord, Watanabe takes the name Tread, Quadra, or Kaito to accommodate his love of different production methods.

The music he produces under the Kaito label leans more to the sounds of early trance. The synths are lush, washed with compression and phasers. Drum patterns loop over each other and new melodies are layered on top of them. The artist shows an appreciation for the atmospherics created by digital looping and uses them to great benefit. Thus, to say this record is simply a "chill-out" record or a "trance" record would be inaccurate. The record begins with the song above, a simple yet soothing development to get the listener situated with the atmospherics. And the record takes us on a series of twists and turns through a relatively organic (for this time) sounding version of trance. The time when you knew the synths were synths. When loops were definitely loops. And they were melded or conjured together under a steady bpm by a producer who cares about the melody as well. Trust, as a record, projects Watanabe's vision of trance in 1994 and 2009 as being one and the same: music for you to dance to.

As such, I recommend this record as an off-the-beaten path homage to the genesis of trance (think: early Orbital) and chill-out music (think: the Orb). The universal nature of those two genres applies to Trust as well. If you appreciate either of those genres and their master works, then Kaito's Trust will fit comfortably on the shelf next to them untouched by time. Trust is all that Watanabe asks you, the listener to do. Trust him through the sonic journey, it's a worthwhile trip.

When Irish Eyes are Crying: The Hand of Henry

2009-11-19T13:19:00.004-06:00

"There's a tear in your eye,
and I'm wondering why,
For it never should be there at all. "

All of Ireland are drowning their sorrows in a sudsy depression today. The possibility of seeing Ireland in the 2010 World Cup was already low. Their opponent, France, had a 1-0 lead and their only chance advance to the World Cup was to beat France at home. If Ireland scored 1 goal, they would get the luxury of playing in overtime (as it would be a 1-1 tie on aggregate) and, if it was still a tie, go to penalty kicks. France, of course, made it to the World Cup Final in 2006. So when Ireland scored in the 33rd minute most of the world was holding their breath. If it went to penalty kicks, theoretically, it was anyone's game.

Yet to have Irish hearts crushed by such an obvious referee error/ blatant cheating / despicable conning / whatever-you-want-to-call it only serves to show how much chance plays into this game. Thierry Henry is the most cherished French import to England since... well, possibly ever. Henry, who was the talismanic striker during Arsenal's undefeated season, has made him public enemy number one to the European press. There has never been a more blatant case of a handball in a World Cup game since Maradona's "Hand of God" goal against England in 1986. At least the press claims that. If you haven't seen the Hand of God yet... well I can't even link that. You gotta do that for yourself.

But here's the thing: Human judges, of any kind, have made errors since the dawn of man. Perception vs. reality. Sometimes humans just get it wrong. That ugly shirt you bought once, the hat you never wear, that old flame from back home, or that book you've been meaning to read but you know you won't. Maybe, at the time, it was the right call. It had to have been the right call. In this case, the linesman had to look about 100 feet to see that. With Henry's movement it could have been legit, right? In other words: There have been more egregious referee miscalls than this. Jerseys are tugged and are elbows thrown more than we think. People dive all the time. If you don't know what diving is, watch this. People will look for advantages. Calls will be missed. If every foul on the pitch was called I assure you the game would go on way longer than it already does. Cheating has been around in every sport. It's Darwin all over again. I mean come on, let's just chalk it up to human error. Humans make mistakes, right?

Of course, the biggest tragedy of all time is unfair judgment. And yes, it is unfair that Ireland is denied the opportunity to at least try to take their World Cup opportunity to penalty kicks. Henry played poorly, Escude was taken off early, and Diarra was a target since the match started. Ireland's pace and physicality gave them over 103 minutes of match winning football. But this isn't the most terrible call of all time and certainly not one of such gravitas that a game should be replayed. When FIFA wants to make referees and linesmen obsolete, they will. But France has to make the World Cup after being in the Finals last year. Who else can the world root against?

Chance and Money: Modern Soccer

2009-11-15T19:31:00.011-06:00

I am going to be indulgent here and write about soccer, which will hereafter be referred to as football. I've played football since I was the age of the person in the photo you see on the right. I fell in love with playing the sport while playing it until I was a freshman in high school. I was crushed by Argentina in 1994's World Cup. Romania eliminated Argentina at the Rose Bowl, 3-2, weeks after Diego Maradona had been kicked from the team for ephedrine doping. I pretty much stopped following the sport until the 2002 World Cup. I spent most of that summer at Cigars by Chivas drinking cherry cokes and smoking $10 dollar cigars. We rooted for South Korea that year and the final game proved to be memorable if just for a head-butt. But I really didn't start watching the sport again until I saw Steven Gerrard rescue Liverpool from defeat against AC Milan in 2005. And who could forget Euro Cup 2008?

Watching European soccer in the United States is like a cult. It's mostly made up of European ex-pats, computer nerds who like streaming technology, former soccer players and every once in a while some regular dudes who just like sweet shit and bars. Games are generally Saturday mornings and I mean a farmer's morning: 4:30 until, at the latest, noon. So if you're a college football fan and a soccer fan... good luck making it to 3pm without passing out at least once. We North Americans cannot hold a candle to the dedication of the fans in England, where 30 million people paid for tickets last year and close to 1/10 the population plays the game. And in each match, the stakes get higher. Not just for ranking in their league. Contracts, sponsors, possible new players, stadium upgrades, television sponsors, player recruitment... the list goes on and on. The clubs themselves have to be financially driven in order to succeed. The best are well run businesses whose fortunes reside on the randomness of two teams of eleven players on a field where almost anything can happen.

Literally.

Four weeks ago a blown up beach ball fell onto a football field in England. The ball bounced once or twice in front of the goal, where a striker, Darren Bent, kicked the soccer ball into the beach ball. It took a vicious carom, confused goalkeeper Jose Reina, and went into the goal. Somehow the referee allowed the goal to stand. That was the only goal on that football field in England that day. Liverpool lost to Sunderland, 0-1.

Two months ago, a free kick was issued to Aston Villa, creating a goal scoring opportunity they desperately needed in an already sloppy game. Ashley Young curved the ball into the middle where a Liverpool midfielder named Lucas rose to clear the ball. Unfortunately he collided with the goalkeeper, Jose Reina, and the ball fell into their own net. Liverpool lost to Aston Villa, 1-3.

Two weeks ago a team desperate to stay in a game brought Broadway to the soccer game. A striker whose goal scoring rate of one goal every forty five minutes (a ridiculous rate) was slaloming through the defense, trying to create yet another goal scoring opportunity. A Birmingham defender tried an audacious yet clean slide tackle. David N'Gog raised his legs, raised his arms,and fell face first into the ground. The crowd gasped in awe as they watched N'Gog channel his inner Kenneth Branaugh. Even he believed it. Replays disagreed entirely. The referee awarded the penalty kick. Steven Gerrard, playing his first game in several weeks, coolly slotted it into the right corner. Liverpool tied Birmingham 2-2.

To stake hundreds of millions of British pounds or Euros on a game so predicated on chance is a risk few businesses choose to take. Teams are really hedge funds and players are the "businesses" or "assets" they buy and sell amongst each other. Each of these assets can be bought, sold, and traded on the open market. And victories are a premium. The players who secure it are costly. Manchester United sold a player to Real Madrid for 80 million pounds last year. Manchester City spent close to a quarter of a billion pounds (nearly half a billion in $$) on new players in the summer of 2009. But, like all great hedge funds, when the stakes are high, the rewards are great. Winning any of the leagues assures an increase in jersey sales and television revenue. Placing in closing rounds of any cup competition assures worldwide recognition and jersey sales. Having your players compete internationally assures international advertising and more jersey sales.

It's a tough business. But every business is tough.

Like life, slight errors in judgment or a poor assessment in football can have dire ramifications. The future performance of a player is about as unknown as anything on the planet. Metrics for assessing talent do exist and simply watching a player can tell you everything about him. But a loss of confidence, fear of injury, lack of fitness, overwhelming expectations, or a change in the team manager can make a player who should be one of the best in the world and make him middling at best. Adriano, a Brazilian striker who played for the national team at 18, won the Golden Ball in the Club America tournament at 22, and scored 48 goals for Inter-Milan before he turned 27, quit soccer after his father died and turned to alcohol counselling, "quitting" the game for almost a year before he resurfaced in Sao Paolo. Carlos Tevez, who rescued West Ham United from falling out of the top league with three goals in seven games after scoring in 60% of his games in Brazil, could not agree with his manager Alex Ferguson in his usage and wages. He sulked his way out of his two years at Manchester United and was sold to Manchester City for 47 million pounds.

In short, this is not a sport where, like basketball, players get every opportunity to strut their stuff (Nate Robinson). This is not a sport where, like football, one great play or strategy will erase past mistakes (Bill Belichick). This is not a sport where, like baseball, a player can emerge as a 32 year old superstar from relative obscurity (Cliff Lee). It's a sport where expectations are felt worldwide. It's a sport where three unexpected losses or ties can turn the home crowd against you. It's a sport where a team can be reduced from a global legend to local laughing stock. So don't make mistakes. Make the right bets.

Rafael Benitez, manager of the Liverpool Football club, has announced a few days ago that "the season starts now" for his team. Of course, the season is more than a quarter over. The team has nearly lost half of its games played, putting it out of contention for the league title, the Champions League, and possibly a top four finish. The team's owners, Americans George Gillett and Tom Hicks, have admitted to slushing over one hundred million pounds into the club in the past year. They are rewarded with a Liverpool season that is essentially over. A storied franchise looks hurting. So what has made Benitez believe the season begins now?

Reason #1: It has to. Quite frankly if Liverpool football is to finish in the top four of the league this year they must win two thirds of their games from here on out. Their backs are against the wall.

Reason #2: The amount of changes in the team personnel since last year are quite dramatic. Key defender Alvaro Arbeloa and essential midfielder Xabi Alonso packed their bags for Real Madrid. Alonso' replacement player, Alberto Aquilani, has only played thirteen minutes this season due to injuries. The greatest striker in the world, Fernando Torres has a hernia. The irreplaceable Steven Gerrard has a groin injury that might require surgery. Both of their wing midfielders, Albert Riera and Yossi Benayoun, are out for the next three weeks. Starting defenders Daniel Agger and Fabio Aurelio are only recently returning from injury. In short, the back ups can't replace the starters. And hopefully before January most of them will be healthy.

Reason #3: Benitez won't lose his job even if the club fails all of its objectives this year. He has built a team that can play well when it's healthy. He has the support of one of the owners. He recently gained control of the youth program so finally he can be even more of a hands on manager than ever before. In actuality, he has never managed his current squad at full strength. He should at least have a chance to show the world what a properly fit Liverpool team can do. Assuming the team doesn't crater and burn before then.

If Liverpool is to have any bearing in Europe this season, Benitez is right. While the team doesn't HAVE to win its next few games, it could take the press off of their back. They could rescue their Champions League season with a thrashing of Debrecen in Hungary next week. But as long as he can keep the press off his back long enough to allow Torres, Gerrard, Riera, Benayoun, Aquilani, and Agger to return without impossibly high expectations, he can buy himself enough time to find adequate back ups. If Benitez focuses on winning in England before winning in Europe, he still has a chance to secure a top four placing in the league. The season is still young and far from over. But in Europe, it certainly didn't begin now.

------

I will provide more soccer news as the weeks go on (not as many that are Liverpool focused, but the bias is there). Expect these occassional forays into sports writing. Even if you don't care about sports, I will make it interesting. I swear.

recording mistakes

2009-10-19T21:16:00.007-05:00

Major League Baseball is the only sport in this world that has accrued more than one hundred years of professional history that is still around today. By 1856 the sport was already considered the "national pastime." The National League was created in 1876 (none of the original teams exist in the same name or location), the last major rule changes occurred in 1901 (turning foul balls into strikes), and the American League, first existing as a competitive rival league, agreed to form the MLB in 1903. The World Series was created as a seven game playoff between the teams that were in first place at the end of the season. This format existed until 1969 when each league was split into East - West divisions, with the top team of each divisions playing a seven game playoff. After the 1994 strike a Central Division was created, creating a four game playoff for the top teams of each division AND the best non-division winner. Since 1903, the Yankees have made the series 39 times, the Los Angeles / Brooklyn Dodgers 18 times (9 a piece), and the St. Louis Cardinals 17 times.

Baseball's immense history serves as a backdrop to the way the game is watched. It is a democratic event. Women have been allowed in baseball stadiums for over 120 years and have occupied every role in the stadium including player and umpire. Little children are at the game (with their paying tickets, mind you) and can't even pay attention. There will always be old men who have been sitting in the same seats since they were children, more than eager to tell their stories of what they have seen. It is not always a place to keep your attention rapt; you may do as you please at the ballpark, be it score every moment of the game, preen your nails, or walk around the park with your wife, admiring the unique stadium that exists as a shrine to the sport. Technology has evolved for the game as both sports radio and sports television began with baseball. In short, baseball has always been a game that doesn't cared if it was watched, it already has been for longer than anyone who is alive today can remember. Seriously.

But any fan will tell you watching the sport in the stadium is its own experience. So once you make the mental shift to watch the game itself, you realize it's much bigger than the dimensions of the field. The bullpens shift and move, pitchers limbering up to get ready for emergencies. Both dugouts are alive with at least a dozen people always shifting, moving, watching, observing the game. Batters waiting their turn in the on deck circle swing their custom bats with varying degrees of intensity. Infielders stay on their toes waiting for a ball to come blazing their way. The pitcher's confidence and ability is to to be nitpicked for days. Wind drifts into the stadium (if it's not an indoor stadium), alerting the way the ball carries into the outfield. Moisture and dew levels affect the pitcher's grip and the impact off the bat. Extreme colds can tighten muscles faster and create more mistakes or extreme warmth can do... well the same thing. Fans can intervene into the game to almost any affect. Yet the fan is not forced to examine all the details or participate. He or she can do whatever he wants.

The best part of this convenient indecision is what is memorable and what is important for a fan can be two completely different things. Watching a 21 year old pitching phenom methodically work the strike zone all night is forgotten when he leaves a fastball for the best home run hitter in baseball. There's no way to immediately preserve the lead or the boy's confidence and ability; it plays out, and a 1-0 lead for the young man turns into a 5-1 losing decision after his manager finally pulls the hook on him. This happened to Clayton Kershaw on Friday night. After showing poise and confidence of a seasoned vet, Ryan Howard's fifth inning double forced an early exit for a boy who was pitching on a pace never seen before in the history of baseball. Instead we watched him boy crack and throw three wild pitches in an inning, making every mother want to give the boy a hug. Reality, it seems, can be a harsh mistress.

Yet that is only a portion of the story of this year's Championship Series, which has featured four teams that deserve to be there. The Phillies have two MVPs in Ryan Howard and Jimmy Rollins (and a possible third in the California native Chase Utley) alongside Cy Young winner Cliff Lee and last year's World Series MVP, Cole Hamels. The Dodgers have the three best young arms in baseball in Clayton Kershaw, Jonathon Broxton and Chad Billingsley supported by the veteran bat of Manny Ramirez and two quality young outfielders in the game in Andre Ethier and Matt Kemp. The Angels have solid arms in John Lackey, Jered Weaver and Joe Saunders with the veteran presence of Torii Hunter and Vladimir Guerrero. And the Yankees? Well they're the Yankees of every year: the best team money can buy. All good so far, right?

But, even with the quality of these four teams, the major story has been errors and the miracle catches. Three errors by the Angels (including a dumbfounding pop up that fell right between Aybar and Figgins) handed the Yankees that game one. In the chilling second game, a wild pitch by A.J. Burnett let the Angels tie the game until the thirteenth inning, when Izturis threw the ball (and the game) away giving the Yankees a 2-0 series lead. Two of the wild pitches by Kershaw set up Ryan Howard to knock in two runs, making him the Phillies all-time postseason RBI leader and put them ahead to help secure game one. A double play ball hit to Rollins seemed routine until Utley threw it into the stands, letting the Dodgers load the bases and walk in the winning run in their game two. Hiroki Kuroda's miserable performance in game three put the Dodgers in a 2-1 hole for tonight.

Tonight the highlight for the Dodgers wasn't Wolf battling back from a two run deficit. It's most memorable might have been George Sherrill striking out Ryan Howard on a high fastball to secure the eighth inning. Manny Ramirez' diving catch to save our 4-3 lead, an unprecedent piece of athleticism from someone considered a savant at hitting and an idiot at fielding. Instead, like Dem Bums of Brooklyn, the best closer in baseball, Broxton, gives up one fast ball too high to All-Star shortstop Jimmy Rollins, who hits it to the gap in right field, scoring two runs in the last out of the game. A walk-off hit for the former MVP. And now the Phillies only need to win one game out of three to make a consecutive trip to the World Series. A Dodger Drought of 21 years without a World Series appearance continues. Is it too early, fans, to say next year?

podcast: down home cookin

2009-10-18T19:35:00.003-05:00

download at this link

a mish mash of music from the sixties, seventies, and also right now.

here's the playlist:

Charlie Binger & His Quartet: Jamaica is the Place to Go

Luther Ingram: The Other Man Homely

Dinah Washington: Cry Me a River (Truth and Soul Mix)

Clip from Chi-Lites: Never Had It So Good.

Ananda Shankar: Sa Re Ga (edit)

Desmond Dekker: 007 (Shanty Town)

Serge Gainsbourg: Je N'avais Qu'un Seul

Lee Fields & The Expressions: Love Comes And Goes
Mayer Hawthorne: Maybe So Maybe No

Eli Reed: Am I Wasting My Time

Jorge Ben: Oba, La Vem Ela

Tony Williams: Dreaming Of Your Love

Koushik: Nothing's the Same

the standard "i'm just djing" disclaimer applies.

enjoy.

When you see your future have the courtesy to smile back.

2009-10-01T00:57:00.004-05:00

At the very least Roger was dedicated. The last three years of his life were migratory at best: four or five days of the week working in one part of the country, the other wherever he chose to call home for that time period. Work took him to Plano, Orange County, Evanston, and Bristol while "home" took him to Chicago, New York, and Los Angeles. Whether all this travel was a perk of work became a hard sell for him after the first two years. He loved living in different areas. He could see friends from all across the country. But the compressed air of the airplanes was getting to him and the weekends weren't long enough to have fun anymore. It wasn't a normal work pattern either: 15 or 20 straight days of work and then 5 days off, then five weeks of normal business until he ended up working through a holiday. Nights like tonight, then, were the norm: eating at the hotel bar alongside other vagabonds like himself.

As such he became a denizen of the executive travel racket, locking up Marriott Rewards faster than a better paid stewardess. Weather didn't phase him because he'd be be shipped out somewhere in a few days anyways. Chain restaurants provided "options" for eating and their bars presented an allure of comfort but rarely anything more. Family existed in phone calls and holidays and friends came along for weekend adventures in any of the places he called home. He was the youngest guy at every meeting. While friends and family provided some substance to his life, they only provided enough gravitational pull to keep him in orbit but never landing.

"Do you know if there are any good beer bars around here?" A man in his graying forties, nearly double Roger's age, sitting on his right asked him.

Roger shook his head no and kept glaring at the television. "I just got here a couple days ago. I could barely find this bar."
"I really need one. I'm from Oregon and maybe the most expensive beer I get out there is four bucks. Good beers too. Although I'm not partial to putting down a few of these Sam Adams. Even at six a pint, but what is better?"

"I'd rather have a local option," and with a slight cheers, Roger finished his pint.

The graying man laughed and gazed over at the television in the corner, ostensibly showing the local sports while the bar patrons simply read the box scores running on the bottom of the screen. The bartender came by and both of them pointed at their beers.

"It's my birthday."
"What are you doing here then?" Roger asked, unnerved by such a personal statement by a stranger.

"Work."
"Well why not take the day off?"
"It's not that. I have to be here for the next three weeks so there's really no reason to leave."

"Not even for home?"
"Work gives me a home. I don't need to be there for my birthday anymore" said the older man. They both stared into their beers for a second. Roger tried to lose himself in the sudsy splendor of beer but couldn't shake himself out of his own mind. The television kept chirping into his brain the importance of this game for the local team's playoff chances but that could hardly break his concentration. Alone on a birthday...

"Well happy birthday then." Roger offered.

"Thanks." They clinked glasses and turned to their cell phones, checking for contact they knew wasn't there.

"You know there's a place about five blocks north of here called the Older Option that does have some good beer on tap. I don't know if you want to travel for it but it's a nice bar."

"Thanks for the advice."

"I need to get out of here or else my boss will have to fire the bar."Roger lied. It was 9:30 but he had to be up at 5.
"Hah. Take care of yourself." The graying man smiled and kept watching the television, ignoring his surroundings.

"You as well."

He grabbed his coat and walked to the elevators. Off the brass sheen of the elevator door he could see four middle aged men behind them, all comfortably dressed for business. He got on the elevator and pressed six. Each of them just glanced at the button before they became immersed in their cell phones. Everyone got off on six and walked down the same hallway, filing off to their respective rooms. Roger finally got to the end of the hall and sighed, exasperated by monotony. Hindsight does not mean reevaluation.

Redesigning

2009-09-25T17:39:00.005-05:00

It's been over a month and I apologize for a lack of updates. This won't become one of those forgotten ambitions like so many blogging ideas are and actually a lot of posts have been worked on but have yet to see the light of day. Too many drafts, not enough posts. So I will inundate you all with a deluge of posts in the next week, I promise.

Jorge Ben: Africa Brasil

2009-08-24T23:16:00.006-05:00

* * * * *

I'm not a fan of being a reviewer again. I thought I outgrew this phase. Furthermore, I'm not a fan of reviewing products that have been out for a while; it is unfair to previous reviews and allows me to question the real impact of a review in terms of the sales of the artist. Another five star review, an inaugural review; can that sway a mind into buying an album out for over thirty two years by an artist who, if American, could collect his social security this year?

If anything, Jorge Ben's music has become more relevant in the current musical climate. The funk revival, pioneered on the west coast by Stones Throw, as seen in Yesterdays Universe and the subsidary Now Again Records, and revitalized in the east by Daptone Records, has mingled with Afrobeat and Soul music to create this wonderous blend of music coming out now. A subtle shift in the generation, from 100 Days, 100 Nights to Security to La Revancha del Tango to the unsightly Back to Black, has led me to believe once again in the bumper stickers that "Drum Machines Have No Soul."

Yet none of this would be possible without Jorge Ben; if anything, his music is the synthesis of this sound that is finally re-emerging into the marketplace. Most Americans who cringe when rock and country mix would be downright frightened by the drum breaks mixing with Portugese call and response phrases, unified by a powerful young voice and distorted guitars. Yet that is the genesis of the record; a bouncing football groove of Ponta de Lanca Africano that sets the stage for the next 11 tracks. The oscillation continues throughout the record, with the infamous reworking of Taj Mahal (eventually ripped off by Rod Stewart for "Do Ya Think I'm Sexy") to the international hit of Xica da Silva, bringing the record almost to a festival frenzy that demands not an audience but a crowd, a party, a festival, a celebration.

It is hard to say so little with so much on this record. Don't sell yourself short on this one. The only imperfection in this record is the lack of a rerelease and the lack of exposure now a days. I love old recordings as much as the next audiophile but a reworking would be great for this man and bring great exposure to a classic artist not just in Brazilian history but in popular culture. This record isn't a footnote to popular Brazilian music, this is a starting point for where radical genre blends invade the popular consciousness.

a stain on leather. pt. 1

2009-08-11T01:08:00.011-05:00

"You will never get it back, brother." Will looked wistfully at the traffic up ahead, appreciating another day lost on the highway. "It's not going to make anything better. You can go out there and pick it up, but how does that make things better?" Roger and Will had migrated down this road day in and day out for months now, evolving from a painful ritual of their drab work lives into a meditation they woke up for each morning. Jarred from their beds by a heavy dose of caffeine and, in Roger's case, nicotine, once torturous mornings became the mental equivalent of a happy hour with uppers. Will examined the road further, realized they weren't moving for at least a couple seconds and threw the car into park.

Roger knew Will was right but he couldn't wrap his mind around it. The suitcase, his father's 1923 Louis Vuitton cabin trunk, remained irreplaceable in his mind. He spent months refurbishing it into a condition too good for travel. He had cleaned gunk out of the brass lock, massaged oil into the leather trim and bindings until it submitted, and polished the brass weekly to give it a youthful luster. Never considered an heirloom or a part of his inheritance, Roger's past infatuation with this inanimate object looked like a product of an a man obsessed. Until, of course, he couldn't get it back or didn't want to, one of the two, for nearly a year now.

"Will I could always ask for it to be delivered somewhere."
"And if it looked like shit, would you be satisfied?"
"No, but at least I'd get back everything in it." Roger took a drag from his cigarette and carefully ashed it out the window, open only a fraction just to preserve the heat from leaking out of the car.
"Like that shit matters, man. You know it doesn't."
"But it's the principle of it all. That stuff is mine. What's inside it, mine. The whole damn thing is mine."
"It's been a year, brother."
"So?"
"Whatever was in that thing is now ruined, you know it. That suitcase was probably in the corner of the garage or warehouse or wherever the hell it is now. I bet some rats got into that thing and ate the blanket, your gross tightie whities, nasty bikini bottoms, thong collection, gay club records, you know, all your gay stuff... What the hell is this asshole doing?" Will slammed on the horn and dropped the car out of park, staring down a car trying to cut in front of him in deadlock traffic.

"I get the picture," Roger sighed, exhaling smoke recklessly in the car, drawing a playful smack in the chest from Will. He had been thinking about politely asking for it back when he first returned from Europe a year ago. But when he got back he cut off complete contact with her. His lone communication was an e-mail a year ago that can be summed up in a pair of words he hadn't said, well really, to anyone in his life. Phone calls were made to him, an occassional note sent his way, all of which were ignored. He called it "mental preservation" and it wouldn't have been far from the truth. Breaking the human condition of being a "creature of habit" needed him to quit communication with her cold turkey. It was harder than cigarettes or an exorcism and that freedom was intoxicating. It worked until he rememebered the luggage.

"Are you crying bro?"
"Dude, what?"
"You're crying, you little sweetheart," Will teased.
"I'm not crying."
"Baby wants his little box to play in, he misses his box, wah wah, you little boy," Will jeered until Roger threw his lunch bag into Will's face, landing on the steering wheel and triggering the horn.
"I do want it back though. I just don't want to talk to her."
"Or confront that crazy..."
"Yea I don't want to see the parents either."

A glimmer appeared in Will's eye. It was possibly a reflection from the snow-caked cars in front of him.

"You remember how to get into her parent's garage? I bet it's there. It would take five minutes."
"Dude this is such a bad idea, that mom is going to be there..."
"Who cares."
"We don't even know if it's there, man."
"Brother, I don't want to go to work and neither do you. Today already sucks." Will took his almost empty cup of coffee and threw it on Roger, coffee lightly spilling on his white shirt. He threw on his turning signal and slowly started to push the sedan across the four laned highway, mouthing thank yous, smiling, and waving at every angry driver whose morning he made worse.
"Dude!" Roger exclaimed.
"See, today already sucks. Let's make it better. Call in and say you'll be in the afternoon, your cat vomited blood or something and you'll be right in at lunch."
"What is wrong with you this morning man? I just want the suitcase back, we don't have to do all this now." Roger felt sweat grow on his brow in frustration. He hated being forced into anything even if it was something he wanted.
"Did I hear you say that?"
"Huh?"
"You just said 'I just want the suitcase back.' So get it. Come on. It'll take 30 minutes to get there. I'll buy breakfast."
"Piss off."
"More like piss on them when we show up, grab the suitcase and jet!"

They were off the highway by now and had reached the onramp to go back the way they were coming from. Will turned the radio on to find some music to amp them up to, flipping the volume to max right when "Highway to hell" began to blare through the car's speakers. Roger, powerless, began to take off his white shirt and replaced it with his black track coat waiting on the back seat. Maybe it was time for him to get what he wanted. He sat back to the ride, feeling his ear drums rattle every chorus.

the golden age

2009-08-04T22:49:00.005-05:00

a golden age of creativity for us all. 2009 may not be 1929, but it is reminiscent of 1930. Zelda's life was gutted by the depression / recession that slowly drifted into our lives in the past year. "People in New York are jumping off of buildings," a phrase that stuck with me since the demise of Lehman Brothers last year. And then priorities changed in her life and mine. Over a year ago, Zelda had a nervous breakdown that shattered us, yet she accepted the need for her treatment. Alcohol frayed whatever remained between us. And with nothing left to gain, we departed ways. I fled to France. I started working on a book about a man, whose potential partially realized yet still without limitations, makes the fatal decision to marry a beautiful yet mentally ill woman, destroying their relationship on the brimstone and cliffs of Northern California.

As such, me and Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald are inexorably linked. I never meant to pattern myself after anybody, yet circumstance and fate brought us together. My father gave me the novel "Some Time in the Sun" at an early age, before I even read the Great Gatsby, Brave New World, The Sound and the Fury, or The Day of the Locust, but the stories of Fitzgerald, Huxley, Faulkner and West living and dying in the heat of Los Angeles resonated beyond any word written by Tom Dardis. A day after Fitzgerald died from a heart attack (complicated by excessive drinking), West perished in a car accident in Imperial County. The other characters of the story have their own dramatic ends: Zelda was famously incinerated in a mental institution, Huxley received 100 mgs of LSD to his demise, Faulkner also crushed by a heart attack in a Mississippi Sanitorium.

I never hope to wrestle with my own sanity yet it seems inevitable. As we age, the less we question and the more we accept our fate. I won't ever come back for Zelda, but I certainly hope she won't bring me to my demise. At least not now.

Getting around.

2009-07-27T01:13:00.004-05:00

This city feels water-logged, like the liquids will never leave it. Ice freezes over the sidewalks, the lake turns into rolling hills of ice, the car sputters and coughs out condensation from its tail pipe. It even gets in his body, and Roger, mostly made of water, now get too cold when he wakes up. Each step in the wintertime leaves a part of him attached to the city, stuck in the ice.

Most of this vast continent is like this. From Vancouver to Massachusetts, people refuse to leave the cold, content to enjoy winter in all its frozen glory. And then there are the Southerners, people who never accepted the cold in the first place. Wearing a jacket is too much, preferring the desolation of New Mexico or the soft fields of Alabama. But now the cold grabs at Roger's ankles as he trudges through another blister inducing day, not even showing his eyes to the world. Scarved to the nose, hatted to the collar, and sunglasses just to see his way past a blinding reflection. His skin gained three years in only two. This couldn't be his fate, another day of this.

Slowly walking up to the train, he couldn't help but examine the sharpness on the faces of people around him. The holiday cheer is unimaginable in this bitter frost, mostly due to dead trees clogging the sidewalks. The citizens had a reason to be mad about that, a city so broke it can't pick up the remnants of Christmas. On the platform he examined the coccooned bodies around him, refusing to smile or make eye contact. That took too much effort. Roger felt his gloves get sweaty, tight around the edges, the leather adapting to the cold grip solidifying his hand to his briefcase. The anger was palpable now, making him an island like everyone else on the platform. Bristled, bothered, and wanting to work.

Parting the icy snow, the train arrives stuffed to the gills. It might be the warmest place in the whole city. So close to downtown it only makes sense that it would be this packed every day. But add three layers to each person and it's a veritable sardine can, albeit alive and angrier. The doors slowly slide open, creating some breathing room, and the masses exhale, making the crowd waiting at the door stare at only three spots instead of five. Roger can't help but laugh, dislodging his scarf, cold air pouring into his nostrils. Fifteen people, three real spots, and four get in. He'd be late to work today, but that's because of the coffee from downstairs. With a stunt like that you at least need something to drink.

say no but mean yes.

2009-07-12T18:11:00.000-05:00

Every good story can begin with a girl talking a guy out of something. Those stories are intrinsic to human society since we were still living in the cave. Everybody can talk about a story they all know, it's just got a different personal shine and varnish on it. Sex, careers, children, or location are common themes, many times tied together into impressive narratives.

Maybe it is the loss of will, the sacrifice of mental superiority, stepping down to a superior, or not recognizing a situation correctly. Every girl talks a guy out of something at some point. It protects a man from himself just as much as it can shred his life into pieces, a story in tatters across the room. Every subsequent rearrangement the man attempts is reactionary. The story is never the same and the past is reinterpreted as he tries to staple and tape everything back into place. "That was before, this is after." He never knows where he is, he's just on his toes.

Proust wrote in circles about rearrangements of reality, babbling brilliantly about the inconsequential consequences of these minor events in your life. Don't eat that food, but drink this tea and dip your cookie. Do this, not that. The inevitable formulation of your life, crystallized by accepting or rejecting someone's opinion. Do you inevitably close everyone out or just let everyone in? Do you get talked out of living or talked in?

In these situations, just be vain.

2009-07-03T04:47:00.001-05:00

it's that constant rhythm
forever oscillating
off of harmonics and modes
that i pretend to climb

owls haunt the harbor,
hunting yesterday's garden
in the water,
waiting for today

it wouldn't stand a chance,
a piano in the harbor
rotting for today

summer list:

2009-06-29T01:14:00.001-05:00

Here is a list of things to do on your summer vacation. I know we are all working, but the following activities will not only enhance your summer but also make it one filled with memories!

1: Go to a sporting event you have never seen live before. Like a soccer game, a lacrosse game, hockey, whatever is rare in your part of the country. If proper, make a day out of it.

2: Drink the local city brew or spirit. WHATEVER that may be. If it's a Montrachet, a Goose Island, Crown Royal, or grappa, it never hurts to drink the water.

3: Be open to options. Meet people, dance, dj, game night, new music. Options are the pepper of life. "No" doesn't get you anywhere except back on your ass.

4: Watch a movie you watched 10 years ago exactly. Maybe watch it the same way. Enjoy it again, it'll remind you how old you aren't.

5: Visit a body of water you haven't seen before. All shower and bath jokes aside, go kayak or jump in. It never hurts to get your feet wet.

6: Take control of your body. Get in shape for a sport and play once or twice a week. As a child, you didn't have motor skills. Bruise, contort, or stretch your entire body and remind yourself of those good muscles.

7: Give a gift to a good friend. Make it an actual gift, too. Personalize that shit. Give it cause it matters they have it. A book you talk about, a record they like, a trinket.

8: Take a night off from everything. Hide your cell and gmail, crack the crackberry. Do whatever the hell you want: baths, massages, movies, good food. Fall asleep already feeling good for tomorrow.

9: Don't scrimp on your goodbyes. Don't make a show of it, but pay your respects to the people you are with. Never leave with a foul taste in your mouth.

10: Hug it out, bitch.

City lights.

2009-06-25T01:53:00.001-05:00

the cultural divide of Chicago remains one of the principles the city is founded on. Segregation and racism could never be more blatant in this town. It's nondiscriminatory: whoever you are as a person doesn't matter, your color does. And the difference between the north and the south is not like the difference between the North and the South. You can't emancipate the southside, the northside will never acknowledge it. Besides that fact, the southside really does run the heart of Chicago. At the very least the mayor lives there. The north really just has a losing sports team. Northside pretty, southside gritty.

whatever.

Beer, baseball and a night where my vacancy sign dominates the window. There was no stop to the evening of drinking in the face of the southside, my Los Angeles flow (and cholo flow of an LA cap and wifebeater) undeniable. Paisas (countrymen in mexican slang for you gringos) recognized me, throwing the LA hands in the air, reppin Lil Rob and East Los. These are just cultural things, you see, but that's what makes us different inherently. Cultural "things" don't make it halfway across the country. It's hard to see that until you are halfway across the country. And I, a person from the west, to whom the east is foreign.

There are 250 million people who live outside of California in this country. Out of 300 million. That means that one out of every six American is Californian. This of course, doesn't include paisas. How many are Hispanic? The numbers are more than reckless now. They are inconsequential. This is who we are, this beautiful mix of indigeno called Americano. I love it, this beautiful world.

British nights

2009-06-22T20:22:00.001-05:00

"Did you hear that?" I craned my neck around, getting closer to the speaker.
"What, the sax?"
"That's a Conn Conqueror."
"What?"
"A Conn Conqueror, probably a 1940s model. They make a big band... big. Bigger, I guess. The sound is almost reckless and can dominate the band." I had completely lost control of the conversation by now, my mind was absorbed by sound and tone. I hadn't heard the sound of that horn since I saw a Henry Mancini tribute band in a smoky Chicago bar, a tender duet at best. This London bar, however, presented this horn in the form of a menhaden shanty. This wasn't a parallel universe, this was...

"A hell of a sound, Jorge." Roger smiled at me, Lisa latched to his shoulder. Lisa wasn't really listening anymore, more interested in balancing her shanty on two fingers. Megan dug into my shoulder, whispering something into my ear that I couldn't understand before lips suctioned my ear drum and teeth tugged at my earlobe. There were girls anywhere, but I couldn't touch or talk, even if I was single. On this trip I was taken. This wasn't Pigalle.

"Those were the days, my friend, that I thought would never end."
"Indeed."
"I know. Whatever. It doesn't matter now, does it?" I glanced at Megan and reached for my Guinness, swallowing it like a pill. My thoughts couldn't link together anymore, trapped on unhitched train cars. I felt Megan's rings get caught on my alpaca pants, gliding up to my waist, holding my stomach in a half hug. 3 AM was hours ago, we all knew the night was over. I just didn't want to leave. A couple minutes of silence passed, Roger and Lisa locked together as I held Megan up.

"We'd love to show you a good time while you are out here." Lisa licking her lips, her eyes trained on my eyes, my face, my chest, the necklace dangling from my neck. I had no choice but to smile uncomfortably. A carnal desire filled my heart. Megan tugged at my belt and put her hands in my pant pocket, grabbing the keys to the hotel.

"Well, Lisa, what else could we do?"
"Jorge, it depends if we should part ways. Roger, what do you think?"
"I'll let that man make the decision." Roger pointed straight at me and drowned himself in Lisa's brown eyes, but Lisa's hand pointed at me, pulled at me, shifted her skirt away for me, opened her legs a bit more for me.

I pondered the decision for a second. "Let's see if we can even get out of this place." I propped Megan up, slowly, placing her coat around her shoulders.

"What do you want to do, dear?" Her eyes were barely open but I had to ask.
"You? What else do you want me to say..."
"Nothing," I shushed her. "What I meant, do you want to head to Lisa's place or to the room."
"Either is good, but she's a predator," pointing at Lisa and smiling at her. Lisa pursed her lips together and shot a sexy eye at her best friend. Megan stumbled in elation, grabbing my waist. "We don't need her tonight, do we?"
"I didn't know we needed her in the first place..."
"She always shares herself, Jorge..."
"Don't toss this dog a bone, Meg," I smirked in anticipation.
"I don't want her tonight, though."

I stared back at the married couple, wrapped in each other.

"We're heading to the flat, my dear friends. It is so late that this is tomorrow's party, isn't it?" I slammed the shot glass on the table, startling our party to attention.
"Yes, late... come on dear." Roger grabbed her by the leg and pulled Lisa out of the booth. "We'll see you in the morning, Jorge."
"Of course, Roger."

I turned my back and offered Megan my arm, propping her up. Out of the pub, we turned to the hotel, our last night in London. You never get what you deserve.

Coughing Fits

2009-06-21T16:51:00.000-05:00

Snow turned to slush and the lake cracked under the heat, thin sheets of ice succumbing to the waves. I juggled a pack of Dunhills in my hand, fumbling for the lighter with the other. The warmest day in six months rode in on a gap in the clouds, melting our ice and thawing our faces. The city chose this morning to remind me that, yes, spring was desperately making headway through the bitter cold that shook the core for what I stand for. Water fowl danced on the concrete headway behind me, squawking through the revving of engines and lurching of tires during the morning deadlock. Turning my back to the wind became a necessity, whipping my hair into the cigarette. Tar and tobacco, I love it.

I turned my attention to the boats drifting south towards the ports, lumbering across the horizon. I smiled. So many times I had been here unwillingly, lamenting that it was simply an "inferior ocean" in my mind. The first time I came here was on the rooftop of a hotel, trying to boil the grey water with my hatred. The second time I was trapped on a boat, watching fireworks while I spiked my own drinks so every double was really a triple. Mary and I watched the city lights from miles offshore, the waves rocking us nearly to sleep. And now the sun dried my chapped lips and raised the hairs from my hands. I started to cough, violently. Cigarette still in my hand, I turned around and breathed in the fierce wind, closing my eyes. When I opened them, she was there, on her bike, burning holes through my eyes.

"What are you doing here?"
"I needed to thaw out, I can't take this damn city."
"I didn't know you were still here..."
"You're right, you didn't." She just kicked the dirt under her bike and started looking at the traffic. Cars roared as traffic began to pick up
"You haven't talked to me for nine months..."
"What are you going to do, get mad at me for that?"
"I guess I can't." She looked disappointed. "You know I think about you."
"I figured as much."
"You think about me too."
"Oh really."
"I come to you when you remember me."
"I was actually thinking about Mary, you know."
"There is no Mary."
"You sure can keep your tabs on me, dear."
"So you're engaged now?"

I had no choice but to laugh, and laugh some more, and shook my head.

"You came out here to ask me that?"
"This was a coincidence, Roger. That or you remembered me."
"I actually didn't remember you. I just remember how mad I was at you that night, but I forgot what you looked like."
"So you're engaged now?"
"What makes you think I'm engaged?"
"I have my ways."
"Well trust them and don't bother me."

Her hair was purple again, tinges of red through it. She might as well have been that crazy bitch from the fifth element without that whole importance to humanity shit.
"I still have a lot of your stuff."
"Keep it."
"Even your dad's blanket?"
"Mail it to me or keep it, you decide."
"Well my mom threw away half of it."
"That bitch is crazy."
"Yeah. She is." We both laughed, half a smile crawling to our face. I put my hand out and smiled.
"Take care."

She just stared at it, laughed, and got back on her bike, heading south to the University. My cigarette was just a filter stub in between my fingers, blown out minutes ago. Turning around, I stubbed my toe on the concrete bridge leading me back to the boulevard. The world grew dark as a cloud passed overhead. When you're already in Chicago, you don't need a bus to get there.

Now, Paris

2008-07-06T19:16:00.000-05:00

We all wonder why people go to Paris. Sometimes you get insanely lucky with a great apartment, like we did, and we wonder why we aren't taking full advantage of it. Fortunately for us this place fell into our laps, with 3 people splitting it is more than affordable and has simply too much goddamn space! Too much space in Paris flat? Impossible.

Clearly this led to destruction and pain. I cut my ankle on the wooden table within 3 hours of arrival (thankfully requiring the paramedics, a hospital visit, and 7 stitches in the process) and Yacoob decided to recolor some areas with vomit later in the evening. Notice the gymnast thing hanging in the left corner? Comfortably about 7 feet high, great for pull ups, sit ups, and falling straight on your butt. This apartment was put together by a photographer. But her secondary profession must be sleeper, because if there is a place to lay your head then there is a high chance you will be asleep within 10, 15 minutes. Good luck staying awake.

Paris is Paris, it doesn't feel different after all these years. It is fun and metropolitan and in love with itself, but then again, we love it, so it has every right to feel self-worth. Our neighborhood really is "charming" and filled with youth, bustling more at 5 am than almost any other time. I've learned to separate the city a lot better now and every other visit hasn't given me the treatment I have received here.

Now the general Paris post is done. Details to follow.

Vampire Weekend!!!

2008-04-02T20:45:00.001-06:00

i would rather rick roll my friends and family at my birthday than listen to VAMPIRE WEEKEND!!!!