The Savage Mind of a Twenty-Something

I've been told I have a short life line.

2008-03-11T23:43:00.001-07:00

According to a Scientific American podcast, "time" is the most used word in the English language. Time is an awful thing really. It wasn't as important before the Industrial Revolution, which is when time-based sports like football and basketball became popular, whereas baseball, an untimed game, is a farm sport. But I digress.
I've been thinking about my time and how I've been spending (or wasting) it. All I care about lately is roller derby and relationships. I'd rather spend my time skating than anything else. And I spend a bit too much time worrying about men and the effects certain ones have on my life.
One thing I don't spend enough time on is my school work. I spend the times I should be in class, sleeping. I spend the time I should be studying anf reading, drinking and playing video games. For instance, I have a test and a paper due on Friday, but I;m going to rush them early so I can spend Thursday night at Eastside's karaoke contest. Because that's more important to me.
This lack of "class time" is going to effect what I'm doing with my time in the future. If I don't get my grades up, I will get kicked out of school. I will have to move back home with my parents and I will have to give up derby because of that. My realization is that how I spend my time now directly determines my future times. If I don't use my time effectively, I won't get to have any fun later.
And this brings me back to relationships. As I am getting older, I start to think about settling down after graduation. If I start seeing someone now, especially someone older, by the time I graduate we'll have been together for a year and a half. Settling ready, right? The problem is, right now I'm not ready to settle. Though I want to be in a relationship, once I get in one all I can see are the the things and men I can't have. I don't want to miss out on any time I could spend with someone. But at the same time, what about the time I could spend in love?
I recently decided that I want to spend my time in social servitude, a career where you aren't paid nearly enough for your time. Either teaching the forgotten or just doing all I can to better the lives of the lower class. "Blessed are the poor, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven." I'm not sure what God ans time have in store for me, I think that's what scares me the most.

A bit of Non-fiction

2008-03-11T22:52:00.000-07:00

There is a girl in my literature class who I think I would despise. I have deducted that she is a poet; she has a knowledge of Frost and the different styles like iambic pentameter and couplets and all that. Her eye make-up is always smudged and she wears fake nails, dirty brown shoes and a hoodie. The nails don't make sense with the rest of her. Her hair is always a nappy mess. Today she is wearing two hoodies: a navy one and her everyday-worn brown hoodie with mushroom print lining.
I see her falling in love with some phony old English professor, like the one played by Donald Sutherland in "Animal House" who is actually full of shit but she thinks he is so deep and "gets her."
She seems like the type of girl who would totally take herself and her writing so seriously, but it is actually so mundane and typical. Like the "poetry" we all wrote when we were sixteen. Like Jewel's book of poems. A line of Shel Silverstein's poems are deeper than all the pages of her Mead notebook combined.
She probably thinks she isn't understood or appreciated for the creative, delicate flower she is. But then again, she may think her loneliness is good for her writing.
She makes notes of everything the professor says, which plays a part in my affair suspicions. I don't think she would have an affair with this professor though; he isn't some pot-smoking romantic-era bullshitter, not at all like the theoretical professor I described before.
She will never be a Dylan Thomas (<3) or a realist like T.S. Eliot, she will write forever in mediocrity. She reads too much into symbolism in stories, which tells me her poems are probably full of symbols and metaphors. But like the way she misreads symbols in class, her poems are probably all wrong. Her constant note-taking tells me she doesn't form these ideas on her own, that she constantly cares about what others. But alas, like this tragic main character, perhaps I am reading too much into it.
But then again, the other day in class she just started reading another student's test answers, so I really think I am right.

to weird to live, to rare to die (or so I thought)

2008-02-20T22:45:00.000-08:00

I'm not sure what it is, but something in my self-conscious has been making me relive parts of my senior year. For no apparent reason, I've been listening to the pop-punk that littered the eighteenth year of my life. Random thoughts have brought out of no where the memories of the red-haired kid I called love in that year. And today, today reminded me of a college campus visit in 2005. That's because that day was exactly three years ago today. That was the day my hero died.
President's Day,ironically enough, was the day I woke up in a Columbia hotel with a U.S. News at my door and the words on the front of the paper. Writer Hunter Stockton Thompson had killed himself. It was a surprise at first, then I realized it really wasn't. And here I was visiting Mizzou to become a journalist. Something I wanted to do because of Thompson. Three years have passed, and I've given up on that shell of a dream.But not a day goes by where he doesn't affect me.
I won't kid myself and pretend that Thompson didn't affect my curiosity with drug usage. The Robo-trip, the ecstasy, the acid: non of these were taken without thinking about him first. Back in that year it happened, in 2005, I got my Thompson-based nickname "Raoul Duchess" from a man involved in the local drug culture scene.The word "Duchess" is now on me forever in the handwriting of Ralph Steadman on my left arm.
I admire admiration for Thompson in other people. When I meet another fan, one who almost meets my level of adoration, it's instant attraction. A man once called me gonzo, and for Christ's sake I dated him for three months! Mutual love for HST has even given me the strangest attraction to an older man. But I know that a shared fascination isn't enough for him to leave her and cross state lines for a silly little girl. But with gonzo, anything is fucking possible, right?
The subject of Thompson's death is a hard on for me. Some call it murder, a government conspiracy cover-up due to Thompson's discussion of Sept. 11 and the involvement of the current administration. But Thompson has begun winding down his life before that final day. He gave his prized possession, a gift he had recieved from "Dr. Gonzo," to his son Juan. Thompson wasnever quiet about his feelings on suicide; he would never want to die slowly and out of his control. After watching my Grandpa slowly waste away, I am of the same belief, but I think I will be too cowardice to do anything.
Most people fall back on religion to comfort them in the wake of death, but how does the idea of Heaven and Hell soften the blow of Thompson killing himself after the life he lived? I find comfort in celebrating his life and all the good he has done for me (with heavy drinking!) But even if judgment is someday passed, I will show up to his heavenly trial, full of praise for his soul. This day always brings death to my attention. Like relationships, I will miss the good times when life is gone, but it will be for the best because of all the pain.

here's what I think about today.

2008-02-14T13:15:00.001-08:00

Is it really the day? There isn't anything to say about Valentine's Day that hasn't been said so many times. We've all heard the argument that it's just a greeting card holiday, it's a singles awareness day, that love should be proclaimed anyways and not just once a year. We've heard the complaints that our society places too much importance on romantic relationships. We've heard the moans and groans of singles on this day, and I call for a change in perspective on this day.
The February fourteenths of childhood are really ideal. You give a small card and candy to everyone in your class; everyone is equally loved! Maybe you save the best cards for your best friends, maybe you give them two candies or stickers. Your daddy gives you a card and a little token of his love. He's the most important man in your life. But by middle school, things have become complicated.
Most of my Valentine's are forgettable. In fact, it took me dozens of minutes to remember the V-day picnic my senior year boyfriend surprised me with. Maybe other years I got a flower, but more than likely I just let it pass. Junior year was a big one though. The week leading up to it, I left notes and poems on the car and in the locker of my hardcore crush, a senior we'll call Lank. I was the props master and set worker for a play he was acting in. Finally, on the big Fourteenth, I placed a box of chocolate and another love note in his costume box. I couldn't talk to the man, so a few days later I left a note in his coat pocket revealing myself as the admirer. He later told me he was flattered, and we never spoke again. Imagine my horror when we ran into each other almost four years later at a house party.
The point is, that Valentine's Day felt like it had the potential to be life-changing, but the memory of it, like the memories of the Valentine's before and since, will pass out of my memory banks (I had actually completely forgotten about him until the aforementioned house party.) These Valentine's Days may feel important on this day, but in a week, no one's going to care what you did (including you!)
In my personal opinion, Valentine's Day should be shared with the people you love. Yes, it might remind you that you're single, but hopefully you will also realize that you're not alone. Give a token to your best friend, call your mother and grandmother, remind yourself of the other loves of your life. Do something you love. Send a card to an old friend or invite some fellow singles over for dinner. Valentine's Day should be spent loving youself, spent with the people you love, and doing something good, full of love, for the rest of the world.

shit where i eat.

2008-02-12T11:09:00.000-08:00

The weather outside reflects the cloud over her thoughts. The poor vision on the roads, like her inability to see in her mind's eye the actions of Saturday night. It's such a pity, she would have liked to remember what it was like to be with him. She tried as hard as she could to picture in her mind him on top of her, tugging at each other's clothes, pinning one another down. She tried to conjure up the memories of the kisses she had dreamed about before. Nothing. All she could remember was the moments she was beckoning him into her bedroom, and his entrance.
"Hey you," she had said. After that, everything goes black. Her memories start up again a few hours later, where she is crying about something else with two other friends on her couch. But the time spent with him on her bed is lost forever. All that remains in her mind from their tryst is a split second of dominance. He's on top. She has one arm above her head, the other below his belt. She'd trade all the tequila in the world to get the memory of this one-time pleasure back.
It was especially upsetting that her memories were gone, because so was he. They had talked, and he was uninterested in making this a recurring event. So her old memories were lost, and there was no chance for new ones. Now, lost in the fog of her mind, she continued to search. She pictured his face, she pictured her bedroom. She could see him standing in the doorway, walking towards her. What happened after that? Did they talk for a bit, or get straight to her obvious intentions? Was she any good? Too drunk to function, but still amazing in the sack? She sincerely doubted it. Damn.
Later that night, she told a good friend the details of what had happened, after he had fled from her bedroom, leaving her topless, confused, and drunkenly hurt. Although her close friend told her the next day what she had said that night, she still couldn't conjure the memories. The bite mark he left could have been like a string tied around a finger, a sign to remind her of what happened. But it couldn't do its job. It remained on her body as useless as her feelings for him. The feelings that made her wish she had a second chance with him and a clear head. She would never be clear on what happened that night, what events came to pass or if he did. She would live confused until she accepted it and let go of the importance of these memories. Now all she needed was time, and a tall, cold glass of water.

Pay attention to me.

2008-01-20T23:56:00.001-08:00

Here's something I'd write about Channing if I was writing:

Channing Kennedy is a friend of mine, which makes this article totally unscrupulous. I am totally biased. This probably shouldn't exist, just like this man shouldn't leave me with our friendship so young. Well, not as young as he thinks it is, at least.
I first encountered Channing when I still cared about journalism and The Maneater, when MOVE did an article about his mullet and I was set to the task to find mullet related websites. After multiple visits to Maude Vintage, he learned my name. I started telling people we were best friend as a joke, because i thought our friendship would be as ridiculous as he was. Now we are legit friends.
That mullet is gone as so are my feelings for that paper, but my feelings for Channing have only developed into something more mature. What was once a silly crush and hipster adoration is now respect and admiration. He is sort of everything I admire in a man. Creative and the one quality I could never develop: he's amazing without trying or caring.
I hope Channing has an effective on my life (besides introducing me to a pretty good kisser named Erik.) I'm going to miss him, but I hope when he leaves Columbia he won't really be leaving my life.

that's all for now. more later?

too left for the left?

2007-12-12T14:24:00.000-08:00

Why isn’t every liberal in love with Dennis Kucinich? The man is everything a liberal should be.

My love affair with Kucinich started one night while watching the recap of a Logo debate. Issues addressing the homosexual community are number one on my list, because I won’t let assholes treat my best friend like he’s a second-class citizen. On this night, I fell completely out of love with former favourite John Edwards when he preached tolerance and then said he didn’t support gay marriage.

Just when I was ready to quit this race and go totally socialist, Kucinich took the stage. It was immediately brought up that there is nothing the LGBT community wants that he is against. He wholly supports same-sex marriage. All evening he talked about love and compassion: whether it was the love between same-sex couples, compassion for those who need medicinal marijuana, helping the sick with affordable nation-wide healthcare, every word he said was spot-on.

I have always had a strange affinity for short politicians (it all began with the super-cute super-short Jeff Smith) so I grew curious about Kucinich. I looked him up on the Internets and found out he is the only candidate who opposed the war with Iraq when it was originally proposed. His healthcare, his care for the middle class, everything was spot-on. How had I missed this guy for so long! How hasn’t he jumped to the front of the left, leading the left with all the liberal ideals we preach?

But then a friend injected some unwanted reality into my fantasy: Kucinich is too left to appeal to a broader audience. She claimed that the undecided masses would vote for a more middle-of-the-road democrat, and Kucinich was too left to gain favour with even some liberals!

My question is, in an election where the flaws of the right have never been more obvious, where the public is so against our current Conservative administration, wouldn’t this be the perfect time to inject the office with ALL the good of liberals? Why put forth a candidate that supported our awful current administration and this war that has killed so many? Why not push forward our entire agenda of equality? He stands for equality in marriage, in healthcare, in bringing up those below the poverty line, and giving future generations a sustainable life. Kucinich is a leftist dream, but has somehow been swept under the rug for being… too perfect?

It was Kucinich’s closing words at that Logo debate that I later found online that really sealed our love affair. He said about his gorgeous supermodel-esque wife Elisabeth:

“We have talked about this and I can’t imagine what it would be like to have met the love of my life and to have such a depth of feeling for her, and then be told that no you can’t be married because there’s a certain rule or law that can’t let that happen. That would be devastating! And because we understand that, because I understand it, I’m ready to be your president. I’m ready to be the person that transforms this nation, that lifts up this nation, that causes not just and American evolution but reconnects us with the deeper truths of who we are!” People wonder how he scored that hot wife, but who wouldn’t love a man like this?

So forget your fears of going too left (and that alien claim) and see Kucinich for what he really is: a man unafraid. He wasn’t afraid to stand up against the war when that idea was unpopular, and he is afraid to stand up for what is right. He is a caring and compassionate candidate who has the best interest of those that have been stomped on in his heart.

Can't Judge a Project Runway Contestant by Its Cover

2007-11-15T07:51:00.001-08:00

Project Runway premiered last night, and I am very excited about this season. In it's premiere, judged awarded winner to Rami and his modern-day toga, and sent Simone packing for her failed attempt at vintage.
This year was the firsy year though that my pre-season favourites did not hold up. While looking at all the previews and what-not, I grew disdain for youngster scenester Christian and leopard-clad fatty Chirs, and adoration of the adorably gay Steven and Rosario Dawson look-a-like Carmen. However, by the end of the first episode, Chris sky-rocketed to most loved (after watching him waddle across the field to collect fabric for the challenge, and then creating a gorgeous dress) and Christian's bitchiness was actually humourous, while Steven and Carmen's designs did not impress. Christian was the runner-up for winner, but I wasn't a big fan of his overly-lacey in front bulky jacket, though I can see where the judges were impressed.
Runner-up for out was the quirky Elisa. She started of the craziness by grass-staining a silk chiffon, then after returning to the design room, used her own legs as the model form. She then made an elegant and whimsical top, and shredded all of her remaining fabrics and sewed them on the bottom of the dress (probably about 20 lbs worth.) Heidi was right to say it looked like the model pooped out the fabric. She also "hand measured" (aka felt up) her model to do the fitting. Now listen judges, because I'm only going to say this once (yeah right.) Do not keep the crazies! Did you see what happened with Wendy Peppers and Vincent. These people who don't deserve to be on the show because they are completely batshit end up outlast great designs because you want to keep them around for entertainment. No more of this! Kick that broad off!

And now, my personal picks:

Best:

By Chris

Worst:

by Elisa

Fashion Week Recap.

2007-09-12T15:58:00.000-07:00

Another Fashion Week has come and gone, and much to my shagrin I didn't recieve a personal invite yet again.
The Spring 2008 looks are bold, and it looks like the clinched-at-the-waist belt is here to stay. A lot of bright colours were paired with black, which seems dark for spring, but what the hey, let's do it! Gwen Stefani's L.A.M.B. was a shining example of this, and still super cute. Her looks were very modern and rock, which is a big change from the Michelle Pfeiffer in 'Scarface' debut of the line.
Calvin Klein presented us with an almost all white collection. Betsey Johnson was fucking ridiculous, I don't know who the hell would wear these atrocities. Half of her looks were like retarded trying-to-be-throwback prom dresses, and all the models wore corsages and had dates walk them down the runway. Michael Kors was bright and classy in classic light spring colours, but his men's look were a lot like him: supergay. Vera Wang was rather lack-luster, but I never really like her work anyways. Lacoste was sleek as always, and while I would wear anything with that little alligator on it, nothing jumped out at me. But I guess the time-tested classiness of Lacoste is what makes it so great. Venexiana did this amazing very vintage sailor/'40s wife themed collection that I LOVED. Be sure to check the pictures below.
I also discovered my new fashion soulmate this week: Tadashi Shoji, the Fashion Week closer. His clothes are soft and feminine but still involved interesting shapes and designs, a few of which seemed a tad throwback, which I love.
I was really sad that no Project Runway names graced the runway at Fashion Week. Wake up Jay McCarroll! I love you dearly, make me clothes now please! Same for you Jeffrey.
Also, MetLife held a charity show where all the designs were inspired by Charlie Brown characters! Some were cute, but some were just ridiculous.

Favourites/Buy these for me:

Michael Kors

Venexiana

Tadashi Shoji

L.A.M.B.

Badgley Mischka
(they were once guest judges on Project Runway, and I love the print of this skirt.)

Miss Sixty

Isaac Mizrahi's Snoopy in Fashion design: a modern take on the classic Charlie Brown look.

A less practical but still cute Snoopy in Fashion look. I like the creativity in this one.

What the Fucks/What not to Wear:

Academy of Art University
(box on the head, wtf?)

Vera Wang

Betsey Johnson for the awful win.

Someone is puking out on Ninth Street

2007-08-10T22:38:00.000-07:00

I've been trying to find something to put here for ages. I wanted to write something interesting and thought-provoking, mixed with the combine comedic power of the Sedaris children.
Instead, i have:
-bought more clothes than I could ever need.
-fallen back into and out of alcoholism.
-started what could turn out to be a rather dull relationship.

Let's discuss the last note there. A boy and I have begun dating and agreed we're not ready for anything serious. To me, that means basically everything boyfriends do, but no rules involving infedelity. To him, "not serious" means smoking a lot, macking, and passing out. Oh language barriers. But much like this blog, my relationship is less than ideal.
But I began to think, what's wrong with this picture? Here I am, with an attractive guy who's into me (and who I have been attracted to for quite some time)and he's not ashamed to show it (he, in fact, got all up on me at a concert when he saw another boy attempt to) and doesn't want to tie me down. Why the need for thrills when i can have a relationship minus those nasty frills? I realized that right now, life doesn't need to be inriguing in order to be enjoyable. Hopefully the same holds true for this post.

As for publishing something interesting, I am currently working on:
-American Dream stories.
-toying with the idea of being completely honest for a week.
-going all Bridget Jones style and boring you with relationship advice/news! Not really. But maybe?

Sweatin' like a whore in church (or a whore on the first day of summer classes)

2007-06-12T16:50:00.000-07:00

Overweight, drunk smoker who is an alcoholic workoholic. Can she peg a man? Let's see, shall we?
The hot mid-June sun beat down on my already pounding head, the only thought running through it is completely dedicated to purchasing one of those huge misting fans. I want to be totally immersed in cold, crisp water. However, as far as hangovers go, this one isn't so bad. But still, I won't be drinking like that for a long time. At least not for a month, when I celebrate my birthday on the eleventh day of July, in the two thousand and seventh year of our Lord.
What a way to begin summer classes. Hungover (possibly still drunk,) on three hours of sleep, and still recovering from leg-numbing sex. The events of last night turned out better than even I had planned.
The original idea was to make eyes at a chubby, hardly attractive co-worker of mine, but since he is an arrogant prick, I slept with his thin, curly-haired friend. Now that that crisis of faith in myself and my abilities is over, I can go back to being normal. God I was a shitshow last night. There was a point where I was crying into a blow-up doll. Right, alls well that ends well I suppose.
I just want to fill a sink with icy cold water and stick my head in.

Kentucky Travels.

2007-03-29T22:47:00.000-07:00

2007.03.27 at 23:34

Mom and I arrived in Grand Rivers (St. Louis shown for scale) around 4-ish, and we went straight to Lake Realty to see Brenda and Margaret. We sat and talked for awhile, then went to Patti's Restaurant where they cook bread in flower pots, and they taught me how to!
After that we went on a walk through the town, which took a few minutes, and my uncle Roy let me ride his 400cc scooter. I think he said 400. Anyhoot, he said tomorrow I can try and ride it!
I wish I could live the life they do here, really. It's so beautiful out here, and simple. While we were walking through the town, random people's cats would just come up and I would caqrry them a few blocks, then they'd follow me around. My Aunt Anne owns pet goats, and you know I'm a sucker for farm animals.
I love boating and lakes, and down here the water is about a thousand times cleaner than the Lakes of the Ozarks (Osage Beach water show for reference.)
I just which I could simplify my life and enjoy it here. Maybe instead of a big city, I need to trysomething small-scale for my writing. Something small, but preferably still in California. I need sunshine in my life.

More tomorrow night, Mom is complaining that the glow of my laptop is keping her awake.

2007.03.28 at 20:58

Today was exhausting.
Got up at 8:30 and headed to Grand Rivers. Aunt Margaret, Mom and I went to visit Dycusburg to see Aunt Janie, who after her stroke says everything out loud. Some gems from today included "Megan used to be skinny" and "What's that thing in her nose?"
Then we went down the road, past Grandma's old property and to visit Aunt Anne. But she wasn't there, so I visited the chickens and goats and cats and dogs. Anyhoot, after that, we went to the Land Between the Lakes, where my family settled and my grandma and everyone was raised until the Tennessee Valley Authority abused their rights of eminent domain and forced everyone to relocate in the 1960s. All the houses and stores were bulldozed in the 1980s.
It's heartbreaking to think I will never see these homes that my family came from. Margaret, who was born in one of the log cabins, and her husband Roy have known each other their whole lives. Their past together has been pushed down and grown over. It's where the first settlers in Kentucky went, because the land was so fertile due to the rivers. When the rivers were damed and turned into lakes, the rivers flooded, and it makes sense to relocate the homes on the river banks. But it was abusive to move out everyone so we could have a park. IT wasn't a metropolis. These homes weren't a threat to nature. This was a crime in my eyes.
After that, we went and had dinner at the Iron Kettle with Anne, Janie, Margaret, Sarah and Susan, then went and saw Roy at home.
Tomorrow we're going to see the goats again, so I'll have goat pictures.

2007.03.29 at 23:46

Left Kentucky around noon today, after the second goat-visit. Trip was great, but the closest Taco Bell to Grand Rivers is 20 miles away. I think I'd like to retire there, but I probably won't be able to afford it!

GOATS!

this one in my favourite.

baby and momma goat!

this is mary. she likes how i taste.

this one's name is dipstick!

i almost took it.

mary started chewing my hand while i was holding the camera.

this little white one's mom doesn't have horns, but her brother does.

this is mary's daughter. if you look close on her back, you can see a burn mark from when she fell onto the heater that anne put out for her baby (the next picture.)

and this is mary's grandchild!

i believe little guy's name is Lucky. If not, there is a goat named Lucky, and his twin sister died because they were born in the cold of winter.

cows.

This is all that is left of my grandma's childhood home. The Tennessee Valley Authority started clearing people out of the Land Between the Lakes after they dammed a river and the land started to flood. Then they got a little power-crazed and made everyone move out and bulldozed all the houses. Now it's just woods, where there was once over a 1000 families, and stores, baseball diamonds, a community. All gone now.

why this irish girl hates st. patrick's day.

2007-03-18T11:47:00.000-07:00

St. Patrick's Day is the day of recognition for St. Patrick, who brought Catholicism to the island of Ireland. Being Protestant, I do not celebrate Catholic holidays.
Also, I don't know how many of my readers are Cathoic, but every Saint has their own day. Why is it in America we only celebrate St. Patrick's Day? What about All Saint's Day, the Catholic give recognition to all the Saint's, including St. Patrick?
Oh, that's right. Because all Irish are alcoholics. Because no other Saint's Day revolves around a country that does nothnig but drink.
In Ireland, on St. Patrick's Day, the Protestants do nothing and the Catholics go to church.
On Friday, in America, a girl in my sociology class was wearing a green wig, over-sized leprechaun hat, Lucky Charms pajama pants, and green round shades. I wanted to shake her. I wanted to fucking scream. Hunter suggested I speak to her like she had downs syndrome, but she ran away before I could. Catholics don't ever believe in leprechauns, you shithead.
Last night, the streets overflowed with drunk sorority girls, wearing green Mardi Gras beads (which they probably earned doing rather un-Catholic things) with scanty green pieces of fabric. Do you think they went to church this morning?
I am sick of this holiday. I am sick of the disgusting Americaniszed version of it at least. A bar downtown had an "Erin Go Bra" contest last night, theprize going to the girl with the best bra. St. Patrick didn't bring Catholicism to Ireland for this shit.
You want to dress Irish? Well your $70 Britches green tunic is way to much than most can afford. You want to act Irish? A lot of the Irish live in poverty. They aren't alcoholics. They aren't leprechauns.
Choose a new saint's day to ruin. You've humped all the life and virtue out of this one.

Looking back on The Ataris

2007-03-03T14:56:00.000-08:00

recent music review I wrote for The Maneater.

Very few people I know enjoy reliving the days when they were bopping along to late ‘90s early 2000s pop punk. Most of the people who were jamming away with me now get their kicks from whatever “cool” black-hair-dye –swoop-bangs band is in the spot light for the next ten minutes, denying the days we wore sweatbands and trucker hats. Turns out our old bands have done that as well.
The Ataris will always be the sound of the summer before my junior year of high school. It is the sound associated with wristbands, local shows and cruising in my ’92 Ford Thunderbird. The Ataris were, for me, a symbol of young love and rebellion.
But, like me, The Ataris had to grow up some time. I grew up and went to college. They grew up and got lame.
I remember sitting in my senior year journalism class and reading about “Welcome the Night” being released in 2005 and my heart thumping away in my chest. I wish they would have released it then, I could have at least gotten excited about the realease instead of not caring and finding out a few days later.
The album starts with a heavy song, and this is no “So Long, Astoria.” The crazy part is, both tracks start with a buzzing, distorted guitar, only this time the chords are sinister, not light-hearted. Kris Roe’s vocals are not that of the Roe of my youth. They are darker, deeper and richer. They sound like the typical alternative rock vocals of today, not the young, bright sounds of the boy in the late ‘90s who sang to me about never having to wait in line at Disneyland. The song is called “Not Capable of Love,” but don’t get it confused with 2001 release End is Forever’s “Giving Up on Love.” No my friend, this is entirely different. In the track, Roe sings “"I'm not capable of love/ That kind of love/ That I felt when I was 21.” Turns out he’s also not capable of making the same music that gained him his fans.
I know what you’re thinking. “But Meg, they have to mature and progress.” Except The Ataris haven’t matured, they have only fit more into the mold of what is popular music now. They are on the verge of recent “hardcore,” you know, the kind that isn’t really hardcore, but instead just angry about nothing sounding and gloomy.
“Cardiff-by-the-Sea” has the sound of a matured version of The Ataris. Roe’s vocals are still that lame Creed-esque level of deep, but the music is more bouncy like the older stuff, along with the background vocal “oooo”-ing. But the echoey effects and Roe’s constant slur from low to high are bothersome. “Act V, Scene IV: And So It Ends Like It Begins” has the most classic sound overall. This final track on the album is true to its name; the album ends almost like the sound of before it began.
“New Year’s Day” is an upset from moment one when you realize the intro is the exact same as that of “Not Capable of Love” but without the distortion.
For the sake of The Ataris, I hoped this album was good. I wanted them to come back and bring my youth and nostalgia with them, but I wasn’t expecting something ground breaking. I received neither. I was gifted with The Ataris fitting into the mold, leaving the sound of a generation behind and an overall boring release.

True to her name.

2007-01-24T17:55:00.000-08:00

Sorry I haven't updated this thing like I promised, but frankly I've been too depressed. I know that's no excuse, but I don't think anyone reads this anyway so I'm just letting myself down more by caring.

Anyhoot, here's a little something I wrote about my recent depression:

The small windowless office somehow came to represent freedom. The white walls and stacks of broken technology somehow gave me power. With them, I was the leader of something good, something with purpose. I was an editor, the editor of the arts section of the greatest paper you could ever work for. The Maneater is one of a kind; writers can work for any section, they can design and take photos. They can dictate much of their own work. As an editor, you are seen as the best and that's what I was. The best arts editor at the Athens of journalism, Columbia, Missouri. And like in Athens, the founding place of competition, you have to be the best or get out. So I devoted life to the section, and as a result, had to choose between it or myself. I chose it. The choice cost me my standing with the harsh School of Journalism, which stripped me of my spirit.I had to give it up. Now these walls represent failure, the office a constant reminder of my inability.Everyone inside succeeded when I could not. I am no longer of importance in this room that dictated my life. True to her name, she chewed me up, and spit me out. Touché, Maneater.

growing up is rough, but better than the alternative.

2007-01-13T00:50:00.001-08:00

The news hit me like a freight train. I was the first to know; my brother showed me the ring alone when we were visiting our grandparents.
My face said “oh yay,” but my insides were screaming.
My brother I grew up with, that I heard so many times say that girls are dumb and gross, the brother that used to want nothing more than to torture me with rubber snakes?
We played Legos, he taught me to play hockey, he made a guy's nose bleed for making me cry. This brother is starting his own family?
I'm not ready for this. We can't be adults yet. I had a hard enough time when he graduated college and got a full-time job as an elementary school teacher.
Don't get me wrong, his now-fiancée is awesome and perfect for him. It’s just a fear of my brother and I doing adult things. I've been having to do a lot of adult things lately adjusting to living on my own and taking responsibilities, and now he is starting a family. He’s only five years older than me, and she is a senior in college. Will this be a decision I will face in the coming years? Marriage!? Committing my entire self to one person? It seems like a lot at this age, but then again, a few years ago it seemed like I had to pick a career to last me a lifetime.
What really scares me is he’s creating a new idea of home for himself, like Zach Braff said in “Garden State.” It’s a cycle. Soon I will not be what he thinks of when he thinks of “family.” He will think of his wife and children.
My brother and I are very close. He takes me out with his friends, we go to bars and restaurants and concerts together. I know our parents have committed their lives to us, how it seemed like they gave up all their time for us. Now my brother will be giving up time for his new family. He won't have time to have fun with his lil’ sis.
This brother that chugs egg nog and plays card games and calls all my college friends “hot coeds.” This brother that I am closer to than anyone else. This brother will be a different person.
But it is a fact of life that I must accept. We are both growing, and soon I will have to take on the roll of Auntie Meg. And although we may not have as much time for each other, I know that we will still be as close as we are now.
He will always be that boy that tortured me as a child, and grew to become my best friend as an adult. He will always be the crass, joking older sibling. He will always be my definition of home.

Death to The Fall Out Boys

2007-01-07T12:19:00.000-08:00

Rarely does a New York Times article have the same effect on my stomach as a month old plate of sushi, but when I read an article by Kelefa Sanneh entitled “The Glamour (Sigh, Whine) of Heartbreak,” I could pretty much feel the chunks rising in my esophagus. The article addresses the issue of emo music becoming the new glam rock. Sanneh compares modern-day fashion--not-so-friendly bands such as From First to Last, My Chemical Romance, and Fall Out Boy (who were once featured as models in the Rolling Stone) to glam-bands of the ‘80s such as Poison and Mötley Crüe. The article also addresses the leak of nudey pics of Fall Out Boy’s bassist Pete Wentz and compares that to the Tommy Lee sex tapes. The article goes as far to compare these emo-glam bands to David Bowie, one of the fathers of glam-rock and a hero to the entire genre of rock and roll!
This article made me realize that emo is going to be the music that our generation will be remembered by. The ‘60s had the Beatles, the ‘70s had disco, the ‘80s had hair metal, the ‘90s got grunge, and we get emo? Has rock really taken this turn for the worse? Are my grandkids going to look back and say “Holy crap grandma what were you thinking?” Just like we now look back and frown upon the mullet and parachute pants, someday our kids are going to look back and see a bunch of whiny boys covered in eyeliner and black hair dye. At least ‘80s glam boys were bad-ass and sang about getting laid instead of getting dumped.
With the early nineties came grunge. Thank the lord for Nirvana. Suddenly people realized it’s not what you look like that counts, and ‘80s glam rock died.
So what happened? Where did music go wrong? When did modest emo lyricists like turn into this? When did emo go from Goodwill sweaters to girl pants? Did Conor Oberst breed some sort of music love child with RATT and suddenly we have From First to Last? Every generation has its rock music where suddenly “the look” is more important than “the sound,” but how did our generation end up getting stuck with this crap!? Why will we be remembered with boys who whine and cry over nameless and countless numbers of women?
I, for one, am not going to stand for this. This poorly written, glammed out whiney excuse for music needs to go down, down in a earlier round. Even if it goes down swinging!

hello all.

2007-01-07T12:14:00.000-08:00

This is my for real blog where I will post my weekly writings. This is to prepare myself for the real career of a professional columnist and do get a lot of practice writing.
This isn't what happened in my day, or my whiny little diary. Each column will be about 450 words in length and will be posted weekly-ish.