i can't see frequencies

Record Label Advice

2012-02-05T15:33:00.000-08:00

Recess Records from Mike Plante on Vimeo.

watching movies & wasting time

2012-01-27T16:47:00.000-08:00

huh?

2012-01-24T16:59:00.001-08:00

i thought the equation was more work = more beer. i've been doing it all wrong.

(via Mission Mission)

timecrimes

2012-01-23T13:11:00.001-08:00

better run.

muni haiku

2012-01-22T10:09:00.001-08:00

| | || || | |

2012-01-20T16:54:00.000-08:00

you wouldn't look a .GIF horse in the mouth, would you?

.GIF's via Scott Schaus

harpo! harpo! this is the angels

2012-01-20T14:46:00.001-08:00

poison arms

2012-01-19T13:40:00.000-08:00

TRASH CITY

2012-01-17T21:16:00.000-08:00

TERRIBLY PROUD OF THIS EP. KEVIN NA IS MY BEST FRIEND.
TRASH CITY by Lemon Party

lemon party & Yulia: m i n i - t o u r

2012-01-09T11:45:00.001-08:00

cheating tour

BIG BOYS FALL HARD tour

12/31/2011 - 1/8/2012

seattle.

portland.

PDX

SEA

Sleep

man.VS.child 6-track Cassette

2011-12-30T17:40:00.000-08:00

Pick up your copy at Suitors Club Records | $5 out-the-door

Lemon Party x Yulia TOUR - January 4-8

2011-12-21T10:43:00.000-08:00

12/31 - Yulia, SJ, Texas Toast House
1/1 - Yulia @ 924 Gilman, Berkeley
1/4 - Yulia @ Blank Club, SJ
1/5 - Lemon Party + Yulia - Lipo Lounge, San Francisco
1/6 - Lemon Party + Yulia - Portland, @ Plan B
1/7 - Lemon Party + Yulia - Seattle @ Black Lodge w/ Success and Honey Badger
1/8 - Lemon Party + Yulia - Sacramento, CA @ Luigi's w/ Bastards of Young

Fliers by Kyle Pellet!
.

team captain

2011-12-14T14:47:00.000-08:00

i'm obsessed with this one.

the latest from the greatest:

&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;a href="http://summervacation.bandcamp.com/track/team-captain"&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;Team Captain by summer vacation&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/a&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;

SHOWS.SHOWS.SHOWS.SHOWS

2011-12-12T22:12:00.001-08:00

weird original

2011-11-21T16:08:00.000-08:00

i'll walk you home but this could take forever.

NOW AVAILABLE: Mannish Water 7"

2011-11-11T15:05:00.000-08:00

grab it here! Only $5

Lemon Party - Mannish Water 7" !

2011-10-31T15:04:00.001-07:00

New Lemon Party 7"!

Buy it here.

&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;a href="http://lemonparty.bandcamp.com/album/mannish-water"&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;Mannish Water by Lemon Party&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/a&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;

All the Bands You Like EP

2011-10-16T20:21:00.000-07:00

new EP, 'All the Bands You like.' i recorded it over the weekend. that's all. thanks.

&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;a href="http://sleepyfox.bandcamp.com/album/all-the-bands-you-like"&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;All the Bands You Like by hank richardson&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/a&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;

New Shows!

2011-07-10T01:37:00.000-07:00

Check em' out at Suitors Club.

Also, 'Like' Lemon Party on Facebook, please!

UPDATE: Lemon Party show on 7/21 is $1 Beers, not FREE. Sorry!

Upcoming Shows + Summer Tour w/ SHINOBU

2011-07-07T15:02:00.000-07:00

upcoming Lemon Party shows in San Francisco!

7.21.2011 @ Chrome (580 Fourth St.)

7.31.2011 @ Brain Wash (122 Folsom St.) w/ Thunder Power & Backward Beast

come august, i'm also going to be playing drums in one of my favorite bands of all time! in the top 3 favorites, for sure. huzzah!

if you don't know Shinobu, check them out! they're such an important band to me:

here are the dates:

August 11 - Pomona, CA @ Aladdin Jr.'s

August 12 - Garden Grove, CA @ The Cabin

August 13 - Cupertino, CA @ Homestead Lanes

August 14 - Berkeley, CA @ 924 Gilman St.

August 16 - Cupertino, CA @ Homestead Lanes

August 17 - Santa Cruz@ Catalyst Atrium

Hank Richardson - "The Metreon's Arcade"

2011-05-15T01:41:00.000-07:00

a new song for Lemon Party. Recorded this by myself, since everyone was at work or in a different city. the Metreon in San Francisco has shut its arcade down, which is terrible news.

The Metreon's Arcade by hank richardson

lyrics:
schoolyard, pass me by. glowing, dumb. star of the sea. late-night, no party to leave.

liquor-tomb, fuck me up. (do your worst.)

the arcade just closed. nothing to do. all this time.
ride my bike, sleep it off, do all my laundry with the quarters i got. and hope it will open again soon.

Suitors Club Records

2011-04-24T22:31:00.000-07:00

Suitors Club Records, starting now: http://suitorsclub.com/
A work-in-progress site for one of my many ambitions.

Check out 2 new Lemon Party take-away videos. Yup.

Lemon Party - "Premium Phantasy" [Single]

2011-03-28T00:10:00.000-07:00

some new schemes:

http://lemonparty.bandcamp.com/album/premium-phantasy

(if you can't download the single as a whole, try downloading the trackz individually)

home recording: "the library's always closed"

2011-03-20T11:33:00.000-07:00

a song i wrote with nothing good to say:

on this track: left-handed drums, thrift-store keyboard, borrowed guitar(s), no bass, no sense.

Lemon Party - "TV Life" [8 Song Album]

2011-03-20T11:07:00.000-07:00

i'm proud to share lemon party's first album, 'TV Life.' recording took 3 months (one day per week, usually) via an older, half-working, digital multi-tracker --- as well as a mixing board + 'laptop' computer. songs were not mastered/will never be.

home recording: "shinobu poster"

2011-01-08T20:34:00.000-08:00

here's a short song i recorded last night in a few hours.

lyrics:

man.VS.child - "Lame Lara"

2010-12-14T21:14:00.000-08:00

'Lame Lara' is just one of those tracks that's far too catchy for its own good.

Andrew is leaving for Nashville, TN soon. So, one night I got the idea to try to organize a recording of Lame Lara, the one song that didn't make it onto our first EP. Even though I'm kinda broke now from buying drum microphones (curses to Amazon's one-click-shopping...), the track itself turned out well I think.

Anyways, there aren't any bass solos on this man.VS.child release (regrettably so). But, on the other hand, Evan brought-that-screamo-shit.

kevin na - lead guitar

evan metcalfe-church - bass / vocals

andrew barnett - rhythm guitar / vocals

hank r. (me!) - drums

Lemon Party + man.VS.child + Beat the Oak

2010-08-03T19:02:00.000-07:00

"Non-Breaking Space" (20 Poems) by Hank Richardson

2010-05-13T15:52:00.000-07:00

While sitting in the school's cafeteria last semester, talking loud and thinking myself clever, I had the idea to write a collection of poetry for my senior thesis. The concept arose from the html code "&nbsp," (AKA: non-breaking space). Well, now it's finished.

I would love to say more about this project, but it's hard to explain. I don't mean that the ideas are too complex, or that "you wouldn't get it." Quite the contrary: this entire project centers around how confusing the interactions between virtual & tangible worlds are to me.

How does one understand memory, experience, and thus meaning through the contexts of intangible mediums? (That is, technology.)

I don't claim any truth, nor believe that I've come even a single step closer to mapping some sort of 'collective experience.' These poems are merely observations and feelings that I've accumulated.

Non-Breaking Space (&nbsp) (.pdf 58.9 KB)

Another Story

2010-05-04T01:07:00.000-07:00

"Nothing But Cry"

Just like that, Oliver lost his eye. No depth perception. Certainly no dates with pretty girls. He whimpered curses and pleas to physical laws that would allow such a thing to happen. There was now a void within him. And he knew that he wouldn't be able to stop it from growing.

Strictly speaking his eye was still there. But, it might as well have been nowhere; it was “asleep,” as his mother kindly put it. This thought used to scared him from thinking too much about it, though. So he tried to cover it. His parents bought him a patch. It was felt, but rigid too. At first, it bothered Oliver, the way it pressed against his eyebrow and cheek. But he grew to ignore this. And on the first day of fifth grade he walked to his seat, deflecting everyone's stares. This patch would be a shield, like the ones bravery deserves, he thought.

Oliver's friend, Alex, spoke to him about it sometimes. He was a good friend. They would walk around the schoolyard during recess, trying to understand each other as best they could. It never bothered Oliver much to talk about it with him; actually, he began to think that if he ignored his hurt eye the space it once occupied might disappear. The void would become something deeper, something worse.

One afternoon, they decided to eat lunch under a large oak tree that overlooked their school.

“Does it hurt?” Alex said, pointing as subtly as he could at Oliver's patch.

“No . . . I wish,” Oliver said with a half-fake smile.

“Huh? Why?” Alex said, laughing.

Oliver never knew how to explain it, so he would always just say, “who knows,” like the way his father always said it. This is alright, Oliver thought; it's still just a patch and a sleeping eye.

From the schoolyard below, Dewey Rodgers eventually came up to join them. Dewey was a nice enough kid, but could be a little off at times; he had good intentions at least. Picking his nose, he waved at the two.

“Hi Alex, hi Olly,” he said, adding, “why aren't you down there?” pointing towards their classmates playing kickball.

“Don't feel like it,” Alex said.

“We just like this tree, I guess,” Oliver replied.

Squinting upwards, Dewey seemed to consider the oak. After a few seconds he shrugged his shoulders.

“What do ya want, Dewey?” Alex said with a certain pride that came from trying to avoid any wise-cracks about Oliver. He knew they were just jokes; but sometimes enough was enough.

“Uh, well, Craig and Brian forced me to give Oliver a message. I told them no, but they made me, so I'm just up here makin' believe like I am.”

“God dammit, Dewey, you tell those two —”

“What message?” Oliver interrupted, staring past the messenger with a frown.

Before Dewey answered, Alex picked himself up and ran down the grassy hill. Oliver watched his first fight unfold from under the oak. Naturally, Alex got pummeled, facing two on one. But, in his defense, Craig and Brian hardly came out looking pretty.

Later, Alex wouldn't let either pass him in the halls without saying something like, “Now who looks like a pirate,” sticking his tongue out in defiance. Oliver laughed at this, but not too much so as to start another fight. After all, he couldn't afford to get a black eye, unlike other kids.

Over time, though, no one said much about it. So, as with most young relationships, a lack of shared conflict has a way of diffusing the whole thing. Alex was the one behind the shield most of the time, but it came to the point when there was no longer anything trying to force itself through – at least not in the same way. Kids were learning to talk behind each other's backs more often. So Oliver learned to carry it for himself.

Still, his defense let something through one time. Returning from the other side of the world, Oliver's father brought him a present. A wooden, Buddhist figure rested in his hands. It was carved by a blind craftsmen, though symmetrical and brilliant. Oliver held it without looking for all the details his father was telling him to notice. It had been made from something so dissimilar to himself, but someone wanted it to be formed. It was sold by a proud maker. It was sold as is. He felt the knife's hollowing on the wood. It's what he had tried to forget to feel. Pitying his own face, he took off the warm patch and cried with both eyes, resting in his father's lap. It does nothing for me but cry, he thought. Nothing but cry.

[December 2009]

home recording demo: "Spare Key"

2010-04-20T15:02:00.001-07:00

It's funny, I write these kind of silly love songs a lot, even though I can't really sing.

This one isn't even that relevant anymore, but I thought I'd share anyways. It's from the perspective of a spare key, waiting to be called into use; a metaphor I guess. Blah blah blah. Whatever.

spare key (*demo)

words:

i'll make a thousand copies to swallow
then I'd be a lock myself,
and a key you'd have to follow.
(but only if you wanted to, of course)

And if a few years wore me down
and smoothed my teeth out
I'd settle for anyone.
But, for now, you've got your walls that keep you warm
but they'll never care.
Though, I'm just your spare [key]

"Two Hands Shaking"

2010-04-14T02:01:00.000-07:00

It is a curve in the road that wakes Felix up. From the observatory, their bus has driven close to forty miles before he opens his eyes. Above the tree line is a cloudy mess, rain coming down hard. The astronomy field trip ended early because of the weather, but they still attended a fairly interesting lecture on artificial satellites. Felix learned about their orbits and the amount of math required to keep them on course; he understood very little of it but wishes someday he might.

Nestled against the windowpane, he sees his professor talking to the driver through a gap in the seats. Most everyone is asleep besides them. Checking the sky once more, he soon dozes off. A subway car courses through his dreams; he is a passenger on it. The lights around his head flicker as it passes crowds waiting to board. In the other cars, lights are off and, until reaching a stop, he can only see himself reflected from cold panes lining the walls. It seems to travel all night, and he cannot get off. Then, everything goes away.

The second time Felix wakes, the bus is at rest. He cranes his neck over the seats. No one is on board, though he hears voices coming from outside. He gathers his jacket and scarf while cursing the fact that no one woke him up. It annoys him that they take so many breaks; at this pace, they would get home past midnight. Still, he liked to be included in these things.

Nearly tumbling down the steps from his half-asleep legs, he enters the night. Felix stretches his hands towards the sky while breathing deeply. He thinks about nights he would spend trudging through the snow-covered forests that surrounded his home. He used to speak to himself about how trees that fall in the woods never really existed, and wondered what it must be like to be nothing at all.

Then, his eyes adjust. At the far end of the parking lot, he spots everyone. Cars from the highway off to his right pass by; they are stopped at a rest area. Coming up on the crowd, Felix sees that they are staring at something. He quickens his pace. A cold wind presses hard at his back. The silence that possess the air is nearly interrupted by whispers from his classmates; Felix pushes past the nearest set of shoulders. No one seems aware of his presence. A gaunt figure is sprawled on bench, covered with an array of winter jackets; they look like patchwork sewn to old fabric. Felix instantly remembers the name: James Darcy.

* * *

James had always been shy. The first time Felix saw him was in the midst of a fire drill, which had been supposedly pulled by “those morons downstairs,” as his roommate put it. Felix was up listening to music when he heard the alarm sound through the musty halls of their dormitory. Filing down the stairs, Felix had to repeatedly catch his neighbors from falling, telling them to wake up. Everyone was in a terrible mood. Exams started the next day and most didn't want to be reminded of how they hadn't studied. Outside, the deafening sound of crickets began to wake everyone up, and with this, their frustrations. Some students were yelling at each other, while others just gazed off with tired eyes, equally as grumpy but trying to fall asleep standing. From behind him, Felix could hear two of their school's worst students starting to get angry with one another. One was accusing James of having pulled the fire alarm, and saying how tired he was of this, even though in reality it was the first time it'd happened. Grinning, Felix turned and caught site of the argument. They were just talking loud, he knew, but the figure next to them possessed such a look of horror. It was James, whose eyes looked like weathered glass, tired and courting breaks in their surface. Maybe they had already broken, Felix thought, recalling the storms that ran along his house in the winter. If a window broke, the outside would no longer be where it was. It would become inside too. There would no longer be two sequestered worlds, nothing to enter or leave --- like the snow that covered hills and woods: one thing. It always wants to become this. Somehow, a window felt like a clumsy choice to keep out the cold, Felix thought.

Eventually, the whole thing blew over. Darcey's roommate was just trying to stand up for him, as it turned out. After the alarm stopped, Felix went back to his room, thoughts affixed to James' eyes. He felt an odd urge to try and repair something within Darcy, like a groundskeeper who is kept awake at night by the buildings he watches over; he knows his work as he does his mind, and can feel something being neglected. That night, Felix rested uneasy and woke up repeating, “how cold he must be.”

* * *

His eyes, they are aflame, Felix now thinks. He grabs the nearest person and asks what has happened. No one really knows.

“Something sudden and painful,” Gabe finally says, adding, “but he is still alive . . . has to be.” The usually certain tone of Gabriel's voice is no longer there.

“Has to be . . .” Felix repeats to himself. Our voices don't sound right, he thinks. At school, they live across the hall from one another, and have for roughly two years, but now act as if strangers.

“He'll make it,” Gabe says.

Their teacher, leaning against the bench, is trying to keep the young man breathing; James looks as if a great storm is raging through his body. He looks waterlogged. Sweat streams back into his ears. The jackets that cover him shift as he slowly turns, shaking uncontrollably.

Felix sees that their teacher is crying. It is because he has no power over stopping whatever this is. Felix is nearly crying too because it doesn’t make sense. A seemingly distant voice is asking where it hurts, but James just looks dead. They’ve tried everything, his professor keeps saying. There’s nothing to do but wait for an ambulance. Everyone nods quickly, but none believe it. They keep looking at one another as if to say, “I’m trying to think, dammit.”

The wail of an ambulance reaches their ears. A blur of lights cuts past staggered cars on the interstate. Felix quickly places his strength in trying to move him, causing his teacher and peers to follow. Amidst a sea of hands and concern, Jame's body seems to weigh nothing to Felix, who is now thinking once more of the snow in his memory of home. He pushes back what is repeating in his head, about a tree that is falling. It does exist, he tries to interject, almost deafening his mind with contradiction. The quiet winter's moon stares down at them. In his mind, Felix is walking through a cold north. The walk lasts for hours as he attempts to separate one snowy hill from the next. His tracks have been covered up by now. A mile or so in the distance, he catches sight of a fox that races along the treeline. He knows that's where he is headed and, with hope fleeting, gathers himself.

As the ambulance halts in front of them, James looks worse; he is seconds away from dying. There is little time to jump out of the back once they lift him up, so Felix rides alongside him. Their teacher tries to climb in too, but there is no more room. In the half-light of the ambulance, Felix almost counts down. James Darcy dies three breaths later. Drive faster, Felix keeps shouting.

* * *

James Darcy knew he would die that night. Despite better predictions, he could feel things inside of him shutting down. Of course, he wanted to live. But he didn’t wish to stay in the hospital as they confirmed what he already felt, and simply wait.

In the ambulance, he grasped a hand that waited next to him; it was trying to understand him, to somehow feel what was going to happen. It began to after a moment. James couldn’t tell in the last seconds of his life whether it was his hand or not that started to grasp with crippling strength. Both were trying their best to defy something that had already won. And in the deafening clamor, they laughed at this --- shaking hands for the first time.

* * *

(epilogue);

Of the winters in his dreams, Felix is home. Storms that push him along are fierce in their howls. All night he walks, sometimes aimlessly, sometimes towards home. He cannot see but fifteen feet in front of him, listening for moments of silence between the winds. Often, Felix hears a terrible din force itself into his ears. It is the sound of a tree falling. And with this, he is able to think that it falls, to know it does. He imagines his eyes adding a small crack to their surface, keeping count --- pressing back at the world outside.

Other nights, he doesn't dream at all, his mind emptied. Waking in a dark room, Felix opens a window above his head. Feeling the bitter cold, he closes it, falling back to sleep with both eyes closed, locked from the inside.

And sometimes, too, Felix comes across one of the fallen trees. He dreams that he carves a key out of it. Its label reads: James Darcy.

December 2009

Archived Stories: "Basement Days"

2010-04-14T00:30:00.000-07:00

It was a cavern of sorts. A place shrouded from those unwilling to view ordinary places as more than they may appear to be.

Sure, it may have been a basement; but within its walls lied imagination in its purest form. This musty cellar sat a good eight feet below my best friend's pale-white house that looked as if it had been uprooted from some far away place in time. His family was extremely good-hearted, though somewhat different from most traditional families I had known. His father was a brew master, as well as an excellent chef, who worked long and strenuous hours, yet always found time for his family. He would confidently race down the cellar stairs after work, brown leather boots securely fastened with a large mischievous grin on his face, inquiring as to how everyone was doing (which usually ended with him telling an entertaining joke.) He surprisingly shared many of the same interests with us and was very involved in his kid's lives. My friend's mother was also a superb cook that, like most of their family, except for his sister, was just about average height, if not smaller. Most weekends I would find myself here, content with being me.

I would cautiously walk across the kitchen floor, so as not to obstruct the bustling cooks, smelling unfamiliar spices that lay upon a beaten gray counter top, to a modest wooden door with a jaded glass door nob leading downwards. I was always instructed to make sure that the door closed behind me, which I would occasionally forget to accomplish while trying desperately to balance various piles of books on a large cardboard box that I usually carried. The family's year-old chocolate lab was known to cause all sorts of trouble if the door was to remain open – a risk we could not take. Letting the shiny black fiend run a muck down in the basement was one thing, but catching her was quite difficult, and generally regarded as being feat to be proud of.

The dark cavernous air was thick and heavy by nature, slowly weighing down upon your senses as you descended the aged wooden steps. You never knew quite what to expect once you reached the terminal ground below your feet. A brightly shining light guided your movement, allowing view unto a large piece of plywood acting as a table, awkwardly slanting downwards at each end from lack of support. The concrete floor was littered with dust-covered scraps of wood from his fathers table saw. When it would rain, small streams of water would run into the middle of the uneven and worn floor, flooding sections of the basement that we would have to endlessly navigate. It was always cold and damp; the earth had decided to keep it this way, for it was only fitting. Tools lined the dimly lit walls, and a workbench sat in front of the stairs with remnants of a long forgotten project that made you wonder how old this place truly was. Faded white laundry machines were positioned flat against the wall in the space under the stairs. Miscellaneous boxes of unmarked trinkets were carefully thrown against the surrounding walls, and crude wooden shelves took up the majority of the few open spaces left. It was like an arcane shrine that had been forgotten long ago. But, for us, it was the the perfect setting for those games of Dungeons and Dragons that ran long into the early morning. It was the type of place that invited your mind to wander, letting your worries retreat – if only for a night.

* * *

My index finger searched feverishly about the tattered pages of the Dungeon Master's Guide. Torchlight illuminated the dungeon walls as I, lost in the fog of my imagination, began to describe the entrance of the ancient catacombs – where a large, unsuspecting troll stood – to those sitting around the table on makeshift chairs; their minds were engaged and completely absorbed. These were my friends, who like me, looked forward to those Fridays after school where we could imagine ourselves as a fourth-level paladin facing a band of cunning hobgoblins, or a rouge on the verge of stealing a fabled amulet from a sleeping king. The truth is, that basement was in many ways our's. It was the epitome of that one special place we all need to feel some connection to when we are younger, a subculture. I was lucky enough to find one of those places in this seemingly grim and mysterious setting.

Never once was I without creativity or imagination during the time spent in the cold under belly of my friend's house. It was a place for all of us to express ourselves without worrying about what others thought. Sitting behind a stack of daunting rule books, rolling twenty sided dice, or commanding an army of tediously painted miniatures that sat upon a sea of tiny scaled terrain, I could truly be myself. Being involved in these weekend gaming sessions brought me happiness at an age when I was starting to witness the grim effects of being self-conscious – and, in a way, helped me to constructively counter the negative feelings and emotions that were being endlessly introduced to me as I grew older. I remember feeling as if I need not worry about how someone of my age should act or even what someone my age should be doing. For me, the coolest crowd at that time were the inhabitants of the house who put up with the all-night ruckus that is normally associated with a group of middle schoolers squabbling over the result of a controversial and unwelcome dice roll.

* * *

A few weeks back, I caught up with my friend and was able to step into that house once more. It had been almost five years since I'd been there and the mounting nostalgia begged to be taken seriously. I stood in the dimly lit kitchen with a grave expression on my face, distant memories flooding my heart; while, my mind began to wander off into the fog once more – as if the very linoleum below me, vintage and resolute in its motives, was trying to make me recall what had past. I faded in and out of conversation, staring unwillingly at the smudged glass door nob leading to the basement. The urge to ask if I could descend upon those wooden steps once more hit me quite hard, though I resisted. Questions had to be asked, my intentions thoroughly examined, before considering one final view onto that subterranean shrine. Would my fond memories of that place be forever shadowed by the conflicting images I would undoubtedly bear witness too? I wasn't sure that I was ready to embrace this type of change.

I thought very hard at that moment, leaning against the kitchen counter. A large wooden clock in the other room spoke to us of midnight, and I began to believe with great confidence that some places from your past are better to be left alone and cherished for what was, not what is now. Timid remarks expressed my concern of how late it was becoming. I soon found myself under the moon's light, awkwardly waving farewell to a friend who was now little more than a stranger, and a basement onto which now I dare not tread.

April 2007

More Scrawl

2010-03-25T00:27:00.000-07:00

Death to the Dreamer *

If I should fall asleep and dream of impossibilities, I'll awake to murder them.

Come night, I sit beneath the ceiling of an old theater; its projector hums distantly, throwing at the screen bright motion; (a mind's idea of abstraction.) I am spectator, longing — a shadow wishing to jump forth.

Soon, I wake to rain and street lamps. Floorboards arc as I rise. Thoughts bound, feet struggling to catch up. Streets empty, motion limited.

I enter through broken windows, landing myself in antiquity. Lights from outside guide my descent. Rows of empty seats stare into oblivion. I sit, listening to the storm gather itself.

Soaked and bleeding from glass, I walk home after a while. Sirens call through avenues; while, I wish to have never come.

I run, but find four walls in opposition. So, collapsing into dream, I watch a reticent mind burn.

Chicken Scratch

2010-03-22T17:52:00.000-07:00

Stories with Morals
Once, I heard of a student that was pariah. Two figures sat attempting to remember him, choking with laughter. He used to be ignored but drank himself into the spotlight. One evening he stood upon a table at a party and began to cry and shout, cringing at the world and the horror it breeds. Pull him down, someone said. My story tellers' laughter fled. Silence held a knife to their conscience; but it was their hand, their knife. Quickly they brushed it aside. Some advice: sharpen yourself in the hope of someday brandishing your few chances for changing.

Dream Girl

There are ideals that place mortals “as flies [are] to wanton boys,” etc . . . Without them, there is little to dream about, only things to act upon.

On Listening to Advice

Look both ways, they say. Well, you can either first look left, or right. I turn left and die by the right.

Nights within Arcades

The beer tasted like soda pop and oil. But I was a machine, and that night my purpose. I remember Pac-Man being harder than ever and I was half-blinded by its bright display, my head craned, pockets weighed with quarters. I finally looked up, up and up, barely locking eyes before not. My eyes, they open to close, lock only to be broken, in some late-night crowd with a sigh and a losing game of Pac-Man.

The Allegory of the Sea

The sea, in all its wisdom, began to cry one day, tossing itself upon the shores of man. Man pitied its cries and ventured its surface to commiserate and to be swallowed.

Raincoat

There is rain in my mind. Outside of it, it may be raining as well; or, it may not. But always it rains. Sometimes I forget my raincoat and end up soaked. I'll walk a ways before the first chill strikes like a blade. And then I'll try to find an umbrella. But it too is often soaked.

It gets so cold here that warmth becomes a lesser shade of cold. But this rain is fair and I trust it to have a purpose, to someday end with resolution or never end at all.

The Second Punch

Shin leaves with a large, gray satchel slung over his shoulder (which awkwardly tilts his body). Inside are twelve cans of spray paint – primary colors, etc . . . He glances to the right when exiting the lobby; Mr. Kaza, the watchman, bears down on Shin with tired eyes, unfazed by any mounting suspicion he harbors. They lock glances for long enough to resolve absolutely nothing.

Shin walks through the park in front of his room, the one he stares at when thinking up nonsense. Now at the far end, he waits three minutes for silence to be interrupted. A bus soaked through-and-through crawls towards him out of the night, but he turns away as it approaches and decides to walk. As he progresses further into the city, the weight he shoulders seems to increase. His heart sinks alongside this, spotting in the distance a lone maintenance worker repairing something within the object of his night: a highway tunnel that stares into the north. Impatient, he sets out to strike up a conversation with the man.

Some blocks away, Lucy bounds towards her train, barely evading its unforgiving steel doors as they bite shut. Her mind carries the project for tonight, while Shin is her tool set to realize colors and lines; but she takes good care of him, keeps him in good, working order.

The surrounding neighborhood appears fast asleep as two a.m. rolls around. Once inside the tunnel, they work diligently. The occasional car passes by, slowly of course, but never seems to stop. After all, the two make no effort to run or cover their faces, save for the white masks affixed below two sets of focused eyes. Lucy holds a sketch in one hand, exhausting cans of paint with the other. He watches her bold outlines appear, coloring them in.

Just before Shin starts to let drowsiness affect his work, she turns and takes a step back into the quiet lanes. “It's done.” Shin steps out beside her, looking at their work with scrutiny. “It is?” he says, head tilted, ripping off his mask. “Well, we're out of paint at least,” she replies with a grin.

Walking home, they soon depart from one another after exchanging tired goodbyes.

Dreams, quiet and paced by the flow of early traffic, cease once three knocks are heard on Shin's door. He saunters towards the noise, a phone ringing behind him, and soon finds himself staring at Mr. Kaza's impassive face. “These men wish to see you,” the old man says, pointing down the hallway. Shin gazes at the three figures, catching sight of one's badge as they turn towards him. Unable to move, he simply nods upon hearing his name. They take hold of his arm, pull him out into the hallway. A photograph, printed and centered within today's newspaper, is placed in front of him, blurred text surrounding its edges. Shin grimaces.

From the opposite end of the hallway resounds the clamor of a steel door being kicked in; it swings and crashes, pulling attention away from Shin and towards an out-of-breath Lucy. She stands there, panting heavily with a furrowed brow. “Who are these goons . . .?” she shouts, walking towards Shin. The cold hands grasping him begin to retreat; he makes up his mind. And for the sake of art, Shin throws the second punch.

"God Is D_ad"

2010-03-17T23:23:00.000-07:00

Out of all the films playing at this year's San Francisco Asian American Film Festival, I've been looking forward to Abraham Lim's "God Is D_ad" (2009) the most.

First, here's the trailer.

The story takes place in Kansas during the 1980's, where Tim (Cy Shim) --- a nerdy comic store employee --- dreams of winning first place in a Chicago-based tournament for best original Dungeons and Dragons module (adventure). Enlisting his best friend, Bob (Derek Hicks), and a series of other misfits, all of whom have separate reasons for trekking to Chicago, Tim sets out in his uncle's vintage RV.

However, a partly-rotoscoped, alternate story line is interspersed throughout the main one, showing the imaginary characters in Tim's adventure as they work combat a permanent darkness that has engulfed their land (in classic Dungeons and Dragons fashion, of course).

At this point, you begin to realize that the two story lines mirror each other, and that discovering one's character --- both in the game, and in reality --- is this film's primary concern. Navigating the realms between fantasy and reality, each character works to define themselves within the uncertainties of this 'darkness.' However, only together do they truly provide a light worthy enough to combat the obstacles and uncertainties in their path(s).

Anyways, without getting too far into it, I'll just say this: If you are a geek at heart, I'd highly reccomend you see "God Is D_ad" soon.

3 Songs in 3/4 + Bonus Waltz

2010-03-16T02:19:00.000-07:00

So, last June I wrote/recorded a handful of lo-fi sounding waltz pieces for guitar. I originally put together just three in order to fulfill my super clever EP title, "3 Songs in 3/4."

However, seeing as how summer usually leaves me with a lot of time for watching foreign films and staying up late, I wrote another waltz (no.4) that seemed to fit with the first batch (but wasn't originally included.)

So, anyway, here's the full 're-release' (in a .zip folder, or streaming below).

Waltz No. 1

Waltz No. 2

Waltz No. 3

Waltz No. 4

Some Haiku

2010-03-07T23:12:00.000-08:00

last of autumn's leaves —

rests warms in

a patch of clover

a train calls

in distance . . .

half-asleep

water tower —

from it

winter reaches me

Insomnia + House Show

2010-02-28T14:35:00.000-08:00

Waking up at 4:30am on Friday for breakfast was a trap. I ended up sitting in on meetings and talking to people that might employ me after I graduate in May until around 1:00pm. Then, I had band practice at 1:30, in which I played drums the best I could. Got home around five.

Then, Chelsea called and told me that she was in the city. Basically, we stayed up until 7am the next day. It was really fun. We played Super Mario World (+ got yelled at by our upstairs neighbors haha) and stayed up talking the whole night.

My roommate, Jacob, stayed up with us despite having a funeral to attend the next day. Long-story-short, he got up at 8am and fell asleep on the train to the funeral, totally missing his stop/getting lost. But, at least he tried. I slept from 7am to 12:30 or 1. So, that's about 9 hours of sleep between two days.

On Saturday, I went to a house show to see a band called Hard Girls. Despite getting cut off after only three songs, I was happy. (Being in a residential neighborhood, the police showed up at 11:00 and wouldn't leave until they stopped playing.)

I didn't know anyone there. This made it interesting but also a little awkward. It was just a normal apartment pretty much. Substitute familiar faces with unfamiliar ones and you can imagine what it was like.

Hopefully Bashō Isn't Rolling in His Grave . . .

2010-02-23T21:24:00.000-08:00

. . . because my school's literary magazine, the Ignatian, recently accepted my submission of ten haiku (see below). I'm pretty excited, seeing as it's my first time being published. It comes out in April.

Until then, I have another site, Haiku Colossus, that has some of my other haiku. I haven't updated it an a long while, but I plan to do so soon. Writing haiku is very enjoyable to me, for it's not as much of a struggle as, say, writing prose / longer poetry. It's a noble form of writing, in my opinion, because of its brevity and rejection of "poetic trickery," as Jack Kerouac once said.

trudging through rain . . .
above,
the moon hums

ran along the wind

cold night in winter's stillness
— breath uneven

night came haunting
— an open window
let it in

woke to gray dawn . . .
in the long night
I was home

tiny colossus —
rest well
in death

slung across my back,
– winter must be carried
up each step

moths, all the night
steal tea
while I sleep

the night lifts, –
morning's fog . . .
cold tides of dawn

streets, flush with silence —
autumn winds asleep
until morning

'loosed from its dream of'
the wall between x & y
a mind plots its points

Regular Love Triangle

2010-02-12T17:15:00.000-08:00

When I first heard Shinobu, I remember thinking, "these guys are weird." I guess I still think that. But, at the same time, they can often be one of the most identifiable bands for me.

Are you into existentialism, Russian literature, and thinking how weird it is to be alive? No? Well, I guess I'm not super into these topics either . . . Yet, somehow Shinobu trick me into at least thinking I am with their super genuine lyrics / catchy indie rock.

Anyways, "Regular Love Triangle" is probably one of my favorite songs of all time. This is an older version that I thought had been deleted. Enjoy!

::[Lyrics]::

I'll build a castle and I'll make it out of plans:

I plan on dropping the lame analogies and quoting my favorite bands.

And in a wry aside I sigh about how unhappy I am that you couldn't trust me (and I don't really like myself that much either).

I'm not asking for the world, but, hell, it would be nice to think that I have power over something. Anything, really!!!!

[I am alive and I'm not sure I like it, but I'm sure that I'd miss it, and I'm sure that I've expressed this in less annoying terms before. Oh oh! I'm like a speck of sand on the beach. Oh my god, that is so deep! I am sooo deep!]

You should read my livejournal.

Mute Beat: FM-Tokyo Bootleg [17 December 1987]

2010-02-05T19:29:00.000-08:00

Rare radio interview with Japan's finest, Mute Beat, can be heard here.

Also, I've recorded the best three tracks in full stereo quality, and compiled them in a .zip folder here.

[track list]
1. After the Rain
2. Organ's Melody
3. No Problem (jazz standard)

For some reason I've become obsessed with this band. They're super hip jazz/reggae from the 80's. Give them a try!

youngWilliamMarshall

2010-01-29T21:52:00.000-08:00

* (The tambourine playing is way off due to Jacob's showboating, but this at least gives you a fair idea of how we spend our Thursday evenings).

Yard

2010-01-23T15:33:00.001-08:00

Since my room affords no view into the apartment's backyard, I hadn't noticed until this morning how much the rain has helped with the plants:

Portraits

2010-01-21T00:27:00.000-08:00

Once in a blue moon I'll see something I want to draw. (So, last night I gave it a shot:)

Sketches of 'Kohchi' from Kodama and the Dub Station's performance of "Kiyev no Sora" [2:57 - 3:01] & [0:12 - 0:18].

Video Game Blues

2010-01-18T20:52:00.000-08:00

Looks like it's finally come down to this.

After realizing there is a point where I can no longer improve in skill, it may be well time to give it up. StarCraft, that is. You know, the greatest game of all time. Ever.

I. Here's why SC is very bad for me:

1. In general, I am very competitive when gaming. However, so are 11292848. . . other people. They are better than I am, and also huge jerks about this fact.

2. I could be working on creative/constructive things, like music or writing, instead of getting my face pwned in SC.

3. I lose far too often, yet I still play.

4. My social life suffers considerably because of it.

5. Watching pro league matches on Korean television (which I somehow adore) just makes me angry for not being better, while, at the same time, inspiring me to play more. Completely unfair/ridiculous.

II. Conversely, here's why SC might be good for me:

1. It can be rewarding (dare I say "fun," or even "cathartic"?).

2. My hand-eye coordination improves (or, maybe my eyes just get worse . . .)

3. It's something people can laugh with me about when I confess my obsession (or, you know, just laugh at me).

4. If I ever move to Korea, I'll have little trouble finding a wife. (See: Korean girls screaming over StarCraft.)

5. Oddly enough, it satisfies (on some level) a nostalgia for my halcyon years as a gamer.

I think the decision comes down to this:

1. Am I 'over the hill' in terms of skill/potential for being 1337 as a gamer? (I used to be pretty decent, I thought.)

2. And, if so, can I still have fun even if I remain 'competitive + poor at gaming'?

- Or, will games even be enjoyable anymore if I there is no motivation for competition?!

I can't believe this post exists. Forgive me.

SNES Classics: Metal Warriors

2010-01-16T22:01:00.000-08:00

Since an unnamed jerk has been picking on my blog's description, claiming that I never talk about SNES or William Blake (which is true, only because the description is a joke), I've decided to review the SNES classic Metal Warriors.

Following the "Space Opera" and Mecha anime craze of the 80's and 90's, with such shows as Legend of the Galactic Heroes, EVA, and Gundam Wing, Metal Warriors debuted in 1995 from publisher colossal Konami, developed by Lucas Arts.

Basically, its plot goes something like this: Earth is under siege by an alien force, so it's up to an elite bunch of mech pilots to save the day. Sound familiar?

However, its gameplay is far from standard. The fast paced action was simply something I hadn't experienced as a young gamer. Only years after constantly renting a copy from my local video store would my brother and I try to seriously hunt down the title. We found it on Amazon.com for an outrageous price, so we hesitated and failed to buy it. (Nowadays, it's somewhat reasonable.)

[Fast forward to 1:00 for some rad animation and music:]

Anyways, undoubtedly the best part of Metal Warriors is its versus mode. It had such depth for its time. For example, the many different mech suits you could pilot gave it a unique dynamic that something like Mario Kart (SNES) really didn't have. Or, there is the ability that allows a player, if his rig is about to blow up, to eject and fly around in a space suit (only to get squashed by my giant feet muhahah). And, ultimately, it is extremely difficult to master (which was probably an unhealthy contributer to sibling rivalry).

All in all, Metal Warriors is definitely in my top 10 favorite games of all time. Check it out:

I. SNES Emulator: http://www.zsnes.com/

II. Rom: http://www.romnation.net/srv/roms/41697/snes/Metal-Warriors-U.html

Why I'm a Dork (Reason #1029382594203 . . . )

2010-01-16T20:11:00.000-08:00

In the last two weeks, I've spent over one hundred and twenty dollars on music. You would think that by now I'd have about, what, ten or twelve new albums? Nope. Just six. Why? Because I have an unusual obsession with bands that are a) currently sporting an out-of-print discography, b) are so obscure that they have only a sentence or two on Wikipedia about them, or c) they are Japanese.

Geeezze, I know what everyone is thinking right now: "What an elitist, spendthrift, japanophile idiot!" And the trouble is, you might be right.

I'll admit it: I have this terrible feeling that, for some odd reason, I am somewhat of a music snob. The bands I like are either a) huge bands that I refuse to talk to anyone about in depth, so as to not ruin my special connection to them (so ridiculous!), or b) obscure bands in general.

(Dammit, continuing to make these stupid a,b, lists is not helping . . .)

I hate to say it, but I also feel like if people try to get me into a certain band/artist, I won't enjoy them quite as much as if I had gotten into them by myself. I don't know why I am like this, but I kind of hate it. I'm going to try and work on it, you know?

Anyways, I'm glad I got that off my chest. Where was I? Oh, right, what I spent a month's grocery budget on!!!:

1. [3/6] It all began with a trip to Amoeba, where I payed roughly thirty bucks for The Noodles' "Our First Noodles," which is basically a comp. of all their best work (making it easier for a yank like myself to get a hold of their stuff). Then, I ordered two more albums ("God Cable" + "Cover Me Shakespeare") off ebay for only $3.99 or something. Here's probably my favorite track, "She, Her":

2. [4/6] Next, I picked a CD that I had been wanting to get for years. This one is less obscure. It's called "Venus on Earth" by Dengue Fever. It's psychedelic Cambodian pop, inspired by 60's surf rock.

3. [5/6] Then, I picked up Kodama Kazufumi's (my trumpet hero) album "More," which is basically a collection of re-recorded songs from my absolute favorite reggae band, Mute Beat (who, incidentally, have only two sentences on their Wiki *sigh*). Here's a live version of "Fiolina":

4. [6/6] Finally, I ordered a rare vinyl LP by Mute Beat called, "Dub Wise." I almost have their full discography, so I was glad to get this. However it cost me about sixty bucks. I'm so stupid. But, anyways, they don't have any tracks on YouTube that are directly off the album, but here's one that's pretty close:

Okay, time to check my account balance and cry . . .

A Close Reading

2009-12-17T15:39:00.000-08:00

The Greatest Story Ever Told (2003) by The Lawrence Arms . . .

. . . is easily one of my favorite albums of all time. It signifies the point of absolute separation and, simultaneously, collaboration between the band's primary song writers (Chris McCaughan and Brendan Kelly). Their respective tracks trade off for the entire album, beginning with Chris' "The Raw and Searing Flesh," and wasting no time in jumping into Brendan's fast-paced "telephone! telephone!" chorus in track 2, "On with the Show." This staggered approach is part of what gives the band its charm; it is a dynamic that, with their release of Oh! Calcutta!, people really pick up on. Though not at the forefront of this album, the call and response, backing vocal lines, and counterpoint nature of The Greatest Story Ever Told is definitely there. The album's themes gain their power when this staggered contrast between the two songwriters is disregarded in songs like "Chapter 13: The Hero Appears" [2:03-2:43], or the moment of respite that McCaughan offers in "Hesitation Station" [0:12-0:25]. Something great arises when these two opposites are brought together.

Undoubtedly, this album has an enormous amount of depth to its lyrics. So, although I already get a strong sense of its direction, its purpose, etc . . . by listening to it, I've always wanted to do a close reading of some of its themes. I keep coming back to this line as being a major theme represented throughout its twelve tracks (+ Intro. and Reprise):

I. "Good friend / how loud do / you want life / to shout her answers in your ear?"

First found in "Chapter Thirteen: The Hero Appears," this lyric is then repeated in the last full track, "The Disaster March." As the notes of the album suggest, this line is a borrowed one (orig. a line from Gustav Meyrink's novel The Golem). McCaughan notes that, "The clever ploy is that it's not the last line of the book."

There is such uncertainty in this song's ("Chapter Thirteen . . .") beginning, which leads into setting up a first phrasing of this line. McCaughan writes:

"If it could end right now the last lines would be . . .

My body jolted in and out of stolen sound waves.

The world expands or shrinks on any given Monday"

The speaker is estranged by his own breaths, as if they were simply just sounds --- and stolen ones at that. At this moment, this "final chapter" (as he calls it prior), there is a sense of possibility in the 'expand[ing]' and 'shrink[ing],' where he breaks down his perceptions into pieces. The 'sound waves' are measurements, as are the ways in which a day progresses or digresses ('expands or shrinks'). That is, this feeling of being riddled with strife, physically 'jolt[ing],' is related as being caught between great possibility and dire failure.

Yet, the second chorus shows these 'last lines' as being, 'Good friend how loud do you want . . .' Brendan steps in here to yell this phrase with Chris. Though not directly, this line does act as somewhat of an answer to the previous estrangement. Indeed, it is a question, but it also suggests there is resolution. This is seen in the following line:

"Connected blurs brand the design of things.

Keep on counting then or maybe hold your breath.

I'm trying to exhale you softly"

This 'design of things' is a collection of half-truths, mere 'blurs.' And, as if speaking to either himself or another, McCaughan is trying to slow one of these blurs down enough to understand it; through 'counting' or 'hold[ing] your breath,' the overwhelming range of the world's 'expand[ing]' or ability to 'shrink' may become less of a variable. Though, the speaker finds a type of resolve in 'exhal[ing]' softly. Still, these all are just attempts, as fleeting as one's breath, to find some type of meaning or grounding in the world.

What's more, the chorus is altered a third time. McCaughan writes:

"If you could frame this feeling[,]

At night it would whisper to me[:]

Good friend how loud do you want life

to shout her answers in your ear?"

The desire of wanting to 'frame' this liminal state --- between meaning and nothingness, chaos and respite --- is a fitting structure to use in asking once more, 'Good friend how . . .' Though, ironically, it may only 'whisper' once entombed.

In a flurry of call and response, this theme is clearly and powerfully repeated to the end of the track. At this point, it almost feels as if posed to the listener.

* * *

The next and last time this theme comes up in The Greatest Story Ever Told is during "The Disaster March." The melody is unmistakably similar, as is the phrasing. This track begins with a "time and a place that was all full of mistakes," going on to list the identities that the speaker once embraced:

"I was more than alive

A catcher in the rye.

I was a jet plane (a jet plane),

I was a thin membrane"

These modes, if I am allowed to label them as such, of experience reveal a sense of motion and limitlessness that, at the same time, are translucent/fragile and have been abandoned. The motif of transformation comes through in Brendan saying, "Ugly is ugly. Transformation is a dream (a dream, a dream)." That is, unattainable. Our speaker is everything he once was, and is that which he will be. The struggle to either hold on to the past (i.e. innocence, youth) or try to deny it is that which makes him a catcher in the rye; he shows himself trying to be more than human or simply alive; he was above it all, like a 'jet plane,' but was still lacking in definite meaning, being 'a thin membrane' that allows for other's ideas to diffuse into and dilute his own (which, naturally, is a large part of one's youth). So, with this particular reading, "learning a remarkable truth" (during the song's brilliant use of crescendo) is to accept oneself. For, without struggle, you may "love what you are, not what you would like to be," as Brendan tactfully adds.

Thus, this line's ('Good friend . . .') placement at the end of the song, and as the last track (excluding the reprise) of the album, seems to be a question that almost has an answer. It feels vastly more rhetorical than its previous usage, as if to say "we've given our answers as best we could, now give us yours."

Thank you for reading. (And, sorry for it being so long-winded and/or pretentious.)

Musician Crushes

2009-05-02T01:49:00.000-07:00

It's funny how strong of an affinity to someone can arise out of music. Of course, music only illuminates someone's character as expressed through art. But, sure enough, I've developed crushes on these musicians by listening to them through headphones essentially. I know, I'm lame.

Elizabeth Yi

Lead vocalist/guitarist of 90's indie-rock band, Korea Girl.

::[Lyric/moment when I knew she was for me]::

"Oh joy, what thrills, what fun fun. . . " (from "Reunion")

Jenny Choi

Lead singer/pianist for Chicago-based pop duo, Sanawon.

::[Lyric/Moment when I Knew She was for Me]::

"we go through such great lengths to test
the other's strength. what in the world do we have
to prove by being so cruel? /
i'll count to ten, exhale. my love will not fail" (from "Count to Ten")

The Female Vocalist from "Just Like Honey"

-Unknown backing vocalist on The Jesus and Mary Chain's hit number, "Just Like Honey."

::[Lyric/Moment when I knew she was for me]::

[2:01 - 2:58]

Peggy Wang

Backing Vocalist/Keyboards in The Pains of Being Pure at Heart

::[Lyric/Moment when I knew she was for me]::

"Are you with me?!! Are you with me???" (backing vox in "Everything with You")

Sheena Ozzella

Lead vocalist/awesome guitarist for Buffalo, NY's Lemuria.

::[Lyric/Moment when I knew she was for me]::

Hello, Haiku.

2009-04-28T00:56:00.000-07:00

So, I realized today that I used to review books on this blog before I essentially killed it a while back. Being a critic of literature is surprisingly really fun for me, for its something I rarely get to do without being influenced by what others have to say. Thus, I think I will start trying to doing it again if I have the time.

Actually, I came across a book of haikus today by Martin Shea called "Waking on the Bridge," and I really like it so far. My professor had a crate of free books of poems that he passed around for us to plunder (which probably distracted me greatly from his lecture during class haha), and I managed to pick this one out.

My favorite so far is found in a chapter called "less of her," and goes like this:

moths have come
around the one light left
forgotten, on

Oh, and I realize that this deviates from the 5-7-5 structure of the traditional Haiku (I actually want to see if this is some type of modified meterical form), but I think it's really swell all the same.

Top 10 Love Songs (I Wish I had Written)

2009-04-19T02:09:00.000-07:00

It's all true: I am in love with the idea of the love song, the desperate heart, the lonely or elated mind -- the force that makes musicians arrange sounds and words for someone.

I suppose that sometimes I'll wish I could have written a particular song; or think that it was written specifically for me. (Which, I realize, is common pathos of music.) Actually, I do this a lot. And as much as I know that we all must fight our own wars, it doesn't hurt to think that your favorite composers are on your side.

Of these ten, most are overtly love songs, though "Gymnopedies" lacks lyrics to tie it to any specific category. Either way, I'm jealous :P and have included some of my favorite lyrics alongside their songs to prove it.

(Oh, and I'd suggest opening the songs in a new tab; blogger won't let me upload songs very well. Sorry!)

10. "Chesterfield King" - Jawbreaker

'too scared to say a thing.
left your house and kicked myself,
put those feelings on a shelf to die.
i guess I'm not a gambling type
but think of what the two of us had lost'

9. "The First Eviction Notice" - The Lawrence Arms
'this crowning anguish, locked up nervous reflex,
i've got to build up from the inside.
a relapse, reflection, distorted repression;
smiling spitefully, longing for you to sew up my seams /

can i get much blinder? can i kick myself much harder?
have i accepted this to torture myself?
you can't see me; have i invented you?

i'm barely breathing, you're so easy to believe in,
and it's so depressing that i'm always second guessing, that i'm always second guessing,
that i'm always second guessing myself'

8. "Gymnopedies No. 1" - Erik Satie

7. "Favorite Song" - Dan Potthast
'not too fast but not too slow,
i could get used to your tempo.
we could sing it in harmony,
i'll back up and you sing lead.
'cause I don't want to change it all that much,
i'd hate to ruin it with my touch;
i''d hate to foul you up, my favorite song'

6. "The Dusk of Us" - Colossal
'so it began, and ended with two hands shaking,
one heart breaking.
signing his name his hand did not tremble;
inject emotions you sequester
into every glance and every gesture'

5. "Count to Ten" - Sanawon
'we go through such great lengths to test
the other's strength. what in the world do we have
to prove by being so cruel? /
i'll count to ten, exhale. my love will not fail'

4. "Say Yes" - Elliott Smith
'im in love with the world through the eyes of a girl /
situations get fucked up and turned around sooner or later
and I could be another fool or an exception to the rule'

3. "Come Saturday" - The Pains of Being Pure at Heart
'you don't have to write at all
you don't have to make a call
i know that you will come again and again
you don't have to dress to please
perhaps undress for me
i know that when you come we'll be staying in'

2. "Let Love Be" - Grant Olney
'it's not that i'm over all this movement in my brain;
it's just that i'm afraid, and friend are you okay?
if loving me keeps the mind from feeling free, just let love be.
but if loving me makes the mind less hazy, don't you let love be.
it's not that i've collected a kind of stagnant kind of changed.
it's just that I love you; are you okay?'

1. "Light Breathing (Me and Martha Plimpton in a Fancy Elevator)" - The Lawrence Arms
'and it felt so strange 'cause i didn't know what to say and when she smiled i turned away.
but that's so like me, timid self conscious crippling.
she seemed so friendly and i must've seemed uninteresting.
soaked from walking around and smelled like boozed and cigarettes,
i stood there listening to hear her light breathing.
and i wanted to say that i really loved her films,
and i wanted to make her laugh and smile but i stood still /and
i couldn't help but think i'd missed another chance to live; but isn't that the way it always is?'

--Thanks for reading!

The Top 5 People I'd Want to Survive a Zombie Outbreak With

2009-02-11T00:52:00.000-08:00

"A good evening is one spent in good company."
- fortune cookie

So, considering the situation remained a class 2 outbreak, ranging anywhere from twenty to one hundred zombies, these people are those whom I have the most trust in to save us. [Of course, I would be amidst the assembly — though not without feeling like a colossal burden].

1. Max Brooks: An obvious choice, surely, but also a vital one. For, I will have little time to reference my copy of The Zombie Survival Guide while avoiding mobs of brain-munchers. Countered by the fact that the author would be right next to me, tough situations that abound in class 2 will be dealt with promptly and appropriately.

2. Elan Gansberg: A long time friend of mine who's aptitude for planning for these types of predicaments surely ranks him as a top-notch survivor. Exceptionally clever, courageous and possessing an unrivaled sense of humor, Elan ranks high on my list.

3. Joshua A. Griffith: "The pen is mightier than the sword" once said Edward Bulwer-Lytton. And believe me, Griffith's pen carries some serious weight. Though I do not doubt Josh's physical attributes, his gifted sense of words must be protected during the outbreak so as to later document the events — and, ultimately, make certain a literary genius is not devoured before his time.

4. Jonathan Corona: A punk drummer by nature, Jon would have little trouble hacking through a freshly-animated onslaught of corpses — and with superb endurance, mind you. Furthermore, his getaway driving skills rival that of Sam Giancana, he is a much-needed pragmatist, and is well versed in zombie cinema.

5. Sam Richardson: Though rather impulsive (which may actually prove rather advantageous), Sam is a natural zombie hunter due of being very well-rounded. Whether bravely denying the advance of ghouls or planning a much-needed supplies raid, I place full faith in his abilities to set out what he aims to accomplish. Huzzah!

In conclusion, I realize that I've neglected many worthy candidates — namely, my extended family, other friends, acquaintances, etc... My apologies.

However, be mindful that once establishing a defensible location, we will come for you. Remain vigilant, for "No place is safe, only safer" (Brooks).

Keep your wits about you, avoid all major highways, and, whatever happens, don't lose faith.

Best of Wednesday

2009-01-14T16:49:00.000-08:00

Okay, so here's my top picks for...er....today. I am terribly uncreative today and everyday, but told Kevin that I'd post something!

Best Song: "The Origamists II" by Lemuria

Though, the Constantines' "Tank Commander (Hung up in a Warehouse Town)" was a damn good listen today.

Best Moment: I was playing "Suicide Survival," which is a game (HL2 mod) that involved two teams: shrubs and survivors. There are usually hundreds of identical shrubs in a map, and shrub players look identical to that of a non-player shrub. Basically, survivors have to keep and eye out for the moving ones that are quite sneaky. If you let them get too close, they blow themselves up, which is the objective for the players of shrub descent.

Anyways, a survivor was swimming around in this pool on one of the maps and a couple shrub players dived in, too. He realized they couldn't blow themselves up underwater for some reason, and started calling them "shrubmarines" over the mic. I laughed pretty hard. Wow. I'm lame.

Worst Moment: None. I enjoy my days for the most part.

Night of the Living Dead / A List of Best 2008 Stuff

2008-12-31T22:25:00.000-08:00

So, last night I decided to watch Night of the Living Dead (1968, George A. Romero).
It seems that it always improves with each revisit. Five decades old, this black-and-white film still gives me the creeps when I watch it. Every modern zombie movie (though, I realize most of them a written by the same guy...) totally owes all their tricks to Romero. Salute!

Oh, and I am totally in love with Marilyn Eastman, who plays Helen Cooper in this flick:

(What a fox!!!)

Okay, now on to the list section:

I. The Three Best PC Games of 2008:

1. Left 4 Dead
2.Team Fortress 2
3. World of Warcraft: Wrath of the Lich King

The last selection is based on my limited grapevine-like senses. From what I hear, WoW's latest installment is a complete success. Oh, Blizzard.

The other two really blew me away. It's funny, because I rarely get super into newer games as much as I did this year. Either games are getting better, or I'm getting less elitist about PC gaming ! Huzzah.

II. The Best Albums of 2008

1. 'True Stories' by Mouthwash
2. 'Get Better' by Lemuria
3. 'Herostratus vs. Time' by Shinobu

Mouthwash came out of left field with this release, though I was expecting something from them all along I guess. Their last album, and first LP I might add, came out in 2001. Geeze, I can't believe I waited that long/they took so long. Well, right when I heard it, I forgot all grudges.

Lemuria is a band that rose to fame pretty darn fast. I mean, "fame," for me, constitutes having people actually creating a buzz about you, buying your album, receiving fantastic reviews etc. . . 'Get Better' is really quite stunning. I got into them first, then worked my way back to their older influences, mainly, Jawbreaker. Anyways, this album is just right.

This album is not from 2008. Sorry. But, I bought it this year and it might as well have come out a few months ago. Basically: existentialism meets indie-rock (minus the trying-too-hard factor). Highly recommended.

III. Best Books [That I Read] of 2008
1. Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami
2. The Tao of Pooh by Benjamin Hoff
3. No one belongs here more than you by Miranda July

One of Murakami's finest, Kafka on the Shore is a surreal, though completely human novel about, well, many things: talking cats, running away from home, eels that rain from the sky, a kind, Japanese truck driver that drops everything to help out a stranger (while also finding a love of classical music), and the metaphysical appearance of Kernel Sanders. Oh, and there's some coming-of-age business, too. Anything Murakami is worth it.

Benjamin Hoff uses the characters of the Winnie the Pooh series in explaining the Taoist philosophy in The Tao of Pooh. Basically: "While Eeyore frets, and Piglet hesitates, and Rabbit calculates, and Owl pontificates. . . Pooh just is." A short read with lots to say.

This last entry is a collection of short stories. It's sometimes hard to explain or even find a theme of this work. Yet, it's honest, depressing, sometimes confusing, but interesting all the same. I'm a huge fan of the short story medium. If I actually could, I'd write them and live the rest of my days from various checks from my publisher.

Okay, well, thanks for reading. Happy new years to all.