Yes for Extraneous Videos

Swagger jacker: A person who steals someone else's flow, lines, jokes, swagger.
Guy 1: Ay, bro, I just spit this whole song.
Guy 2: Na, you didn't, Hova. I heard Biggie say you a swagger jacker.

You know what I miss? Sister, Sister. I used to love that show. In fifth grade, my friend Yaosca used to come over to braid my hair and watch it with me. I felt so damn cool, like I was friends with Tia and Tamera myself.

Remember this opening? The quality is shit probably because whoever posted it taped directly from the television, but the song is still da bomb.



Two other, completely unrelated songs I love—these from Europeans:

Ultra Orange & Emmanuelle, "Sing Sing", France



The Dø, "At Last", France/Finland
This video is especially exciting



I've been meaning to a write a hearty post about art and accessibility for a while now. I got all these disconnected thoughts floating around my head but have yet to formalize an argument. I don't know, something's cooking though. I'll keep you posted.

Until then, do your own style in your own time.


J.

Really, We're All Just Searching for Our Pot of Gold

Hot snack: The small amount of acidy puke you have to swallow when you are just sitting around minding your own business and you have a little unexpected burp.

Dude, I was just talkin' to my girl and out of nowhere I had to swallow a hot snack without her noticing.

Hot snacks are the pits.

Regarding my last post about the New Moon soundtrack, I told you. And I'm not even saying that I personally feel this way, I'm just the psychic messenger.

In other news, I'm officially leaving for Thailand Nov. 18th. I fly into Bangkok for a day then over to Phnom Penh for two weeks and then to Pattaya for the rest of my TESOL certification course. After that, who knows. Am I totally pumped to travel and teach English? Yes. Does it make me a little nervous that the second phrase that pops up in Google Image after Pattaya is "Pattaya Girls"? A little. Adventures, people, we all need adventures.

Now for the best thing that was once actually labeled "news" by someone in a position of broadcasting power.



Until next time, stay out the trees and away from the crack.


J.

Sights & Sounds

Imma let you finish: An obnoxious way to interrupt someone and steal their moment, while wryly mocking the media train wreck that is Kanye West.

Bob: Thank you Mr. Brown for having us in to give this sales presentation. We'd like to talk to you today about...
Alfred: Yo, Bob, I'm really happy for you, and Imma let you finish, but I just got to say our product is one of the best products there is!

First, my last blog was very unlike me, I know. But I was hurtin', man. Hurtin' real bad. A guy at the Gap store was pressuring me into buying a pair of pants later that afternoon, and I almost broke down in front of him. He could tell and thought I was nuts. I'm better now though.

So let's talk about things less meditative and more frivolous than the death of a living creature, like articles of fashion I want:

A pair of browline glasses so I can look like this guy.

A sharp, ever-so-slightly masculine blazer like the one below from Urban.

As my mother once said after I told her she looked like a Chinese school boy when she got her haircut extremely short, "Androgyny is très chic." It's true, you know.

Now let's discuss music because I want to remind all you young whipper snappers I still know what's up.

Have you heard about the new New Moon soundtrack? It'll be probably be awesome, but I'm a little shocked who's on it. I just would have never guessed Bon Iver or Grizzly Bear would want to jump on the hormonally-charged vampire train. Nothing wrong with it, I suppose, but some music fans are sure to throw around the word "sellout".

It would be tough to be an indie band with an image of obscurity and impervious dedication to uphold (because it's like all about the music, man) while trying to grow a fan base and generate a steady income. Being featured in a Twilight movie is a huge deal, but then you run the risk of having brace-teethed girls running around with your band name and this image across their newly budded breasties.

He's 17, by the way. Awkward.

On another note, I am madly in love with Neko Case, not just as a performer but as an individual. I've listened to her for a while now but have revisited her work a lot lately, and I always discover something new in her songs. I appreciate that despite her amazing song-writing, haunting voice and crazy past, she seems like a very approachable, relatable person.

She's this charmingly strange woman who loves animals more than anything, dreams about tornadoes and has no desire to have children. I read this story about her life and music like half a year ago and never forgot because I thought it was great and so is this multimedia.

One of my all-time favorites:



She's probably the only person who can convince me to give country music a chance.

Until next time, don't forget your headphones.


J.

That Smushed Face

Hello, I have a lot I've been wanting to write about lately, but the main thing on my mind right now is Sumo. We just put my sweet pup to sleep, and it's been really rough so the best way for me to cope is to reflect.

The Beginning
Summer after sixth grade, I was obsessed with the idea of having a dog. No one else in the family was particularly into it, even my little brother, because he sucked. But I somehow managed to drag my mother to the Anti Cruelty Society Downtown one day and that's where I saw this little mug.


Amidst the barking and cage shaking of the other dogs, he sat quiet and composed observing the chaos around him. When I walked by, he looked up and said, Hey you, I think I'd be a good fit. I get along with all types of people, I'm super low maintenance and my fur is pretty. I had to have him.

My mom liked him too but wasn't going to make any decisions that day. "We'll go home and talk to your dad about it." Fine. So we did, and he was surprisingly gung ho. We'd go back to the shelter tomorrow and get our dog.

The next day, his cage was empty. The other canines continued to bark, and I wanted to scream back at them. I threw a shit fit in the middle of the shelter and demanded to know where they put him. My mom said she would track him down, and my dad took me and my brother to get hot dogs.

Apparently he had been moved to a Petsmart in Broadview, a southern suburb of Chicago. We didn't know if he would still be there, but we were going to make the drive to find out. I ran in the store like a crazy person looking around every which way, and there he was against the wall. I sighed of relief, took him out of the cage and walked him down the isles. And then he humped a bag of dog food.

I wanted his name to do something with his heritage (he was a Japanese Chin) and the fact he liked food. I shall name him Sumo, I decided, you know, like a sumo wrestler.

Over Time
Then, like the way many kids get with things they are once so passionate about, I lost interest. It's not that I didn't care about him anymore, I just didn't want to be responsible. I didn't want to walk him, I didn't want to brush his fur and I didn't want to feed him all the time. My original obsession was taken over by laziness and preoccupation with pathetic middle school woes. And Sumo lost interest in me. He discovered who his real love in the house was—my mother, the food bearer. The woman who constantly bitched about his shedding then secretly fed him chicken chunks under the table.

This continued on over the years, a shared distance between me and him. I should also point out that Sumo is much more like a cat than a dog. He enjoyed his space and privacy, and if you ever tried to get him to do something like fetch a ball, he looked at you like, Fool, please. Get it yourself. The only time he barked was out of excitement of being fed. He was definitely a fat kid of dogs.

But he started acting differently in the past year. Sumo had always been mellow, but now he seemed to have no energy to the do the simplest things. He didn't hold his beautiful fanned tail up anymore, he wanted to turn around after half a block when being walked, even his appetite diminished. And this past month was the worst. He couldn't make it up and down the stairs by himself anymore, so he would just wait on one of the middle steps for long periods until someone picked him up. One of his back legs started curling under the other. He painted louder than ever like he wasn't getting enough oxygen. His cataracts got worst and he aimlessly ran into things.

And then for the first time in years, Sumo actually started acting like a dog, a dog that wanted company and affection who sits at your feet and lays on your lap. We all became extremely sentimental toward him once we realized his days were numbered. I started paying more attention to him and remembered why I loved him so much in the first place.

My parents took him to the vet the other day to see what was up. Turns out he had two growths, one on his lung and the other on his kidney. He had advanced arthritis in his hips. He was already 12 years old and wasn't going to get any better. The vet gave him some pain medicine and that was that.

The past few days were up and down. He wouldn't move for four hours at a time and then would get surprisingly energetic. But on Friday night, he couldn't lay comfortably or seem to breath well, so my dad stayed up all night with him. And yesterday morning, my parents decided it was time to end his suffering.

Going In
Driving to the animal hospital with Sumo on my lap was one of the worst car rides of my life. The moment we all got into a little room to wait for the nurse, we transformed into blubbering children. Even my dad was a wreck. The nurse came in and told us the procedure, that they would put a catheter in for the anesthesia and then the poison. She took Sumo away for ten minutes as nostalgia and tears took over. He came back with a bandaged arm, completely unsure of what was going on. My mom snipped some hair from his tail, his best feature, and put it in a plastic bag.

Then the doctor came in with two needles in her hand. She was very kind and respectful and told us what to expect. The first needle went in and Sumo sunk to the metal counter in 30 seconds. Then the second needle went in, and I watched the life leave those big watery eyes. It broke my heart seeing his body lay like that.

When the doctor turned to each of our red, streaked faces, I could tell she sincerely felt for us. Can you imagine having her job—taking away the lives of animals people adore? Not that it's a dishonorable profession, it's actually a very necessary one. I just couldn't do it.

What's worst about the whole experience is the permanency. The fact Sumo will never drink from his water bowl that's still sitting on the kitchen floor. The fact that his hair is still covering that nasty blue couch upstairs he will never lay on again. The fact I can't hear his dog collar clinking up and down the stairs at night. My nose stings just thinking about it.

Shit, I haven't cried this much in one weekend since my grandpa died in December. I'll eventually be fine, but right now it's all a little too fresh in my mind.

So Sumo, my dear: thank you for being such a wonderful companion, and I hope you rest in peace. May your next chapter be filled with food, lush pillows and many back rubs. Love you always.


J.

Alive

Pimposterous: Unbelievably smooth.
His outfit is totally pimposterous!

Yes, I'm still alive, whether you like it or not. So let's catch up, yeah?

I must say I’ve felt kind of funny this weekend. Besides general loopiness caused by sleep deprivation and the anxiety of the future, I finished the last episode of Freaks & Geeks this afternoon and felt seriously unsettled. The last ten minutes left my mouth watering for more, but there was nothing left to eat.

Will Lindsay get caught for following the Grateful Dead tour instead of going to the academic summit? Was there weird sexual tension between her and Mr. Rosso, or is it just me? Is Daniel a geek now that he’s playing Dungeons and Dragons with the boys? Is Cindy Sanders going to murder Sam in his sleep for dumping her? So does this mean that Nick likes disco now? What’s that all about? So many questions and not an answer in sight. Such is life.

In case you’re interested at all, I wrote a review of Inglourious Basterds recently. It wasn’t published or anything, just for practice. Here:

It’s amusing to imagine the loud (and explicit) expressions of joy that must have come from the Weinstein brothers’ mouths last weekend as Inglourious Basterds knocked out anticipated box office predictions. Their golden boy had done it again, and perhaps that’s because Quentin Tarantino is paradoxically uninterested in the kind of calculated success so much of the industry foams over.

The director’s image constantly seems to be evolving—just when you think he must be as maniacal as the characters he creates, he goes and guest-judges something as family friendly as American Idol. It is clear Tarantino is not afraid to take risks with his own artistic image and body of work, which is apparent in his latest picture. Two foreign languages, a number of unknown European actors and not a Jheri curl in sight could have been a disastrous formula. Diehard QT fans may have been bored by too much war history and not enough jive while skeptics hoping for something new from the auteur felt the film still reeked of Tarantino. But hell, it worked.

Basterds parallels two stories of characters seeking the same revenge against Nazis—a girl named Shosanna whose family was murdered under the command of Colonel Landa and a squad of Jewish-American soldiers aiming to live up to their infamy. Their plots collide when Shosanna, played by graceful French actress Mélanie Laurent with the unfortunate resemblance to The Hills star Heidi Montag, decides to host a Nazi propaganda film premiere at her theater in Paris, which the Basterds infiltrate by posing as an Italian camera crew, explosives strapped to their ankles.

The historical war genre is new for Tarantino, but the action-comedy-gross-out hybrid is not. And do not fear, his signature is still very legible. In addition to the use of juxtaposed music like David Bowie, the film employs some old gags the viewer is sure to recognize. There’s something undeniably wonderful about seeing the name “Hugo Stiglitz” in big, bright, porn star letters.

Another familiar element that seems more pronounced in this film than in his others is the self-reflexivity of movies and their making. Besides the chemistry lesson on the flammability of celluloid film base, courtesy of Samuel L. Jackson, and the character of the British film critic, Inglourious Basterds is sprinkled with obscure references to early German filmmakers (is he talking about Pabst Blue Ribbon?). The climax even takes place in a theater with an audience mirroring our own delightful, trance-like state, except that they’re, you know, evil Nazis. When Shosanna’s face hijacks the screen as she informs the clueless viewers that they’re about to die then devilishly laughs, I was half-waiting for someone to scream, “Fire!” in German.

This similar kind of direct communication from character to audience is of course evident in the last few moments of the film as Lieutenant Raine carves a swastika into Colonel Landa’s forehead, the two men staring deeply into the camera. Raine tells the Bear Jew “I think this could be my masterpiece.” By the way all fifteen rows behind me were cheering, it seems perhaps it is, Mr. Tarantino. Mazel tov.

Thanks for getting through it, if you actually did.

Anywho, if I haven’t told you already, I’ve officially decided to teach English in Thailand within the next few months. I’m looking at a TESOL course that starts in Chiang Mai Nov. 9th. I’m nervous and had some reservations, but something feels very now or never to me so I’m just going to take the plunge. The timing is right—I end my internship in seven weeks or so, will have made some money and have no commitments or attached strings after that. I’m ready for an adventure. My plan is to be back by early to mid summer, however I know that time frames with these kinds of things can easily change. You will see me again within the next year though. I can guarantee that. I think.

Wow, what a visually boring post this has been. Let's change that:

.....

I guess that’s the report for now. I’ll try to touch back sooner. Until next time, long live freaks, geeks and every self-loathing youngster in between.


J.

Cheezburger

[Note to the reader: This blog was started over a week ago and is now being finished/posted due to lack of time and/or general laziness. My apologies.]

Fluffle: A sign of affection over the Internet. Like you're fluffing a pillow.
He fluffled Kate and skipped off happily.

Schmello. Coming to you on a Saturday evening since I never want to go out again after last night. This morning was spent dry-heaving in the bathroom like a cat choking on its own hairballs. And no place is worst to be doing this than in the house you grew up in—I became potty-trained in that room for Christ sakes. And at least in high school, I could feel slightly badass when I got sick and had to hide it from my parents. Now they just walk by the door, shaking their heads. It's sort of a pathetic really.

Uh, just because this brings me great pleasure.

Although the past few weeks have mostly revolved around my internship, I'd prefer not to write about it because it would be boring to read and boring to write about, I'll just share this passage from "Sex, Drugs, and Cocoapuffs" that has resonated lately:

Darth Vader tells Skywalker he has to make a decision: He can keep fighting a war he will probably lose, or he can compromise his ethics and succeed wildly. Many young adults face a similar decision after college, and those seen as "responsible" inevitably choose the latter path. However, an eight-year-old would never sell out. Little kids will always take the righteous option.

Now I'm not saying I'm compromising my ethics or that I'm an eight-year-old. I'm just saying that some form of this thought has been with me all summer as I venture into the job world, and I don't think I'm alone here.

Thought: For years now, I have found the exclamation point to be most unnecessary, over-used form of punctuation in the English language. It has become such a forced expression of excitement or enthusiasm or way to relieve tension (I'm not mad at you anymore, but I still hate your guts! [smiley face]). I feel like it's worse for girls as they become socially obligated to show how happy they are about upcoming events (So excited to see Cindy this afternoon!) When I see them, I either feel yelled at or lied to. I also don't like when academics use it in their writing in attempts to seem hip or whimsical (Nihilists have feelings too!!!). Kinda takes the credibility out of it for me. In my humble opinion, words should have the power to express these emotions.

Me in grumpy old man form (Please don't sue me Jospeh Farris).

HOWEVER, I will say that prudent and well-timed exclamation point can be a good thing. Matched with all caps, I love TW1TTERTRACKER's use of the punctuation to ridicule the most obvious and dull celebrity tweets. A few recent examples:

UPDATE THE ENCYLOPEDIA AFTER YOU GET TO THE MEAT OF THIS TWEET! RT @mileycyrus Just ate/made the most uh-mazing breakfast of all history :)

YOU’LL WANT TO BUY A BOAT AND STACK SOME SANDBAGS BEFORE YOU GET HIT BY THIS TWITTER BLOOD FLOOD!! RT @iamdiddy Watchin true blood!

THIS SLAMMING SWEET TWEET SERVES UP ACES AT OVER 100 M.P.H'S YEAHH YEAHHHHHH!!!! RT @andyroddick had a short but good hit!

Now these are how you use exclamation points. Take note, people.

Wow, this blog has become far more complacent than intended, so I think I should stop here. Until next time, have a great fucking week [exclamation point]. (I'm being sincere, by the way.)


- J.

Everyday I'm Hustlin'

Dilbert: an office loser. Any office employee who embodies some characteristics of the main character in the comic strip Dilbert, created by Scott Adams, which depicts employees who work in cubicles for a clueless boss at a large company.
The young Dilbert tried in vain to sell his boss on the new technology, but his boss told him to shut up and consider himself lucky he even has a Coleco.

Note: above term and comic are unrelated to below
news—just funny and mildly timely.

I start work Monday, well, technically I start an internship Monday. I’ll be doing marketing—press releases, product promos, stuff like that—for a small medical technology company. It really just fell into my lap. I randomly applied as someone's personal assistant not knowing who it is, who happened to be president of this company. Then, his marketing manager called to say the assistant position was filled, but they wanted me somewhere else.

I still don’t know everything about the job, but I think it could be an interesting experience. Plus, it’s paid (thank Hashem). It will be full time for the next few months making it a temporary solution to unemployment. Unfortunately, this also means you won't be hearing from me as much. Dry your eyes, little one, it'll be okay.

I'm grateful for the opportunity but am always looking for ways to make a buck. Despite a few obvious kinks to work out, here are a couple ideas I came up with:

Start gambling. My gambling experience extends to walking through Caesars Palace once. I don't even know how to play poker. But I am prepared to be that woman sitting at the slot machines eating peanuts for six hours straight. Something about no clocks and highly oxidized air gives me a good feeling.

Sell my plasma. Despite the fact I've never really donated blood and needles make me a bit queezy, I think this could be a real money maker. I even overheard a girl say she made $60 from doing it the other day—not bad! Then I came across this graphic that made me want to throw up in my mouth a little.

This looks unsanitary.

Become an undercover taxi driver. I've always thought driving a cab would be kinda fun, but I have no interest in becoming registered or dealing with drunk men. So I think I should just do it on the down-low on my own terms for people I trust. Oh yeah, I don't exactly have my own car or any sense of direction, but I can usually borrow my mom's or you can just ride on my handle bars.

My plans may seem a little flawed, but I can work around these issues—you could even help me out. Teach me poker, give me a vile of your blood or lend me your car a few times a week. I will also accept cold hard cash.

Moving on, is anyone else as jazzed for Where the Wild Things Are as I am? The trailer looks awesome and Arcade Fire doesn't hurt either. I weirdly get choked up whenever I watch this:



I was thinking how cool Spike Jonze must be and how he dates Michelle Williams, who has become a huge star like former Dawson's Creek co-star Katie Holmes. So what happened to that other guy?

Poor James Van Der Beek

Until next time, keep your day job.


-J.