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Thursday, May 10th, 2007
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12:29 pm - Who doesn't love Tavarez?
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| Thursday, February 22nd, 2007
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10:12 am - Think about it
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| Tuesday, October 3rd, 2006
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12:35 pm
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| Wednesday, September 21st, 2005
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9:44 am - Quote of the day
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“If the world were merely seductive, that would be no problem. If the world were only challenging, that would be easy. But I rise each morning torn between a desire to improve the world and a desire to enjoy the world. That makes it hard to plan the day.” –E.B. White
current mood:  hopeful
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(comment on this)
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| Thursday, September 1st, 2005
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12:56 pm - LA Event
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| Monday, August 29th, 2005
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10:22 am - Some sense made
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----------------------------------------------------------------------------
-------------------------------------------
Edgar Lawrence Doctorow occupies a central position in the history of
American literature. He is generally considered to be among the most
talented, ambitious, and admired novelists of the second half of the
twentieth century. Doctorow has received the National Book Award, two
National Book Critics Circle Awards, the PEN/Faulkner Award, the Edith
Wharton Citation for Fiction, the William Dean Howell Medal of the American
Academy of Arts and Letters, and the residentially conferred National
Humanities Medal.
Doctorow was born in New York City on January 6, 1931. After graduating with
honors from Kenyon College in 1952, he did graduate work at Columbia
University and served in the U.S. Army. Doctorow was senior editor for New
American Library from 1959 to 1964 and then served as editor in chief at
Dial Press until 1969. Since then, he has devoted his time to writing and
teaching. He holds the Glassman Chair in American Letters at New York
University and over the years has taught at several institutions, including
Yale University Drama School, Princeton University, Sarah Lawrence College,
and the University of California, Irvine.
==========================
An essay by E.L Doctorow
I fault this president (George W. Bush) for not knowing what death is.He
does not suffer the death of our twenty-one year olds who wanted to be what
they could be.
On the eve of D-day in 1944 General Eisenhower prayed to God for the lives
of the young soldiers he knew were going to die. He knew what death was.
Even in a justifiable war, a war not of choice but of necessity, a war of
survival, the cost was almost more than Eisenhower could bear.
But this president does not know what death is. He hasn't the mind for it.
You see him joking with the press, peering under the table for the WMDs he
can't seem to find, you see him at rallies strutting up to the stage in
shirt sleeves to the roar of the carefully screened crowd, smiling and
waving, triumphal, a he-man. He does not mourn. He doesn't understand why he
should mourn. He is satisfied during the course of a speech written for him
to look solemn for a moment and speak of the brave young Americans who made
the ultimate sacrifice for their country.
But you study him, you look into his eyes and know he dissembles an emotion
which he does not feel in the depths of his being because he has no capacity
for it. He does not feel a personal responsibility for the thousand dead
young men and women who wanted to be what they could be.
They come to his desk not as youngsters with mothers and fathers or wives
and children who will suffer to the end of their days a terribly torn fabric
of familial relationships and the inconsolable remembrance of aborted
life.... They come to his desk as a political liability which is why the
press is not permitted to photograph the arrival of their coffins from Iraq.
How then can he mourn? To mourn is to express regret and he regrets nothing.
He does not regret that his reason for going to war was, as he knew,
unsubstantiated by the facts. He does not regret that his bungled plan for
the war's aftermath has made of his mission-accomplished a disaster. He does
not regret that rather than controlling terrorism his war in Iraq has
licensed it.
So he never mourns for the dead and crippled youngsters who have fought this
war of his choice. He wanted to go to war and he did. He had not the mind to
perceive the costs of war, or to listen to those who knew those costs. He
did not understand that you do not go to war when it is one of the options,
but when it is the only option; you go not because you want to but because
you have to.
This president knew it would be difficult for Americans not to cheer the
overthrow of a foreign dictator. He knew that much. This president and his
supporters would seem to have a mind for only one thing --- to take power,
to remain in power, and to use that power for the sake of themselves and
their friends. A war will do that as well as anything. You become a wartime
leader. The country gets behind you. Dissent becomes inappropriate. And so
he does not drop to his knees, he is not contrite, he does not sit in the
church with the grieving parents and wives and children.
He is the President who does not feel. He does not feel for the families of
the dead; he does not feel for the thirty five million of us who live in
poverty; he does not feel for the forty percent who cannot afford health
insurance; he does not feel for the miners whose lungs are turning black or
for the working people he has deprived of the chance to work overtime at
time-and-a-half to pay their bills --- it is amazing for how many people in
this country this President does not feel.
But he will dissemble feeling. He will say in all sincerity he is relieving
the wealthiest one percent of the population of their tax burden for the
sake of the rest of us, and that he is polluting the air we breathe for the
sake of our economy, and that he is decreasing the safety regulations for
coal mines to save the coal miners' jobs, and that he is depriving workers
of their time-and-a- half benefits for overtime because this is actually a
way to honor them by raising them into the professional class.
And this litany of lies he will versify with reverences for God and the flag
and democracy, when just what he and his party are doing to our democracy is
choking the life out of it.
But there is one more terribly sad thing about all of this. I remember the
millions of people here and around the world who marched against the war. It
was extraordinary, that spontaneously aroused oversoul of alarm and protest
that transcended national borders. Why did it happen? After all, this was
not the only war anyone had ever seen coming. There are little wars all over
the world most of the time.
But the cry of protest was the appalled understanding of millions of people
that America was ceding its role as the last best hope of mankind. It was
their perception that the classic archetype of democracy was morphing into a
rogue nation. The greatest democratic republic in history was turning its
back on the future, using its extraordinary power and standing not to
advance the ideal of a concordance of civilizations but to endorse the kind
of tribal combat that originated with the Neanderthals, a people, now
extinct, who could imagine ensuring their survival by no other means than
pre-emptive war.
The president we get is the country we get. With each president the nation
is conformed spiritually. He is the artificer of our malleable national
soul. He proposes not only the laws but the kinds of lawlessness that govern
our lives and invoke our responses. The people he appoints are cast in his
image. The trouble they get into, and get us into, is his characteristic
trouble.
Finally the media amplify his character into our moral weather report. He
becomes the face of our sky, the conditions that prevail: How can we sustain
ourselves as the United States of America given the stupid and ineffective
warmaking, the constitutionally insensitive lawgiving, and the monarchial
economics of this president? He cannot mourn but is a figure of such moral
vacancy as to make us mourn for ourselves.
E.L. Doctorow
current mood:  busy
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(comment on this)
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| Friday, August 19th, 2005
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4:48 pm - ok - have this
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| Friday, July 29th, 2005
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9:13 am - Work with me - sort of.
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The president of the group I work for owns this press. It's a fun environment, and you and I will work together on some projects. Let me know if you apply and I'll try to put in a good word.
Red Hen Press, named “one of the fourteen most important literary presses in the country” by Poets & Writers magazine is looking for a Development and Publishing Assistant.
The Development and Publishing assistant position includes researching funding opportunities, handling the Managing Editor’s busy schedule, coordinating our Poetry in the Schools program, planning special events and various duties from editing to making flyers.
Requirements for this position are:
*A positive attitude
*A B.A. degree
*A strong interest in literature, publishing and business
*Good organization skills and the ability to handle multiple tasks
*Non-profit experience preferred but not required
If you are interested in learning the publishing business from a top independent publisher, please send your resume to John Fitzgerald at john@redhen.org or call 818-831-0649 and ask for John Fitzgerald or Mark Cull.
current mood: calm
current music: kcrw
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(comment on this)
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| Tuesday, April 26th, 2005
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9:53 am - NYC - See Phil Rock - Rock Phil Rock
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The Animators have a residency at Pianos in NYC - 158 Ludlow St.
(Chris you are excused due to your recent Lower East side experience)
Every Wednesday in May. 9PM.
http://theanimators.com/
Then TO LA! In JUNE!
That is all. Goodnight.
P.S. If you haven't seen an Animators show by the end of 2005 you will be officially on my shitlist.
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(comment on this)
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| Thursday, February 17th, 2005
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10:58 pm - So nifty
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9:09 am - OMG 83 Million!!!
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9:00 am - This ridiculous thing
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This ridiculous thing arrived in my office yesterday as one of those silly emails people send to eachother. It's ridiculous, it's a little insulting, but I can't help think it also might be very good advice.
Five tips for a woman....
1. It is important that a man helps you around the house and has a job.
2. It is important that a man makes you laugh.
3. It is important to find a man you can count on and doesn't lie to you.
4. It is important that a man loves you and spoils you.
5. It is important that these four men don't know each other.
Foot Note:
One saggy boob said to the other saggy boob: "If we don't get some support soon, people will think we're nuts."
Mine are #2) The New York contingent - Chris O. and Eddie (and others, but they springs to mind) #3) My dad and Cameron #4) Bryan - position #1 is open for applicants - cuz my roommate doesn't really count.
Who are yours?
current mood:  awake
current music: Morning Edition
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(comment on this)
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| Wednesday, February 2nd, 2005
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3:03 pm - Thought for the day
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I've all but abandoned this journal - but for today:
So, this is my thought (I can't for some reason force myself to work right now)
IF YOU ARE QUEASY OR REALLY MALE STOP READING
So, they tell you that if you're vomiting so badly that you can't keep anything down, you're supposed to insert your birth control pill into your hoo-ha until it dissolves.
Which is fine - and I understand about the hormone gathering in your system and all - but it does bring forth nasty images of how one could manage to be sexually active when vomiting that routinely. I suppose carefully is the only answer that works.
current mood: bouncy
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(2 comments | comment on this)
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| Sunday, January 16th, 2005
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1:35 pm - From Craigslist
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------------------------------------------------------------------------
Give it up, Hipster. An Ode.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Reply to: anon-52142444@craigslist.org
Date: Sun Dec 12 22:36:05 2004
Goodbye my tattooed hippie,
Goodbye my drummer boy.
You've given me much shitty poetry,
You've given me much soy.
Goodbye my filthy artist.
Goodbye my movie nerd.
You only like to talk about,
Bands whose names I've never heard.
Goodbye my Berkley painter.
Goodbye Emerson Film God.
Your stupid labels kill me,
I'm not even sure what is "mod".
Goodbye my pierce-ed DJ,
Goodbye "my band's in town".
I'm sick of feeling uncool,
I've thrown the gauntlet down.
You can have your indie movies,
you can have your studio time,
you can have your thrift store clothing,
that cost you just a dime.
You insulted Bono once too many,
And this time I jump ship.
You're drummer arms are hot as hell,
I dig your barbelled nip.
Still, I'm leaving you,
you've got cool friends,
you even have cool hair.
You have lots of craigslist my space friendsters that
will want to meet you there (your annoying indie
shows).
You have no job. Your friends all suck. You watch too
much TV.
You'd rather analyze Kafka, then get it on with me.
Your band's no Stones,
your money's all loans.
You are bleeding your mom dry.
You're a deeply thoughtful, well endowed, wanna be
artist guy.
Your paintings are OK, and your photos are pretty
cool.
I know JD gives you free pot but he really is a tool.
I'll miss your tattoos dearly,
I'll miss your deep dark prose.
I'll miss that Valentine's Day
you brought me an organic, farm grown, rose.
I'll miss your half clean odor,
I'll miss your cigarettes.
I'll miss all of these things but I doubt I'll have
regrets.
I'm moving on, I'm moving up.
I want an SUV,
I want a Live Strong bracelet,
I want some U-G-Gs.
(I don't really, but I know you hate these things, so
I want them)
I want a boy whose mom's name I know, not the name of
his drum sticks.
I want a boy who likes my ass and I'M where he gets
his kicks.
So alone you are, alone in the world. You won't be
upset for long.
Misery is perfect timing to write a brand new song
(for your band that sucks).
Goodbye my Rock Star slacker,
Goodbye my Bookworm Brain.
Goodbye my vegan protester,
Love Always,
Yours,
Plain Jane
this is in or around Boston (Allston does not Rock
City, Allston is fairly lame)
current mood: calm
current music: More friggin' football - XINE WHERE ARE YOU
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(1 comment | comment on this)
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| Wednesday, January 12th, 2005
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12:33 pm - HEY LA - Come to A Show
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The Animators are back in town.
They survived the rains, and booked one more show on the west coast before the excessive sun makes them too chipper and they can't bring themselves to go back to Brooklyn.
Whether you love good music or are a member of the disturbingly-fast-growing group of people that have a crush on my
brother, come see them with me tomorrow.
Thursday night
Fais Do Do
5257 W. Adams
W. Adams and La Brea
9pm
(Russian class will make me a little late.)
If you have no idea what I'm talking about go here:
http://theanimators.com/
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(comment on this)
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| Wednesday, December 22nd, 2004
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9:39 am
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Can someone explain to me the physics involved with hangovers making my knees hurt?
Is it dehydration?
current mood:  drained
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(1 comment | comment on this)
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| Tuesday, December 21st, 2004
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4:31 pm - My brother's band is awesome
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So, my brother plays bass.....really quite incredibly well.
If you are one of my random friends/acquaintances that lives in NY (or actually, Nashville, Philly, Boston, or LA for that matter) you should go and see them play.
They're playing tonight at Rothko in NYC
116 Suffolk St. (b/twn rivington/delancey)
at 8:30
And furthermore - on their website there are lots of pictures of him being kissed by lots of girls - which I suppose I will have to get used to as he is growing up so quickly. Sigh.
http://theanimators.com/
Random review:
Back in NYC... this month the Animators debut album, Home By Now, was given a stellar review in the current issue of Performing Songwriter! Check it out below, or find it on your local newstand...
"Stemming from a niche of quirky pop underground artists, the Animators
combine classic and literate songwriting with intricate arrangements
and melodies. Home By Now is laced with folk-rock overtones in a
pop-based format (with a nod to electronica and harmonies that rival
Guster). The Animators are the innovative collaborating duo Devon
Copley and Alex Wong, neither of whom is a newcomer to the scene—Wong
is a former member of the Din Pedals, who released one album in 1998 on
Epic Records and Copley is a former member of the N.Y.C.—based power
pop outfit the Pasties. Their debut album as the Animators, Home by
Now, is as theatrical as it is delicate; lighthearted without
sacrificing content. Highly recommended." —LN
current mood: office space
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(comment on this)
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| Wednesday, December 15th, 2004
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10:31 am - Stolen from Chris who stole it from his friend Julie who stole it from someone else...
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now read the directions kids...everyone gets these things wrong.
Reply to this post, because I would like to:
1. say a couple words about you.
2. tell you what song(s) remind me of you when I hear it.
3. tell you what celebrity/public person you remind me of, either personality-wise or looks-wise. (Now we all know how much I know about celebrities so this may be an historical or literary figure, and I will try hard to not do somebody terribly random that you would have to look up)
4. give ONE WORD that I associate with you when I think of you.
current mood: good
current music: npr *sigh*
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(2 comments | comment on this)
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| Monday, December 13th, 2004
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9:58 pm
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"He pulled a bouquet of paper flowers out of the air and gave them to me with a courtly bow, and I thought love was like that, pulled out of the air, something bright and unlikely."
-White Oleander
I forgot how good a good book is. I forgot how to be a hopeless romantic.
It's hard to suffer here - I feel like the stories are different - more Kingsolver, less Dostoyevsky.
It's hard to talk to people that are cold when you are warm, and try to convince them you haven't lost the ability to mourn the loss of feeling in your fingers.
I was just on the phone with Graham, while he was on his lonely drive through Ohio, and mid-sentence he said, completely monotone "I'm getting into a car accident right now."
And then my phone cut out.
He wasn't kidding. When he called back I found out that his car spun twice on black ice and slammed against the divider. He's fine, don't worry. A salt truck stopped to help and a cop took him to a service station in bumblefuck Ohio and he's staying the night in a hotel, but his sister might kill him for crashing her car.
My first thought was: Holy shit - black ice. That exists.
The hidden dangers that you forget about.
The corner of Boylston and Tremont was scientifically the windiest corner in any city in New England, and sometimes it took real strength to remain standing on the short walk from my dorm room to class. I feel the need to be everyone's grouchy old grandfather here "When I was a boy, we walked to school, barefoot, in the snow, uphill both ways."
Trying to convince Cameron that he should not have crossed the picket line at the supermarket, is like trying to convince the so-cal native in the supertight button down shirt and overpowering cologne at the party that 50 degrees is not cold. The analogy, imperfect as it might be, hit me in the middle of my "stop looking at my cleavage" conversation with tight shirt boy after a few too many jell-o shots, and I ended up giving him the wrong lecture.
"Because of your position in life, you will never have to be cold, you can't possibly understand what it's like to be cold, and if someone wants to pop out four kids knowing full well she's never going to be paid a living wage, you still have to have respect enough for the history of a movement of people demanding a modicum of respect in their lives to not take food out of her kids' mouths" I think that moment coincided with the end of the song, and everyone around me looked really hurt that I had invaded their "I'm a P.A. TOO!" conversations with such crazy-talk. I'm totally going to run into that guy in some work-related setting or something, and it's going to be awful. But seriously, he was standing outside in a tiny silky short sleeved shirt, his nipples could cut ice, but his jacket, laying on the chair right behind him would hide his perfectly tailored biceps - so he stood there telling me how disgustingly cold the weather was, grinning like a jackal and rubbing his hands together.
At a party that got busted in Allston recently, there was a mechanical bull in the basement. How the hell do frat boys get a hold of a mechanical bull? There was no story about anyone getting hurt by that, although I can't imagine it being put to good use and everyone escaping scratch-free. I know 2 people who have broken their wrists in ridiculous, bordering on silly ways in the past year. I don't think I've ever broken a bone, but when I do, I know it will be way sillier than that - and it will definitely be my ass-bone, because I've been saving up. I've never had to wear a cast, I've never had to have minor surgery because of a fracture, so when I break a bone it can be no less embarassing than toting around a blow up doughnut and walking like someone's removed my large intestine through my tookus.
On a related note, a friend said this to me today "I just fit 3 of my toes up my ass, but couldn't get anymore." My first thought: Awww, he's so comfortable with me, that's sweet. My second thought: Wow, which ones?
It's really quite nice weather here - it makes me forget what month it is - it makes me forget to go X-mas shopping. It makes me want to avoid going home.
Yeah, I'll hang out here for a little while. If "The Swan" didn't exist, life would be almost perfect.
current mood: calm
current music: More friggin' football - XINE WHERE ARE YOU
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(1 comment | comment on this)
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| Sunday, December 12th, 2004
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7:58 pm - Stolen from Chris (also some of the answers)
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