Dane Cook.
November 12.
Floor seats.
Be jealous.
"This is more exciting than that time we went to see 'Sunshine'."
-Keith Stratton
Monday, October 30, 2006
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Forgive my lack of tact.
Please do. This hasn't been prepared. This hasn't been edited or proofread. This is pure unadultered NOW. Odds are it'll come out as a couple paragraphs of slobber. I couldn't possibly give less of a fuck.
I have been at Ramapo College of New Jersey for more than a month and more and more I wonder where the college experience is. What the hype is all about. I spend hours at a time sitting at the desk of my dorm room checking facebook for attention tossed my way from friends at other Universities. I pour over pictures of their drunken escapades, smiling faces, throngs of new friends. I read their walls and laugh as if I understand the inside jokes therein. I sit on AIM and hold online conversations with kids left behind, confidently comfortable in their high school situations. Perhaps this is because they're seriously satisfied with clique dynamics and the "mean girls microcosm". More likely they're counting the days until they too get to toss their caps into the air and join everyone else on the long trail to mediocrity. We expect to leave high school when we graduate. I didn't sign on for four more years of it.
Some of this is doubtlessly my own fault. For all my pretty wordplay I certainly would expect an element of maturity of myself which doesn't appear present. I still care too much about what people think. I'm still shy around girls and I still get my feelings hurt way to easily. Oh. And I still fucking hate myself. For all the aforementioned reasons. For my uncanny ability to always be around (cause?) all the goddamned drama. And then I drink. Maybe it's my suicide. More likely it's satisfaction to my desperate need to feel loved.
I left LiveJournal to symbolize an end to the self-loathing, girl chasing diary entries ripped from the pages of a fucking Chbosky novel. Old habits die hard.
What do I need? I can't even wrap my tongue, or in absense of an ear to listen, my keyboard around an appropriate articulation. I need so badly someone to love. Someone to send flowers to for no good reason. Someone to go on chilly autumn walks with. Someone to give my jacket to when she shivers. Someone to drink hot chocolate and count stars with, to sit in silence for hours... speaking nothing and saying everything. Someone to hug and hold. To watch smile and to watch glow.
Someone to write love songs about.
But the more I think about it, the more conclusive I am that I am so undeserving of that. Of that love.
Everything here is so fucking unstable. One day someone is pissed. The next the offending party, distraught with the effects of its actions, tosses and turns wondering how to make well. And then it's like... everything is hunky fucking dorey except the hole in my heart because I lost sleep over you and you never needed me half as much as I still need you.
No one knows what my problem is, least of all myself.
Bomb the fucking Blogosphere,
Mike
I have been at Ramapo College of New Jersey for more than a month and more and more I wonder where the college experience is. What the hype is all about. I spend hours at a time sitting at the desk of my dorm room checking facebook for attention tossed my way from friends at other Universities. I pour over pictures of their drunken escapades, smiling faces, throngs of new friends. I read their walls and laugh as if I understand the inside jokes therein. I sit on AIM and hold online conversations with kids left behind, confidently comfortable in their high school situations. Perhaps this is because they're seriously satisfied with clique dynamics and the "mean girls microcosm". More likely they're counting the days until they too get to toss their caps into the air and join everyone else on the long trail to mediocrity. We expect to leave high school when we graduate. I didn't sign on for four more years of it.
Some of this is doubtlessly my own fault. For all my pretty wordplay I certainly would expect an element of maturity of myself which doesn't appear present. I still care too much about what people think. I'm still shy around girls and I still get my feelings hurt way to easily. Oh. And I still fucking hate myself. For all the aforementioned reasons. For my uncanny ability to always be around (cause?) all the goddamned drama. And then I drink. Maybe it's my suicide. More likely it's satisfaction to my desperate need to feel loved.
I left LiveJournal to symbolize an end to the self-loathing, girl chasing diary entries ripped from the pages of a fucking Chbosky novel. Old habits die hard.
What do I need? I can't even wrap my tongue, or in absense of an ear to listen, my keyboard around an appropriate articulation. I need so badly someone to love. Someone to send flowers to for no good reason. Someone to go on chilly autumn walks with. Someone to give my jacket to when she shivers. Someone to drink hot chocolate and count stars with, to sit in silence for hours... speaking nothing and saying everything. Someone to hug and hold. To watch smile and to watch glow.
Someone to write love songs about.
But the more I think about it, the more conclusive I am that I am so undeserving of that. Of that love.
Everything here is so fucking unstable. One day someone is pissed. The next the offending party, distraught with the effects of its actions, tosses and turns wondering how to make well. And then it's like... everything is hunky fucking dorey except the hole in my heart because I lost sleep over you and you never needed me half as much as I still need you.
No one knows what my problem is, least of all myself.
Bomb the fucking Blogosphere,
Mike
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
The Longest Winter.
I wrote this bit of free-form prose in Bio class (naturally) and I swore that I wouldn't post it. But now I am. It doesn't really matter. We're each entitled to reflection on our histories, am I right? If someone reads this who was never supposed to, well, whatever. My experiences and my life are mine to share. With the internet. Hm. Yeah.
~*~
"The Longest Winter"
It's been the longest winter I can remember - not that it isn't completely and utterly self-imposed. I sit in my snowglobe and recall exactly what it was to be two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, sifting through all the shit the world has to offer and finding each other a breath, no, a violent gasp, for the drowning. Rewind two years and I'm sixteen and tragically poetic. She's two years my junior and beautiful in a way that can't be expressed in numbers or even in color - but rather in passion and in prose, in springtime and in song. She is unconventional in the most appealing way and her smile completes me. She is a tiny dancer and she is infinite. Radiant. She is the rock to my roll - my bumbling, baffled baffoonery. She is mine and I am so in love.
She stops me in the hallway and starts up and I'm all "maybe? Now? Ready? Foreign. How can I? What if I? I want want want so badly and yet yet yet yet yet... here? Please please please just kiss..." inside my head. Externally I am silent and it is so hard to find the words to express how desperately enraptured I am. She kisses me and everything I had read about fireworks and circles of stars exlode in surest understatement. The bell rings and we separate. For the rest of the day the smile never leaves my face and my feet don't once touch the ground.
Then somewhere I fuck up and am once again drowning.
I leave her in favor of some fairy tale dream which I chase and I chase and am forever eluded by, some oversimplified reflection of my horrific selfishness. Lost was everything we shared. the laughs, the literature, the magic, the film, the music. Oh, God. The music...
I hear "Can You Feel the Love Tonight" play over and over and over and over and yet... a feeling shared by kings and vagabonds both is a feeling I have felt and thrown away. She is beautiful and I am so so stupid.
I can't even come close to articulating how much I miss her. I miss her constant encouragement, laughter, passion, antiquity, tiny hands, powerful voice, funny glasses that she let me wear when she stole my sunglasses. I miss the jittery nervous feeling - the butterflies I got in the pit of my stomach when she signed online. I miss "Almost Famous" and "The Perks of Being a Wallflower". I miss her warmth, her kiss, her love. I miss her.
It's been the longest winter I can remember and there are monthes to go before I wake.
~*~
Yeah. Huh.
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
~*~
"The Longest Winter"
It's been the longest winter I can remember - not that it isn't completely and utterly self-imposed. I sit in my snowglobe and recall exactly what it was to be two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, sifting through all the shit the world has to offer and finding each other a breath, no, a violent gasp, for the drowning. Rewind two years and I'm sixteen and tragically poetic. She's two years my junior and beautiful in a way that can't be expressed in numbers or even in color - but rather in passion and in prose, in springtime and in song. She is unconventional in the most appealing way and her smile completes me. She is a tiny dancer and she is infinite. Radiant. She is the rock to my roll - my bumbling, baffled baffoonery. She is mine and I am so in love.
She stops me in the hallway and starts up and I'm all "maybe? Now? Ready? Foreign. How can I? What if I? I want want want so badly and yet yet yet yet yet... here? Please please please just kiss..." inside my head. Externally I am silent and it is so hard to find the words to express how desperately enraptured I am. She kisses me and everything I had read about fireworks and circles of stars exlode in surest understatement. The bell rings and we separate. For the rest of the day the smile never leaves my face and my feet don't once touch the ground.
Then somewhere I fuck up and am once again drowning.
I leave her in favor of some fairy tale dream which I chase and I chase and am forever eluded by, some oversimplified reflection of my horrific selfishness. Lost was everything we shared. the laughs, the literature, the magic, the film, the music. Oh, God. The music...
I hear "Can You Feel the Love Tonight" play over and over and over and over and yet... a feeling shared by kings and vagabonds both is a feeling I have felt and thrown away. She is beautiful and I am so so stupid.
I can't even come close to articulating how much I miss her. I miss her constant encouragement, laughter, passion, antiquity, tiny hands, powerful voice, funny glasses that she let me wear when she stole my sunglasses. I miss the jittery nervous feeling - the butterflies I got in the pit of my stomach when she signed online. I miss "Almost Famous" and "The Perks of Being a Wallflower". I miss her warmth, her kiss, her love. I miss her.
It's been the longest winter I can remember and there are monthes to go before I wake.
~*~
Yeah. Huh.
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
Friday, September 22, 2006
Aborted.
Recently I've gotten really into free-form prose. It's not something I ever sit down intending to do. I've been writing a lot of it in Biology class. You know. When I'm supposed to be taking notes. I limit myself to one notebook page per piece. I'm sure I'll be doing a lot of this in the coming monthes. On lucky days, I'll post the results here.
I have to disclaim first. The following is a statement, not necessarily a reflection of my own ideals. Also, none of my grammar nor useage has been corrected for posting here. You get the raw deal.
So here it is. The first of my free-form prose postings. Enjoy.
~*~
"Aborted."
Honey you and I alive and ignited are fire in the sky, burning Gods and beasts across the miles. We are each of us constellations dancing through the depthes of midnight immeasurable by modern science. We are as infinite as the soldiers in the stars before us. We are as limitless as we are open to interpretation. We are lovers engaged in epic toil the scale of which is limited only by perception and the will of God allowing men to so perceive.
We see shooting stars less as wishes cast on wings of hope but instead as the seeds of giants tossed carelessly over darkness. Each one a symbol both of life and of lust - unbridled alignment of signs and scars, of starbursts and supernovas not for creation but for satisfaction.
We are as dark and deep as black holes ending galaxies.
TONIGHT WE ARE BIGGER THAN GOD.
God defines and punishes sin. God solicits prayers for forgiveness of sin among other things - for lottery victories and blessings on voyage. For health and happiness and "God save the Queen!"...
WE ARE SIN.
We fuck a thousand miles above the hemisphere not in celebration of life nor in procreation nor even in love. We fuck because we are so selfish and so sick of the same God damned skyline. While millions fuck below we birth stillborn planets. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead.
Aborted.
Each explosion is our passion and each scripture is fuel in the fire. We have lost faith so many years ago.
SO JUST WATCH THE FIREWORKS.
I have to disclaim first. The following is a statement, not necessarily a reflection of my own ideals. Also, none of my grammar nor useage has been corrected for posting here. You get the raw deal.
So here it is. The first of my free-form prose postings. Enjoy.
~*~
"Aborted."
Honey you and I alive and ignited are fire in the sky, burning Gods and beasts across the miles. We are each of us constellations dancing through the depthes of midnight immeasurable by modern science. We are as infinite as the soldiers in the stars before us. We are as limitless as we are open to interpretation. We are lovers engaged in epic toil the scale of which is limited only by perception and the will of God allowing men to so perceive.
We see shooting stars less as wishes cast on wings of hope but instead as the seeds of giants tossed carelessly over darkness. Each one a symbol both of life and of lust - unbridled alignment of signs and scars, of starbursts and supernovas not for creation but for satisfaction.
We are as dark and deep as black holes ending galaxies.
TONIGHT WE ARE BIGGER THAN GOD.
God defines and punishes sin. God solicits prayers for forgiveness of sin among other things - for lottery victories and blessings on voyage. For health and happiness and "God save the Queen!"...
WE ARE SIN.
We fuck a thousand miles above the hemisphere not in celebration of life nor in procreation nor even in love. We fuck because we are so selfish and so sick of the same God damned skyline. While millions fuck below we birth stillborn planets. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead.
Aborted.
Each explosion is our passion and each scripture is fuel in the fire. We have lost faith so many years ago.
SO JUST WATCH THE FIREWORKS.
Thursday, September 14, 2006
"Don't let the sun go down on me"
More importantly, don't let the sun make its way onto your list of "must-see" movies in 2007.
I refer, of course, to the 2007 Danny Boyle (28 Days Later) film "Sunshine" of which Keith and I saw a screening of last night. The basic premise of the plot is this: In the somewhat near future the sun is dying and, by a simple logical process, so is the earth. The planet's most able scientists purge the land for all remaining resources and invest them in the constuction of what is pretty much just a giant nuclear bomb. Naturally, an international team of physicists and astronauts must embark into space on a ship that looks retardedly like a giant golden contact lense to ignite the bomb and "restart" the sun. Onboard the Icarus II is an oxygen replenishing garden, a freezing cold well in which computers are stored, and a room in which one character looks at the sun a lot. You can taste the originality. En route to the sun the Icarus II picks up a signal from the Icarus I, which was lost in space seven years previously. Physicist and main character Capa played by Cillian Murphy (28 Days Later, Batman Begins) makes the tough decision to change the trajectory of the ship so as to take the bomb (referred to in the film as a "payload" which opens a whole host of innuendos that I'm not even going to touch) and have a second shot at saving the world should their own payload fail. Of course... disaster, insanity, sexual tension, and terrible cinematography ensue.
Right now you are most certainly saying, "But Mike, haven't I seen this movie before?"
And the answer to your question would be "Yes" you have. This streak on the underwear of cinema is most easily described as the child of the mediocre "Armageddon" and the horrendous "Event Horizon". The ugly child. With down syndrome.
We'll get the good stuff out of the way first. Granted, what we saw was still in post-production so whoever is producing this thing could still pull the plug and leave with his dignity. Also, the CGI was incomplete but that doesn't much matter as I wasn't about to discuss the absurd overabundance of sunscape shots and poorly placed beams of light anyway.
Cillian Murphy and Rose Byrne are actually quite good. Their characters shine (har har) particularly brightly (har har) onscreen together, somehow managing to bring humanity to a bleak and dim (okay, I'll stop) screenplay. Cillian's Capa is the textbook unlikely hero, establishing himself as a big softie shortly after the film begins through a video mail to his family back on earth. He is tragically sensitive and responsive to pressure, human both in emotion and imperfection. The audience actually gives a shit when he is in danger. Rose is the likely compliment. She's the girl you grew up playing manhunt with before suddenly realizing that she's smokin' hot. She is young but subborn, petite but intelligent. Her soft presence commands scenes as they are such a contrast to nearly every other character in the movie. She is fragile. A voice of morality amongst a sea of mechanized characters and two-dimensional personalities. The two are a joy to watch and I look forward to seeing them work together in a film that doesn't take place on a fucking UFO and that wasn't written by a four year old.
Unfortunately, the good points (sans the Postal Service-esque soundtrack) end there. The rest of the movie pretty much sucks. What's-his-fuck from The Fantastic Four (Chris Evans) fills the role of the gritty loose cannon, the man dedicated so firmly to the mission that he'd sacrafice any crew member to see it through. He's the Rafael of the cast (yes, the red Ninja Turtle. Leave my analogies alone). Unfortunately for viewers of "Sunshine", his performance is about as good here as it is in TF4. Which means it isn't. Good, that is. The rest of the characters really don't fit into the group dynamic at all - from the asian chick who loves to garden to the asian dude with a terrible memory to the asian capt... wait. What the fuck? I guess in order to obtain international appeal Boyle casted as many asians as possible. He probably hates blacks and hispanics. Nazi douchebag.
I won't ruin the ending for you, or completely detail the rediculous connection to "Event Horizon" but if you're smart, you don't care anyway. 2007 brings with it Spiderman 3, Shrek the third, Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End, Transformers, The Simpsons, Harry Potter 5 (okay, I'm stretching) so why in God's name would you spend money on this trash? That's right. You wouldn't.
Thanks for reading, and you're welcome in advance.
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
I refer, of course, to the 2007 Danny Boyle (28 Days Later) film "Sunshine" of which Keith and I saw a screening of last night. The basic premise of the plot is this: In the somewhat near future the sun is dying and, by a simple logical process, so is the earth. The planet's most able scientists purge the land for all remaining resources and invest them in the constuction of what is pretty much just a giant nuclear bomb. Naturally, an international team of physicists and astronauts must embark into space on a ship that looks retardedly like a giant golden contact lense to ignite the bomb and "restart" the sun. Onboard the Icarus II is an oxygen replenishing garden, a freezing cold well in which computers are stored, and a room in which one character looks at the sun a lot. You can taste the originality. En route to the sun the Icarus II picks up a signal from the Icarus I, which was lost in space seven years previously. Physicist and main character Capa played by Cillian Murphy (28 Days Later, Batman Begins) makes the tough decision to change the trajectory of the ship so as to take the bomb (referred to in the film as a "payload" which opens a whole host of innuendos that I'm not even going to touch) and have a second shot at saving the world should their own payload fail. Of course... disaster, insanity, sexual tension, and terrible cinematography ensue.
Right now you are most certainly saying, "But Mike, haven't I seen this movie before?"
And the answer to your question would be "Yes" you have. This streak on the underwear of cinema is most easily described as the child of the mediocre "Armageddon" and the horrendous "Event Horizon". The ugly child. With down syndrome.
We'll get the good stuff out of the way first. Granted, what we saw was still in post-production so whoever is producing this thing could still pull the plug and leave with his dignity. Also, the CGI was incomplete but that doesn't much matter as I wasn't about to discuss the absurd overabundance of sunscape shots and poorly placed beams of light anyway.
Cillian Murphy and Rose Byrne are actually quite good. Their characters shine (har har) particularly brightly (har har) onscreen together, somehow managing to bring humanity to a bleak and dim (okay, I'll stop) screenplay. Cillian's Capa is the textbook unlikely hero, establishing himself as a big softie shortly after the film begins through a video mail to his family back on earth. He is tragically sensitive and responsive to pressure, human both in emotion and imperfection. The audience actually gives a shit when he is in danger. Rose is the likely compliment. She's the girl you grew up playing manhunt with before suddenly realizing that she's smokin' hot. She is young but subborn, petite but intelligent. Her soft presence commands scenes as they are such a contrast to nearly every other character in the movie. She is fragile. A voice of morality amongst a sea of mechanized characters and two-dimensional personalities. The two are a joy to watch and I look forward to seeing them work together in a film that doesn't take place on a fucking UFO and that wasn't written by a four year old.
Unfortunately, the good points (sans the Postal Service-esque soundtrack) end there. The rest of the movie pretty much sucks. What's-his-fuck from The Fantastic Four (Chris Evans) fills the role of the gritty loose cannon, the man dedicated so firmly to the mission that he'd sacrafice any crew member to see it through. He's the Rafael of the cast (yes, the red Ninja Turtle. Leave my analogies alone). Unfortunately for viewers of "Sunshine", his performance is about as good here as it is in TF4. Which means it isn't. Good, that is. The rest of the characters really don't fit into the group dynamic at all - from the asian chick who loves to garden to the asian dude with a terrible memory to the asian capt... wait. What the fuck? I guess in order to obtain international appeal Boyle casted as many asians as possible. He probably hates blacks and hispanics. Nazi douchebag.
I won't ruin the ending for you, or completely detail the rediculous connection to "Event Horizon" but if you're smart, you don't care anyway. 2007 brings with it Spiderman 3, Shrek the third, Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End, Transformers, The Simpsons, Harry Potter 5 (okay, I'm stretching) so why in God's name would you spend money on this trash? That's right. You wouldn't.
Thanks for reading, and you're welcome in advance.
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
Friday, September 08, 2006
In a sunrise
Whatever beauty is in the breakdown cannot possibly compare to the beauty in a sunrise. There's something sweet and comfortable in the air here, filling one with the gladness of a dawning. Of a springtime. Of a beginning.
I find that I have a difficult time writing here. I sit down with every intention, and certainly enough material, of writing an entry and nothing comes out. Maybe it's atmospherically based. I need to settle before I can be enough at ease to make wonderful wonderful love to the english language. To channel it's sexiness and, contorted, plop it on the page you're reading. Like a literary funnel cake. Yeah. That's it.
Because of the aforementioned, my articles will likely be a little on the shorter side. I'm sure they will gradually progress to the massive size of one or two of my previous pieces.
College is awesome.
The group of friends I've made is incredible and the potential for further good friendmaking, especially in my First Year Seminar course, is virtually limitless. It's really amazing how fast crazy shit can happen. And seriously. I could never get the hang of Thursdays. But when everyone is there for each other, even having just met, it's gotta be a sign of great things to come.
I've had some class but not a lot of homework. This is both a boon and bane in that while I'm certainly glad I don't have any... I feel like I should. Oh. And I want my fucking textbooks already, bookstore. God.
So yeah.
Hello, Ramapo College of New Jersey. You beautiful ol' bastard, you.
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
I find that I have a difficult time writing here. I sit down with every intention, and certainly enough material, of writing an entry and nothing comes out. Maybe it's atmospherically based. I need to settle before I can be enough at ease to make wonderful wonderful love to the english language. To channel it's sexiness and, contorted, plop it on the page you're reading. Like a literary funnel cake. Yeah. That's it.
Because of the aforementioned, my articles will likely be a little on the shorter side. I'm sure they will gradually progress to the massive size of one or two of my previous pieces.
College is awesome.
The group of friends I've made is incredible and the potential for further good friendmaking, especially in my First Year Seminar course, is virtually limitless. It's really amazing how fast crazy shit can happen. And seriously. I could never get the hang of Thursdays. But when everyone is there for each other, even having just met, it's gotta be a sign of great things to come.
I've had some class but not a lot of homework. This is both a boon and bane in that while I'm certainly glad I don't have any... I feel like I should. Oh. And I want my fucking textbooks already, bookstore. God.
So yeah.
Hello, Ramapo College of New Jersey. You beautiful ol' bastard, you.
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
Thursday, August 31, 2006
A bright day for the Black Sheep Boy
Holy Shit.
The man, the legend: Lou fucking Reed just gave my favorite band (who no one has ever heard of), Okkervil River, a shout-out on the fucking MTV Video Music Awards. It is a beautiful day for indie rock bands and a dark, terrible day for pretentious hipster snobs. Thank you, Lou Reed. Thank you!
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
The man, the legend: Lou fucking Reed just gave my favorite band (who no one has ever heard of), Okkervil River, a shout-out on the fucking MTV Video Music Awards. It is a beautiful day for indie rock bands and a dark, terrible day for pretentious hipster snobs. Thank you, Lou Reed. Thank you!
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
We sank Manhattan out at sea
It always rains when I am in New York City.
Tuesday, August 29th is no exception. I awake to grey clouds and greyer worries, I'm simultaneously thrilled and terrified to meet my future schoolmates. Nevertheless, my mother drives Chris and I to the Little Silver train station where the ticket machines don't carry any change. On the way we look in desperation for a Dunkin Donuts so I can satisfy my hunger for a Dunkaccino and fuel my unhealthy addiction to caffine. Our efforts are in vain and we are unable to find a single chain store whereas there are like 7000 on Route 9. I find out later that after my mother dropped us off she found one on the one street we didn't check. Needless to say she didn't bring us anything back.
It is at this point that I meet the Messiah and two other fellow Ramapoers.
Keith, Brian, and Kevin (Jesus) arrive at the station shortly after we do, Keith and Kevin sporting "Legends of the Hidden Temple" T-Shirts (Orange Iguanas and Blue Barracudas, respectively). Our train arrives at about 9:27 and we're on our way. The train ride is largely uneventful so Chris hands me an earbud from his ipod and we silently jam out to 90's music. I'm positive that every song we listen to on the way to Penn was on one "Now!" compilation or another. After making a less-confusing-than-we-anticipated transfer in Newark we get to New York, Penn Station. From there we find our way outside and lumber over to one of many many many (many) local Starbucks. We are joined shortly by the rest of our contingent, who I will attempt to name now. In addition to Chris, Keith, Brian S, Kevin and myself there was Jill, Brian B, Pat, Mark and Matt - most of whom, I believe, had attended previous meet-ups and were already a part of the fantastic brotherhood to which I would soon subscribe. We all shake hands, introduce ourselves, and banter about what we want to do.
Right then, or a little beforehand, it starts raining.
We retire our discussion to a nearby McDonald's and eventually come to the conclusion that we have no conclusion. So we decided to relocate to the Manhattan Mall, where evidently the atmosphere makes decision-making easier. Following a brief stop at a smoothie joint for "shit shakes" (you know, those smoothies that help get rid of, or promote, diarrhea). Kevin attempts to chug his but his neglect to first turn it into wine comes back to bite him in the brain. Each of us complete a free sample circuit and it is agreed upon to center our trip around Times Square.
The NBC building is among our first stops, the highlight of which is us almost getting so see Rachael Ray! Here is what wikipedia has to say about Rachael Ray:
"Rachael Domenica Ray (born August 25, 1968 in Cape Cod, Massachusetts) is an Emmy-winning television personality and author who hosts at least four different programs on cable television's Food Network: 30 Minute Meals, $40 a Day, Inside Dish, and Rachael Ray's Tasty Travels. She has authored a series of cookbooks based on the 30 Minute Meals concept. She will also host a syndicated TV talk show starting on Monday, September 18, 2006."
Wowee Zowee. That woulda been sweet.
We wander around Times Square fairly aimlessly and eventually venture to the Apple Store on Fifth Avenue (really fucking far away) which is pretty sweet. Two of the employees almost splooge all over the "LOTHT" shirts that Keith, Kevin, Pat, and Jill are wearing. So the ramapoers kindly direct them to a website at which they can purchase, and splooge on if they so desires, their own. We depart and make the long-ass trip back to the square. Brian B is a nut and a champion of dodging traffic. I am impressed. I'm realizing as I type this that I have completely forgotten what order we did things in. So whatever. Deal with it.
The Virgin Megastore is exactly what the name implies. There's like a bazillion CDs and DVDs in the place but they've sold out of "Snakes on a Train". We mourn its temporary loss and move on. On the CD racks we discuss music and and Kevin proves to us that not only is he the king of the jews, but the king of metal as well.
We visit a local sheet music shop and discuss musical taste further, largely agreeing on a universal distaste for Creed and Nickelback. Everyone loves the 90s, however, and I am thrilled. This store had sheet music for some of the shittiest bands ever. O-Town anyone? Who the fuck wants a Dream Street guitar chord book? No one. That's who.
Toys "R" Us provided the most entertainment of all our stops. I worry for a generation of American youth raised on Bratz dools. In fact, I blame the entire "McSlut" revolution on terrible terribly effective marketing schemes. You too can be a whore! Just like your favorite Bratz doll! Just roll on some lipstick and eyeliner, wear scantily clad apparel, and stand on the streets giving BJs for nickels! What a world. Some of the playsets are also hilariously sexist. Like the kitchenette at which the little girl wearing the apron serves the little boy his breakfast. Then again, the little boy was on his knees. I think there's some gender confusion shit going on there.
We eat at Applebees, which is exactly the same as Applebees here except that everything costs $6 more. Literally. Those bastards. Keith, Jill, Brian, Pat, and Kevin resolve to fight the tickets they recieved over the weekend and the world rejoices.
The best part of the entire tip, however, was meeting the awesome homeless man bearing the sign "Need money for beer, drugs, and hooker. Hey, at least I'm not bullshitting you." After donating generously to his worthy cause we participated in a dialogue that went something like this:
"Get that fucking camera out!" (We all pose for a picture, flashing our fingers) "Fuck yeah. Are you kids American?"
"Yeah..."
"Aww I fuckin' knew it man. American kids are the fuckin' best man. Not like those fuckin' French kids. French kids fuckin' suck!"
We leave our racist friend behind and eventually it is time to depart. After dropping Brian B and Jill off at Port Authority we realize how little time we have to make our train. We rush past various sex shops and peep shows and soon arrive at Penn Station at exactly the moment our train is departing. Of course... we miss it. The next 42 minutes are spent sitting and waiting, bullshitting to pass the time, and discussing our excitement and worry about beginning college. Too soon, we get home.
As I reflect on this I can easily conclude that going was a good idea. The group I shared the day with was absolutely incredible, whether we were flipping TRL off or belting the "Crossfire" theme song, I felt somewhat comfortable even having just met them earlier that day. Granted I have no idea what they think of me, but I sincerely hope that we all continue to hang out and become great friends over our course at the 'po.
I guess it goes to show that despite the rain and despite the grey, there's always light on Broadway. A beacon of hope for a battered army.
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
Tuesday, August 29th is no exception. I awake to grey clouds and greyer worries, I'm simultaneously thrilled and terrified to meet my future schoolmates. Nevertheless, my mother drives Chris and I to the Little Silver train station where the ticket machines don't carry any change. On the way we look in desperation for a Dunkin Donuts so I can satisfy my hunger for a Dunkaccino and fuel my unhealthy addiction to caffine. Our efforts are in vain and we are unable to find a single chain store whereas there are like 7000 on Route 9. I find out later that after my mother dropped us off she found one on the one street we didn't check. Needless to say she didn't bring us anything back.
It is at this point that I meet the Messiah and two other fellow Ramapoers.
Keith, Brian, and Kevin (Jesus) arrive at the station shortly after we do, Keith and Kevin sporting "Legends of the Hidden Temple" T-Shirts (Orange Iguanas and Blue Barracudas, respectively). Our train arrives at about 9:27 and we're on our way. The train ride is largely uneventful so Chris hands me an earbud from his ipod and we silently jam out to 90's music. I'm positive that every song we listen to on the way to Penn was on one "Now!" compilation or another. After making a less-confusing-than-we-anticipated transfer in Newark we get to New York, Penn Station. From there we find our way outside and lumber over to one of many many many (many) local Starbucks. We are joined shortly by the rest of our contingent, who I will attempt to name now. In addition to Chris, Keith, Brian S, Kevin and myself there was Jill, Brian B, Pat, Mark and Matt - most of whom, I believe, had attended previous meet-ups and were already a part of the fantastic brotherhood to which I would soon subscribe. We all shake hands, introduce ourselves, and banter about what we want to do.
Right then, or a little beforehand, it starts raining.
We retire our discussion to a nearby McDonald's and eventually come to the conclusion that we have no conclusion. So we decided to relocate to the Manhattan Mall, where evidently the atmosphere makes decision-making easier. Following a brief stop at a smoothie joint for "shit shakes" (you know, those smoothies that help get rid of, or promote, diarrhea). Kevin attempts to chug his but his neglect to first turn it into wine comes back to bite him in the brain. Each of us complete a free sample circuit and it is agreed upon to center our trip around Times Square.
The NBC building is among our first stops, the highlight of which is us almost getting so see Rachael Ray! Here is what wikipedia has to say about Rachael Ray:
"Rachael Domenica Ray (born August 25, 1968 in Cape Cod, Massachusetts) is an Emmy-winning television personality and author who hosts at least four different programs on cable television's Food Network: 30 Minute Meals, $40 a Day, Inside Dish, and Rachael Ray's Tasty Travels. She has authored a series of cookbooks based on the 30 Minute Meals concept. She will also host a syndicated TV talk show starting on Monday, September 18, 2006."
Wowee Zowee. That woulda been sweet.
We wander around Times Square fairly aimlessly and eventually venture to the Apple Store on Fifth Avenue (really fucking far away) which is pretty sweet. Two of the employees almost splooge all over the "LOTHT" shirts that Keith, Kevin, Pat, and Jill are wearing. So the ramapoers kindly direct them to a website at which they can purchase, and splooge on if they so desires, their own. We depart and make the long-ass trip back to the square. Brian B is a nut and a champion of dodging traffic. I am impressed. I'm realizing as I type this that I have completely forgotten what order we did things in. So whatever. Deal with it.
The Virgin Megastore is exactly what the name implies. There's like a bazillion CDs and DVDs in the place but they've sold out of "Snakes on a Train". We mourn its temporary loss and move on. On the CD racks we discuss music and and Kevin proves to us that not only is he the king of the jews, but the king of metal as well.
We visit a local sheet music shop and discuss musical taste further, largely agreeing on a universal distaste for Creed and Nickelback. Everyone loves the 90s, however, and I am thrilled. This store had sheet music for some of the shittiest bands ever. O-Town anyone? Who the fuck wants a Dream Street guitar chord book? No one. That's who.
Toys "R" Us provided the most entertainment of all our stops. I worry for a generation of American youth raised on Bratz dools. In fact, I blame the entire "McSlut" revolution on terrible terribly effective marketing schemes. You too can be a whore! Just like your favorite Bratz doll! Just roll on some lipstick and eyeliner, wear scantily clad apparel, and stand on the streets giving BJs for nickels! What a world. Some of the playsets are also hilariously sexist. Like the kitchenette at which the little girl wearing the apron serves the little boy his breakfast. Then again, the little boy was on his knees. I think there's some gender confusion shit going on there.
We eat at Applebees, which is exactly the same as Applebees here except that everything costs $6 more. Literally. Those bastards. Keith, Jill, Brian, Pat, and Kevin resolve to fight the tickets they recieved over the weekend and the world rejoices.
The best part of the entire tip, however, was meeting the awesome homeless man bearing the sign "Need money for beer, drugs, and hooker. Hey, at least I'm not bullshitting you." After donating generously to his worthy cause we participated in a dialogue that went something like this:
"Get that fucking camera out!" (We all pose for a picture, flashing our fingers) "Fuck yeah. Are you kids American?"
"Yeah..."
"Aww I fuckin' knew it man. American kids are the fuckin' best man. Not like those fuckin' French kids. French kids fuckin' suck!"
We leave our racist friend behind and eventually it is time to depart. After dropping Brian B and Jill off at Port Authority we realize how little time we have to make our train. We rush past various sex shops and peep shows and soon arrive at Penn Station at exactly the moment our train is departing. Of course... we miss it. The next 42 minutes are spent sitting and waiting, bullshitting to pass the time, and discussing our excitement and worry about beginning college. Too soon, we get home.
As I reflect on this I can easily conclude that going was a good idea. The group I shared the day with was absolutely incredible, whether we were flipping TRL off or belting the "Crossfire" theme song, I felt somewhat comfortable even having just met them earlier that day. Granted I have no idea what they think of me, but I sincerely hope that we all continue to hang out and become great friends over our course at the 'po.
I guess it goes to show that despite the rain and despite the grey, there's always light on Broadway. A beacon of hope for a battered army.
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
Sunday, August 27, 2006
"Everything that keep us together is falling apart."
She talks a good game. She really does. And it breaks my heart to think its possibly she's just telling me what I want to hear. She always talks about how we'll all stay friends even in college and how we'll get to see each other all the time despite everything. And yet I can't help but feel like she grew up without us - and has greater aspirations for friendship than we can keep. But it is what it is.
Last night was what I'm sure will be one of the last social gatherings of the summer, and of this chapter in my life. Eric, Tom, Diana and I went to Applebees and, over half priced appetizers, talked for hours about nothing. I'm going to, and to some extent already do, miss that. It's all at the same time hysterical and nostalgic and magical and close and carefree and whimsical and it's home. Two years ago we all went to the very same resteraunt and laughed until there was italian dressing running out of our noses (quite literally in some's case). It was there that we all, exhausted and punch drunk, exhanged sex stories, secret and pent up desires. I invented the table-crippling self-cleansing device. And it was there, last night, on almost hallowed grounds, that we said goodbye.
It's true though.
"Everyone is afraid of their own life."
Sorry this one is so short but it's so hard to hold on to something when everything is so desperately in transit.
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
Last night was what I'm sure will be one of the last social gatherings of the summer, and of this chapter in my life. Eric, Tom, Diana and I went to Applebees and, over half priced appetizers, talked for hours about nothing. I'm going to, and to some extent already do, miss that. It's all at the same time hysterical and nostalgic and magical and close and carefree and whimsical and it's home. Two years ago we all went to the very same resteraunt and laughed until there was italian dressing running out of our noses (quite literally in some's case). It was there that we all, exhausted and punch drunk, exhanged sex stories, secret and pent up desires. I invented the table-crippling self-cleansing device. And it was there, last night, on almost hallowed grounds, that we said goodbye.
It's true though.
"Everyone is afraid of their own life."
Sorry this one is so short but it's so hard to hold on to something when everything is so desperately in transit.
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
Thursday, August 24, 2006
"Round here..."
"...we always stand up straight."
It comes with a sort of grim dawning that I realize it really is less than two weeks until liftoff. On September 4th I set sail for voyaging the treacherous waters of Ramapo College of New Jersey (I realize that I neglected to mention my school last night. oops). It's a little bit funny and a lotta bit sad watching each of my friends parting ways and, one by one, disappearing into the gathering dark. I don't know how anyone can stand watching relationships they've invested so much in flicker and die. How can anyone just let four years lived be four years passed? How can I, in the time it takes to say goodbye, let these people know how much they mean to me? And how much I'll miss them?
It would be a good night for fog because there is gloom over Freehold tonight.
I spent my evening driving aimlessly with my good friend and fellow graduate Steve (you can keep up with Steve here) and partner in political turmoil Johnny B, a new senior in a high school I'm now sufficiently qualified to call Hell. Stops on our journey included Best Buy to play "Guitar Hero" and check out the Snakes on a Plane soundtrack (the inclusion of Panic! At the Disco frightens and disturbs me. This is a horror that cannot possibly be unintentional. Curse you, Samuel L!), Applesomething or other Farms for ice cream (now the story here is that there's an assisted living home called Applesomething Estates, and I can never ever ever get the two straight. Sue me), and Walgreens so I could pee and drink Sobe. I sure love Sobe. Naturally conversation ranged from sex to rock and roll to parties and everything associated to wisdom teeth to literature to people we'll never see again to the future and beyond to three hometown boys with nothing to do, as always, back to sex. It's a vicious conversational cycle and I love nearly nothing more.
"Round here... something radiates..."
Steve leaves for Temple U this Friday. He is a symbol of everyone before him and everyone who will follow him on the path to a future without me in it as much as I wish I could be.
But of course, every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end. And a host of "goodbye"s means limitless opportunity for "hello"s. I'll be meeting a number of my fellow Ramapo '06ers next week. With that, allow me to digress and sing the praises of the internet:
Never before have I seen such incendiary use to online resources as a medium for friendship and interaction. I am referring, of course, to the Facebook. Someone in my incoming class, who I'll leave nameless due to the inevitable throngs of people who will want to stalk him, decided it would be pretty sweet to meet people before move-in day. So he planned some meet-ups. Not one. Not two. Like... twelve... or some crazy shit like that. How awesome? For someone to afford everyone the opportunity to forge relationships before semester even begins? I'm meeting him at the train station next week and I hope it's the beginning of a long friendship.
End digression.
They say that you can make new friends and keep the old. But can you? I can't imagine not doing so. I can't picture myself updating this thing in three months having replaced the people that keep me going and who have without a doubt made me who I am. Watching names drop off my "call to hang out" list is like a countdown to drowning. But still I look forward, engraving in memory forever driving down route 9 head-banging to Muse and laughing about how much promise there is.
It's 1:52 am.
"Round here we stay up very very very very late..."
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
It comes with a sort of grim dawning that I realize it really is less than two weeks until liftoff. On September 4th I set sail for voyaging the treacherous waters of Ramapo College of New Jersey (I realize that I neglected to mention my school last night. oops). It's a little bit funny and a lotta bit sad watching each of my friends parting ways and, one by one, disappearing into the gathering dark. I don't know how anyone can stand watching relationships they've invested so much in flicker and die. How can anyone just let four years lived be four years passed? How can I, in the time it takes to say goodbye, let these people know how much they mean to me? And how much I'll miss them?
It would be a good night for fog because there is gloom over Freehold tonight.
I spent my evening driving aimlessly with my good friend and fellow graduate Steve (you can keep up with Steve here) and partner in political turmoil Johnny B, a new senior in a high school I'm now sufficiently qualified to call Hell. Stops on our journey included Best Buy to play "Guitar Hero" and check out the Snakes on a Plane soundtrack (the inclusion of Panic! At the Disco frightens and disturbs me. This is a horror that cannot possibly be unintentional. Curse you, Samuel L!), Applesomething or other Farms for ice cream (now the story here is that there's an assisted living home called Applesomething Estates, and I can never ever ever get the two straight. Sue me), and Walgreens so I could pee and drink Sobe. I sure love Sobe. Naturally conversation ranged from sex to rock and roll to parties and everything associated to wisdom teeth to literature to people we'll never see again to the future and beyond to three hometown boys with nothing to do, as always, back to sex. It's a vicious conversational cycle and I love nearly nothing more.
"Round here... something radiates..."
Steve leaves for Temple U this Friday. He is a symbol of everyone before him and everyone who will follow him on the path to a future without me in it as much as I wish I could be.
But of course, every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end. And a host of "goodbye"s means limitless opportunity for "hello"s. I'll be meeting a number of my fellow Ramapo '06ers next week. With that, allow me to digress and sing the praises of the internet:
Never before have I seen such incendiary use to online resources as a medium for friendship and interaction. I am referring, of course, to the Facebook. Someone in my incoming class, who I'll leave nameless due to the inevitable throngs of people who will want to stalk him, decided it would be pretty sweet to meet people before move-in day. So he planned some meet-ups. Not one. Not two. Like... twelve... or some crazy shit like that. How awesome? For someone to afford everyone the opportunity to forge relationships before semester even begins? I'm meeting him at the train station next week and I hope it's the beginning of a long friendship.
End digression.
They say that you can make new friends and keep the old. But can you? I can't imagine not doing so. I can't picture myself updating this thing in three months having replaced the people that keep me going and who have without a doubt made me who I am. Watching names drop off my "call to hang out" list is like a countdown to drowning. But still I look forward, engraving in memory forever driving down route 9 head-banging to Muse and laughing about how much promise there is.
It's 1:52 am.
"Round here we stay up very very very very late..."
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
It was the summer of '06
Key word, at this point, being "was".
I've been toying around with the idea of starting a blog ever since livejournal began losing its luster. Nothing against livejournal of course. For two years I updated religiously - pouring every bit of passion I had, in whatever it was at the time I was passionate about, and inevitably flooded cyberspace with my issues. This is not to say that my time spent playing the online journal game was wasted. I lived and breathed for comments posted. I weathered fights and controversies, however petty, that were violently accellerated by the publicity associated with internet slander. I mourned loves lost and celebrated newfound interest. I was, for once, participating in something bigger.
But now I feel that a larger number in my age column requires, or even entitles, me to leave a community that is so unfortunately labeled "high school". As we throw our caps in the air we, referring to whatever breakdown of american youth I am most familiar with, do several things in very quick succession. We delete our myspaces and make facebooks (which is just as well. The world could use less cancer). We trade in our "Brand New" "Taking Back Sunday" and "The Ataris" records for titles by Kanye West, Dave Matthews, and The Decembrists. And we invariably disassociate from anything we invested in in high school (namely, of course, livejournal. This of course also applies to the MakeOutClub... which I was somehow managed to miss out on. Count my blessings). To make my observation more scholarly, note that the key demographic for livejournal users is 16-18 year old females from California... which sounds interestingly similar to the demographic for MTV's new smash hit "The Hills". Spare me.
So.
Age is change.
Livejournal is passe.
and Indie is hip.
Shaken, not stirred, and served with a crisp twist of irony. Oh what it is to be young.
To clarify and bring this back to a personal account as opposed to an uninspired essay: the move to the blog is me trying to fill shoes I, with a society of young urban satirists beside me, have manifested. This isn't about conformity. It's about identity. And for me it's about finding the best medium for expression. Hello blogger. Oh. And don't ever expect me to throw "Tell All Your Friends" away, Kanye.
It was a good summer.
Despite being enslaved by an army of five year old children in excellent financial situations I managed to find time for seeing people and doing what little there is to do in Monmouth County, New Jersey. For those unaware, I was employed by Rolling Hills Day Camp for the last 8 weeks. To sum the experience up, it's a good thing I didn't start this blog until now. It spares you, the reader, a lot of frustration in attempting to read my ranting. It's absolutely true that you hate the job until the last day, however, at which point you fall in love with it. Translated: tipping was very very good to me. And you know, despite how much anger they can kindle in you, five year olds are really good at getting you emotionally attached to them. I'm going to miss them. Well, a handful of them.
It was also a good year for the movies. After spending ten bucks a pop on tickets for Superman, Pirates of the Caribbean 2, Clerks 2, and, of course, Snakes on a Plane... I can't say I regret it. Seriously though. Snakes on a Plane. Awesome.
It seems as if the summer between your last year of high school and your first year of college is an opportunity, however automatic and mandatory, to filter out lasting friends from superficial ones. You realize, upon graduation, that you don't actually have to be nice to anyone simply because you MUST deal with them on a day to day basis. The result of this is at the same time depressing and liberating. There are a select number of people that I am really truly going to miss. And that upsets me. More on that in future posts I'm sure. Which pretty much segways into college.
College.
What a milestone, man. Four years to simultaneously forge your future and be as irresponsible as you possibly can be. It's scary. It's daunting. It's really really nerve wracking. But I'm excited. This is a clean slate. A chance to start over and remedy anything I ever fucked up in high school. I'll take that in a second.
Which brings us to now. Less than two weeks to liftoff.
Oh, baby.
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
I've been toying around with the idea of starting a blog ever since livejournal began losing its luster. Nothing against livejournal of course. For two years I updated religiously - pouring every bit of passion I had, in whatever it was at the time I was passionate about, and inevitably flooded cyberspace with my issues. This is not to say that my time spent playing the online journal game was wasted. I lived and breathed for comments posted. I weathered fights and controversies, however petty, that were violently accellerated by the publicity associated with internet slander. I mourned loves lost and celebrated newfound interest. I was, for once, participating in something bigger.
But now I feel that a larger number in my age column requires, or even entitles, me to leave a community that is so unfortunately labeled "high school". As we throw our caps in the air we, referring to whatever breakdown of american youth I am most familiar with, do several things in very quick succession. We delete our myspaces and make facebooks (which is just as well. The world could use less cancer). We trade in our "Brand New" "Taking Back Sunday" and "The Ataris" records for titles by Kanye West, Dave Matthews, and The Decembrists. And we invariably disassociate from anything we invested in in high school (namely, of course, livejournal. This of course also applies to the MakeOutClub... which I was somehow managed to miss out on. Count my blessings). To make my observation more scholarly, note that the key demographic for livejournal users is 16-18 year old females from California... which sounds interestingly similar to the demographic for MTV's new smash hit "The Hills". Spare me.
So.
Age is change.
Livejournal is passe.
and Indie is hip.
Shaken, not stirred, and served with a crisp twist of irony. Oh what it is to be young.
To clarify and bring this back to a personal account as opposed to an uninspired essay: the move to the blog is me trying to fill shoes I, with a society of young urban satirists beside me, have manifested. This isn't about conformity. It's about identity. And for me it's about finding the best medium for expression. Hello blogger. Oh. And don't ever expect me to throw "Tell All Your Friends" away, Kanye.
It was a good summer.
Despite being enslaved by an army of five year old children in excellent financial situations I managed to find time for seeing people and doing what little there is to do in Monmouth County, New Jersey. For those unaware, I was employed by Rolling Hills Day Camp for the last 8 weeks. To sum the experience up, it's a good thing I didn't start this blog until now. It spares you, the reader, a lot of frustration in attempting to read my ranting. It's absolutely true that you hate the job until the last day, however, at which point you fall in love with it. Translated: tipping was very very good to me. And you know, despite how much anger they can kindle in you, five year olds are really good at getting you emotionally attached to them. I'm going to miss them. Well, a handful of them.
It was also a good year for the movies. After spending ten bucks a pop on tickets for Superman, Pirates of the Caribbean 2, Clerks 2, and, of course, Snakes on a Plane... I can't say I regret it. Seriously though. Snakes on a Plane. Awesome.
It seems as if the summer between your last year of high school and your first year of college is an opportunity, however automatic and mandatory, to filter out lasting friends from superficial ones. You realize, upon graduation, that you don't actually have to be nice to anyone simply because you MUST deal with them on a day to day basis. The result of this is at the same time depressing and liberating. There are a select number of people that I am really truly going to miss. And that upsets me. More on that in future posts I'm sure. Which pretty much segways into college.
College.
What a milestone, man. Four years to simultaneously forge your future and be as irresponsible as you possibly can be. It's scary. It's daunting. It's really really nerve wracking. But I'm excited. This is a clean slate. A chance to start over and remedy anything I ever fucked up in high school. I'll take that in a second.
Which brings us to now. Less than two weeks to liftoff.
Oh, baby.
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
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