Now Playing... Gin Wigmore

Let me start off by saying that I have a thing for these soulful, sultry, raspy, whiskey and cigarettes voices. I appreciate a beautiful girl with a beautiful mind and voice to match. Gin Wigmore is one of these underrated artists. Granted, she's a star in her native New Zealand, but America has yet to discover her brilliance. But they probably wouldn't care anyway. America likes what it likes and there's a certain formula here that makes you a star. Hopefully, we can stop obsessing over the predictable and give stars like Gin Wigmore a chance to shine.

"Too Late for Lovers" is a single off her orgasm of a debut album, Holy Smoke. The CD went quadruple platinum in NZ (note: platinum in ZK is selling 15,000 copies). A little bit of background: Wigmore won the US International Songwriting Competition in 2004 for her song "Hallelujah," which she wrote in memory of her father. She was the youngest and only unsigned writer in the history of the competition. Holy smoke.




"All I see are angels. I am no angel."

"127 Hours" Movie Review

I apologize for the lateness of this. I saw this film and wrote this review well over a month ago and just realized I had never published it. But just to keep some content flowing, and to help out those who are in need of a good film to watch, and to celebrate the Golden Globe nods (and snubs) for this film.

127 Hours: A-

Danny Boyle is something of a genius. The Slumdog Millionaire director managed to make a full-length film out of one man being pinned to a wall for five days. The film 127 Hours is based on the true story of hiker Aron Ralston, whose arm gets pinned in between a boulder and the wall of a cliff, rendering him trapped for five days with a very limited supply of food and water. The film shows off Boyle’s intricate signature of bright colors, varying angles, stunning racing visuals, and his love for AR Rahman.

In the picture, based on Ralston’s book, Between a Rock and a Hard Place, Ralston (portrayed by the intense, unavoidably lovable James Franco) takes a journey through Blue John Canyon near Moab, Utah in April 2003. With a ballsy spirit, he decides to tell absolutely no one where he is going. In a heart-stopping moment, Ralston comes across a loose part of the cliff, which sends him barreling down the cave…and the rock right on top of him. We watch Ralston keep himself surprisingly calm as he tries several ways to free his crushed arm, including chipping away at it with a dull knife to no avail.

Boyle creates a fabulous sense of being there as we observe a man breaking down before our eyes, forced to drink his own urine, record a visual obituary and, eventually, cut off his own arm to free himself. The gut-wrenching moments when Ralston’s water spills, when he’s forced to break his own bones and pop his veins, and the subtle sigh of relief when he is finally free ,will surely stay with you for a long time. The film will leave you appreciating little things you take for granted such as water, food, sunlight, even the ability to masturbate. It opens for wide release on November 19, 2010. Warning: this movie is NOT for the squeamish.

"Black Swan" Review

Black Swan: A

After countless views of the trailer for Darren Aronofsky's psychological doppelganger thriller "Black Swan," it's easy to think of this movie as a lustful thriller accompanied by a beautiful performance by the Natalie Portman (which, by the way, she trained and worked her ass off for to look like a real ballerina). All this is completely true, but all must be warned that it actually gets kind of gory. Had I watched this movie alone I probably wouldn't have noticed, but with a theater full of gasping, moaning and overall freaking out people, I can conclude that it might gross you out at times.

But isn't Darren Aronofsky great at that? He made a masterpiece out of "The Wrestler" using the same first-person pain-inducing techniques. With his handheld camera, ascending orchestra, brutal close-ups and swift motions, Aronofsky catapults you into the unraveling mind of Nina Sayers (Portman), a dedicated, shy, twentysomething ballet dancer who still lives with her mother, sleeps with dozens of stuffed animals and falls asleep to the sounds of a music box. You feel it every time she tears a piece of skin, suffers a hangnail, and endures whatever other bloody laceration or frightening encounter that may or may not have actually happened.

Nina starts out normal enough, but once she's made prima ballerina of "Swan Lake," she becomes obsessed with perfection, as she must be able to play both the white swan and the seductive black swan. She perfectly encapsulates the demurity of the white swan, but she cannot relinquish control enough to convincingly play the black swan. Newcomer Lily (Mila Kunis, with whom I now desire to enter into a relationship) is the epitome of the bewitching black swan, and is made her alternate by artistic director of the Ballet Company, Thomas (seductively played by the dashing, delicious Vincent Cassel that France has the pleasure of seeing as a leading man rather than the constant villain that America is exposed to).

Nina's intimidation of Lily and fear of being cast aside as former Swan Queen Beth (Winona Ryder) was drives her insane as she slowly sheds her innocent image and unleashes a darker side that sees her fighting her rival, her mother (Barbara Hershey channeling Piper Laurie in "Carrie") and herself.

The movie can be interpreted as not only the struggle for greatness in one's art, but also a narrative on the brutal nature with which Hollywood starlets are easily replaced with the next best thing and cast aside. Possibly one of the most carefully casted movies, it seems these roles were written for Portman and Ryder, the hard-working good-girl and the aging superstar who has had her time, respectively.

"Swan" may leave some wanting more, but the beauty of creating a masterpiece that speaks for itself is never having to explain anything. There are hints to Nina's self-destructive past and the ending will absolutely leave you wondering, but there couldn't have been a better way to end such a movie. Yes, it's a bit ridiculous at times, but approached from an artistic standpoint, it's a delightful, if not tragic, production and a sure Oscar contender.

(By the way, I'm not a professional critic by any means.)

Feeling Good

        It's so ironic that this song is what I'm posting for the first time in almost a month considering this is the worst day I've had in a very long time. BUT when my days are bad, my dark side rages and it's manifested in art like this. This is not the video I wanted to post. The actual video to this song is SICK and twisted and so I love it, and I encourage you to watch it on YouTube, but the song is really good too. This song is known for being difficult to cover. Many have tried, many have failed, Michael Buble did wonderful and, of course, Ms. Nina Simone was the ultimate. But this cover is different. I've been sleeping on Muse for a long time but I may actually pay closer attention to them now. It only take something like this to get my attention. This is probably the most original cover I've ever heard of this song, and it's incredibly sexy. Enough blabber. Sit in your dark room, close your eyes, turn this up, and listen. Repeat if necessary.

Classic with a Modern Twist

Classic with a Modern Twist by maryline.rockstar featuring suede boots

This is the epitome of me.

Politics and the Youth

Yesterday was Midterm Elections and, being a journalism student, I'm pretty much forced to care by my professors. I can't tell you how many projects I was assigned relating to the elections. As journalists, we have to know and, more importantly, care about what is going on in the world around us. Even though my niche is magazine journalism, I've written for news publications as well. People look to journalists for information and clarity. But are some people not looking enough?

When I was younger, I never pictured myself taking an interest in politics or news. It seemed as though all adults were obsessed with the news and I figured it was something that would come with being an adult. But the older I got, the more I feared I would never care. That I'd be the oddball adult who didn't watch the news and keep up with the latest.

Then I switched my major to journalism. It was a completely different atmosphere than business. I was not learning about how to make a buck. I was learning about the world. My world. And I was understanding it in a way I never had before. I still don't watch the news as regularly as I should because I find that personally it drains me emotionally, but I make sure to keep up with what's going on.

I did not vote in the midterm elections because I am not an official U.S. citizen and therefore my vote means nothing to this country, but I live here so even though I was completely absorbed in my crazy busy life, I still found myself invested when the results were being streamed. Sure, I was forced to watch it by my professors, but I actually cared.

Especially when the Republicans began dominating. Now I'm a liberal and it's obvious, and I've never been able to comprehend black conservatives anyway. Like A. Leon Higginbotham said to Justice Clarence Thomas in his Open Letter, "What is it that you are trying to conserve?" Or something along those lines.

While I was immersed in the results, I logged onto Facebook mindlessly and saw that hardly anyone else cared. They were worried about the Bad Girl's Club and whatnot. I understand that in Maryland (where I'm from) it's not as big of a deal as it is in Pennsylvania, but there's an absolute lack of concern for something that could completely change our country.

We may be young but we're not kids anymore and pretty soon we will be on our own, and directly affected by our government's policies. If we don't start thinking about it now, I fear that we'll start when it's too late.

In yesterday's elections only 9 % of the voters were18-29 year-olds, and only 10 % were African-Americans. For the two groups who may be the most affected by the results of the election, I find it shocking (but not really) that these numbers are so low.

So what do we do about this problem? What will the consequences be for this lack of participation?

Back in Black-tion

   What a terrible blogger I am. Look at me, I'm using Helvetica! Ugh. I've heard that word used so many times in my Design class, it's disgusting.  


   So while I value my education, my money, and my experience, school, work, and all else has really been a nuisance. I'm starting to think I am the worst blogger ever, but I have to be a bit lenient on myself. 


   So I've officially decided that one day, I will just live and be smothered in New York. I went there last Saturday and this Tuesday, and it's hard to wanna leave that place. It's just as alive on a Wednesday at one in the morning as it is on a weekend. There are opportunities everywhere you turn and adventure galore, even on the subway (which smells like ass). 


   Anyway, so here I am, back in action, and ready to recommit myself to my godforsaken baby. 


   Meanwhile, I have been obsessed with Dominican fashion model Omahyra Mota for many years. Something about her androgyny, her accent, her husky voice, her tattoos, her scowl, her provocative relationship with Boyd, and her overall authentic badass-ness gets me extremely worked up. Just some eye candy.

Now Playing...The One and Only Nina Simone

     This song does things to me. It gives me chills. Ms. Simone using her signature scatting and feeling the music harder than any artist ever could. She was unconventionally gorgeous, she had a strong baritone voice, and she had soul. And I really wish Mia Michaels would choreograph a dance to this song.





"I don't care if you don't want me, I'm yours right now." Tell me that wasn't the most cherry thing you've heard all day. Ta ta.

Franco Wrap-Up

     Is James Franco a weirdo? Is he a stoner? Is he gay? Is he a wannabe? Is he just a normal guy? These are the questions that the media are dying to answer. Given that Franco is notoriously enrolled in several different schools and has two highly anticipated films coming out this fall, he appears to be one of the most sought-after celebrities in Hollywood right now. And these editorials weren't just satisfied getting regular, standard interviews with him; they wanted to delve deep into the psyche of one of the most complex, mysterious figures in the public eye.

     Thus three different profiles were born in a time span of three months. New York Magazine was first with their epic 6,499-word profile on the Renaissance man. This was quickly followed by Franco covering the magazines Esquire (for their September issue) and the Advocate (for their October issue).

     Frustrations have run rampant about the bandwagon-jumping of these magazines. While many people may think the last two are just rehashing what the first profile already covered, all the profiles all take different angles. Obviously, there are details that are bound to seem redundant if you have read them all. But many people don't know what goes into the making of a magazine. Most likely, all these projects were in the works before any one of them came out.

     Yes, in the blog I posted about the Advocate's profile, I did allude to the Esquire profile regarding the similarity of the picture to the title of the Esquire feature. But that may have been purely coincidence. The thing I liked about the Advocate profile is the abundance of "gay" in the profile. The fact that the interview is taking place while San Francisco, possibly the gayest city in America, is celebrating gay pride is priceless. The profile also goes deeper into why Franco is attracted to homosexual roles, and it actually makes sense.

     At times, the Advocate profile does get a bit too ambitious, however. It digresses from being a profile when it spends more than one page going on about his upcoming movie, Howl. It then tries to pick up about his life and cram details like how he doesn't do drugs, and even a detail mentioned in the NY Mag profile about how, after finding out that a friend of the family had died at the age of four, he burst into tears, exclaiming that he didn't want to die because he had too much to do. It happens.

     Clearly, Esquire had the more dynamic feature, although it did have the most lackluster profile.

     Overall, the Advocate provided interesting details and insights, Esquire was the most entertaining, but NY Mag, in my opinion, really conveyed who James Franco was to the audience. He's a really complicated figure to understand. He's not just an artistic guy who's perplexing to the world because of his decision to return to school after he's made it; he's still a Hollywood figure. Yes, it's admirable that he has so much going on, but he does have a personal assistant to help him with all that, who says that he probably wouldn't eat if she didn't present him with food. He's not a normal college student, or even a typical guy.

     I'm cutting out a lot because I talk too much and I'm trying to wrap it up, but all in all, read these. If you like James Franco, read them. If you don't, read them. If you're an aspiring journalist/writer, READ THEM. Find out how to write about the same thing in a completely different way. Learn from their mistakes, and take away some good tips.

     They're all really good anyway. So, there you go. I've written all that to come to this simple-minded, bland, easy-way-out conclusion. Just cherry.

Howl by Allen Ginsberg

Allen Ginsberg was a key member of the beat generation along with famous names like Jack Kerouac. His poetry: fantastic. His legend: divine. His impact: global. Howl is easily his most well-known poem, and the first line one of the most recognizable. Countdown to Howl begins. With this.

I
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,

dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,

angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,

who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz,

who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated,

who passed through universities with radiant eyes hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war,

who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull,

who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burning their money in wastebaskets and listening to the Terror through the wall,

who got busted in their pubic beards returning through Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York,

who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their torsos night after night

with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol and cock and endless balls,

incomparable blind streets of shuddering cloud and lightning in the mind leaping towards poles of Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the motionless world of Time between,

Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops, storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brooklyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind,

who chained themselves to subways for the endless ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine until the noise of wheels and children brought them down shuddering mouth-wracked and battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance in the drear light of Zoo,

who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford's floated out and sat through the stale beer afternoon in desolate Fugazzi's, listening to the crack of doom on the hydrogen jukebox,

who talked continuously seventy hours from park to pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brooklyn Bridge,

a lost batallion of platonic conversationalists jumping down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills off Empire State out of the moon

yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts and memories and anecdotes and eyeball kicks and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars,

whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days and nights with brilliant eyes, meat for the Synagogue cast on the pavement,

who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a trail of ambiguous picture postcards of Atlantic City Hall,

suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grindings and migraines of China under junk-withdrawal in Newark's bleak furnished room,

who wandered around and around at midnight in the railway yard wondering where to go, and went, leaving no broken hearts,

who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing through snow toward lonesome farms in grandfather night,

who studied Plotinus Poe St John of the Cross telepathy and bop kabbalah because the universe instinctively vibrated at their feet in Kansas,

who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking visionary indian angels who were visionary indian angels,

who thought they were only mad when Baltimore gleamed in supernatural ecstasy,

who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Oklahoma on the impulse of winter midnight streetlight smalltown rain,

who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston seeking jazz or sex or soup, and followed the brilliant Spaniard to converse about America and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so took ship to Africa,

who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving nothing behind but the shadow of dungarees and the larva and ash of poetry scattered in fireplace Chicago,

who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the FBI in beards and shorts with big pacifist eyes sexy in their dark skin passing out incomprehensible leaflets,

who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting the narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism, who distributed Supercommunist pamphlets in Union Square weeping and undressing while the sirens of Los Alamos wailed them down, and wailed down Wall, and the Staten Island ferry also wailed,

who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked and trembling before the machinery of other skeletons,

who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight in policecars for committing no crime but their own wild cooking pederasty and intoxication,

who howled on their knees in the subway and were dragged off the roof waving genitals and manuscripts,

who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists, and screamed with joy,

who blew and were blown by those human seraphim, the sailors, caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean love,

who balled in the morning in the evenings in rosegardens and the grass of public parks and cemeteries scattering their semen freely to whomever come who may,

who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up with a sob behind a partition in a Turkish Bath when the blond & naked angel came to pierce them with a sword,

who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate the one eyed shrew of the heterosexual dollar the one eyed shrew that winks out of the womb and the one eyed shrew that does nothing but sit on her ass and snip the intellectual golden threads of the craftsman's loom,

who copulated ecstatic and insatiate and fell off the bed, and continued along the floor and down the hall and ended fainting on the wall with a vision of ultimate cunt and come eluding the last gyzym of consciousness,

who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling in the sunset, and were red eyed in the morning but were prepared to sweeten the snatch of the sunrise, flashing buttocks under barns and naked in the lake,

who went out whoring through Colorado in myriad stolen night-cars, N.C., secret hero of these poems, cocksman and Adonis of Denver—joy to the memory of his innumerable lays of girls in empty lots & diner backyards, moviehouses' rickety rows, on mountaintops in caves or with gaunt waitresses in familiar roadside lonely petticoat upliftings & especially secret gas-station solipsisms of johns, & hometown alleys too,

who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in dreams, woke on a sudden Manhattan, and picked themselves up out of basements hungover with heartless Tokay and horrors of Third Avenue iron dreams & stumbled to unemployment offices,

who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on the snowbank docks waiting for a door in the East River to open full of steamheat and opium,

who created great suicidal dramas on the appartment cliff-banks of the Hudson under the wartime blue floodlight of the moon & their heads shall be crowned with laurel in oblivion,

who ate the lamb stew of the imagination or digested the crab at the muddy bottom of the rivers of the Bowery,

who wept at the romance of the streets with their pushcarts full of onions and bad music,

who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the bridge, and rose up to build harpsichords in their lofts, who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned with flame under the tubercular sky surrounded by orange crates of theology,

who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty incantations which in the yellow morning were stanzas of gibberish,

who cooked rotten animals lung heart feet tail borsht & tortillas dreaming of the pure vegetable kingdom,

who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for an egg,

who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot for an Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks fell on their heads every day for the next decade,

who cut their wrists three times successively unsuccessfully, gave up and were forced to open antique stores where they thought they were growing old and cried,

who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits on Madison Avenue amid blasts of leaden verse & the tanked-up clatter of the iron regiments of fashion & the nitroglycerine shrieks of the fairies of advertising & the mustard gas of sinister intelligent editors, or were run down by the drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality,

who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually happened and walked away unknown and forgotten into the ghostly daze of Chinatown soup alleyways & firetrucks, not even one free beer,

who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of the subway window, jumped in the filthy Passaic, leaped on negroes, cried all over the street, danced on broken wineglasses barefoot smashed phonograph records of nostalgic European 1930s German jazz finished the whiskey and threw up groaning into the bloody toilet, moans in their ears and the blast of colossal steamwhistles,

who barreled down the highways of the past journeying to each other's hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude watch Birmingham jazz incarnation,

who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out if I had a vision or you had a vision or he had a vision to find out Eternity,

who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who came back to Denver & waited in vain, who watched over Denver & brooded & loned in Denver and finally went away to find out the Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes,

who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying for each other's salvation and light and breasts, until the soul illuminated its hair for a second,

who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for impossible criminals with golden heads and the charm of reality in their hearts who sang sweet blues to Alcatraz,

who retired to Mexico to cultivate a habit, or Rocky Mount to tender Buddha or Tangiers to boys or Southern Pacific to the black locomotive or Harvard to Narcissus to Woodlawn to the daisychain or grave,

who demanded sanity trials accusing the radio of hypnotism & were left with their insanity & their hands & a hung jury,

who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturerson Dadaism and subsequently presented themselves on the granite steps of the madhouse with the shaven heads and harlequin speech of suicide, demanding instantaneous lobotomy,

and who were given instead the concrete void of insulin Metrazol electricity hydrotherapy psychotherapy occupational therapy pingpong & amnesia,

who in humorless protest overturned only one symbolic pingpong table, resting briefly in catatonia,

returning years later truly bald except for a wig of blood, and tears and fingers, to the visible madman doom of the wards of the madtowns of the East,

Pilgrim State's Rockland's and Greystone's foetid halls, bickering with the echoes of the soul, rocking and rolling in the midnight solitude-bench dolmen-realms of love, dream of life a nightmare, bodies turned to stone as heavy as the moon,

with mother finally *****, and the last fantastic book flung out of the tenement window, and the last door closed at 4 A.M. and the last telephone slammed at the wall in reply and the last furnished room emptied down to the last piece of mental furniture, a yellow paper rose twisted on a wire hanger on the closet, and even that imaginary, nothing but a hopeful little bit of hallucination—

ah, Carl, while you are not safe I am not safe, and now you're really in the total animal soup of time—

and who therefore ran through the icy streets obsessed with a sudden flash of the alchemy of the use of the ellipse the catalog the meter & the vibrating plane,

who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Space through images juxtaposed, and trapped the archangel of the soulbetween 2 visual images and joined the elemental verbs and set the noun and dash of consciousness together jumping with sensation of Pater Omnipotens Aeterna Deusarchangel of the soulbetween 2 visual images and joined the elemental verbs and set the noun and dash of consciousness together jumping with sensation of Pater Omnipotens Aeterna Deus

to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human prose and stand before you speechless and intelligent and shaking with shame, rejected yet confessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm of thought in his naked and endless head,

the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown, yet putting down here what might be left to say in time come after death,

and rose incarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in the goldhorn shadow of the band and blew the suffering of America's naked mind for love into an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone cry that shivered the cities down to the last radio

with the absolute heart of the poem butchered out of their own bodies good to eat a thousand years.


II

What sphinx of cement and aluminium bashed open their skulls and ate up their brains and imagination?

Moloch! Solitude! Filth! Ugliness! Ashcans and unobtainable dollars! Children screaming under the stairways! Boys sobbing in armies! Old men weeping in the parks!

Moloch! Moloch! Nightmare of Moloch! Moloch the loveless! Mental Moloch! Moloch the heavy judger of men!

Moloch the incomprehensible prison! Moloch the crossbone soulless jailhouse and Congress of sorrows! Moloch whose buildings are judgement! Moloch the vast stone of war! Moloch the stunned governments!

Moloch whose mind is pure machinery! Moloch whose blood is running money! Moloch whose fingers are ten armies! Moloch whose breast is a cannibal dynamo! Moloch whose ear is a smoking tomb!

Moloch whose eyes are a thousand blind windows! Moloch whose skyscrapers stand in the long streets like endless Jehovas! Moloch whose factories dream and choke in the fog! Moloch whose smokestacks and antennae crown the cities!

Moloch whose love is endless oil and stone! Moloch whose soul is electricity and banks! Moloch whose poverty is the specter of genius! Moloch whose fate is a cloud of sexless hydrogen! Moloch whose name is the Mind!

Moloch in whom I sit lonely! Moloch in whom I dream angels! Crazy in Moloch! Cocksucker in Moloch! Lacklove and manless in Moloch!

Moloch who entered my soul early! Moloch in whom I am a consciousness without a body! Moloch who frightened me out of my natural ecstasy! Moloch whom I abandon! Wake up in Moloch! Light streaming out of the sky!

Moloch! Moloch! Robot apartments! invisable suburbs! skeleton treasuries! blind capitals! demonic industries! spectral nations! invincible madhouses! granite cocks! monstrous bombs!

They broke their backs lifting Moloch to Heaven! Pavements, trees, radios, tons! lifting the city to Heaven which exists and is everywhere about us!

Visions! omens! hallucinations! miracles! ecstacies! gone down the American river!

Dreams! adorations! illuminations! religions! the whole boatload of sensitive bullshit!

Breakthroughs! over the river! flips and crucifixions! gone down the flood! Highs! Epiphanies! Despairs! Ten years' animal screams and suicides! Minds! New loves! Mad generation! down on the rocks of Time!

Real holy laughter in the river! They saw it all! the wild eyes! the holy yells! They bade farewell! They jumped off the roof! to solitude! waving! carrying flowers! Down to the river! into the street!


III

Carl Solomon! I'm with you in Rockland

         where you're madder than I am

I'm with you in Rockland

         where you must feel strange

I'm with you in Rockland

         where you imitate the shade of my mother

I'm with you in Rockland

         where you've murdered your twelve secretaries

I'm with you in Rockland

         where you laugh at this invisible humour

I'm with you in Rockland

         where we are great writers on the same dreadful typewriter

I'm with you in Rockland

         where your condition has become serious and is reported on the radio

I'm with you in Rockland

         where the faculties of the skull no longer admit the worms of the senses

I'm with you in Rockland

         where you drink the tea of the breasts of the spinsters of Utica

I'm with you in Rockland

         where you pun on the bodies of your nurses the harpies of the Bronx

I'm with you in Rockland

         where you scream in a straightjacket that you're losing the game of actual pingpong of the abyss

I'm with you in Rockland

         where you bang on the catatonic piano the soul is innocent and immortal it should never die ungodly in an armed madhouse

I'm with you in Rockland

         where fifty more shocks will never return your soul to its body again from its pilgrimage to a cross in the void

I'm with you in Rockland

         where you accuse your doctors of insanity and plot the Hebrew socialist revolution against the fascist national Golgotha

I'm with you in Rockland

         where you will split the heavens of Long Island and resurrect your living human Jesus from the superhuman tomb

I'm with you in Rockland

         where there are twentyfive thousand mad comrades all together singing the final stanzas of the Internationale

I'm with you in Rockland

         where we hug and kiss the United States under our bedsheets the United States that coughs all night and won't let us sleep

I'm with you in Rockland

         where we wake up electrified out of the coma by our own souls' airplanes roaring over the roof they've come to drop angelic bombs the hospital illuminates itself   imaginary walls collapse   O skinny legions run outside   O starry-spangled shock of mercy the eternal war is here   O victory forget your underwear we're free

I'm with you in Rockland

         in my dreams you walk dripping from a sea-journey on the highway across America in tears to the door of my cottage in the Western night

Annabel Lee

Photo Courtesy of Dustfae

Very simply put, the title explains it all. Edgar Allan Poe may be long deceased, but he remains my muse. And because it was his muse, wife Virginia, who inspired this beautiful poem, this is naturally and easily one of my all-time favorite poems. Probably the only poem I can recite by heart. I've even bolded and/or italicised my favorite parts! (I'm such a dork.) If it doesn't give you chills, I don't know what will.

Annabel Lee

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea:
But we loved with a love that was more than love -
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her high-born kinsmen came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me -
Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud one night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we -
Of many far wiser than we -
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling -my darling -my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea -
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

Edgar Allan Poe

James Franco: The Gay Man's Actor

Franco Eight Ways? Coincidence?
Photo courtesy of advocate.com

     Yes, these magazines just can't get enough of James Franco. But we totally saw this one coming. The Advocate, too, has written their version of the actor's profile, but it has one focus in particular. Yes, you guessed it: is James Franco gay?

     The Advocate is an LGBTQ magazine focusing on all things gay. So it comes as no surprise that their profile centers around the actor's controversial tendency towards gay roles.

     "In addition to the two gay-themed poems he adapted for student films (Frank Bidart’s “Herbert White” being the other), Franco portrayed a 17-year-old swimmer dating an older man in the gay indie film Blind Spot and Harvey Milk’s lover in Milk. He also French-kissed Will Forte on Saturday Night Live, took a queer studies course at NYU, and created performance art pieces about gender and sexual confusion."

     He also is starring as gay poet Allen Ginsberg in the anticipated upcoming film, Howl.

     Some of the highlights? The writer, Benoit Denizet-Lewis, asks Franco why he is so inspired to take on gay roles. Franco: “In this history of cinema, there are so many heterosexual love stories,” he whispers. “It’s so hammered, so done. It’s just not that interesting to me. It’s more interesting to me to play roles and relationships that haven’t been portrayed as often.”

     Valid point. Franco seems to enjoy taking risks and challenging himself. If he were gay, he'd probably be the type to play straight just to push the envelope. Franco also approaches his roles with a ferocity that is almost unheard of with the exception of actors like the late, great Heath Ledger. Franco even admits in the profile that his intensity made it difficult to work with him, even going so far as telling directors how to do their job.

     “I used to approach acting with a very antagonistic [attitude],” he says. “I was very hard to get along with, and it made working in film very unpleasant. It also hurt my performances. Now I think about acting differently. I feel a little detached from acting, actually. I still work really hard, but for my own sanity—and everyone else’s—I’ve had to surrender the results.”

     My conclusion is this: James Franco is gayer than Lady Gaga but not quite as gay as those guys who say "no homo" after every sentence. He has a fascination with sexual confusion and homosexuality, not for entertainment purposes, but by merely accepting that "We’re all gender-fucked—we’re all something in between, floating like angels.”

     But how does this compare with the other profiles? Tune in soon and see how the three compare.

Why Didn't He Call You, You Ask?

Hmmm....

     Just because you're hot doesn't mean he'll call. Just because he didn't call doesn't mean you're not hot. You may just be annoying. If you wanna steer clear of driving your date away, take this advice from dating coach Evan Marc Katz. It's the five reasons why he didn't call you.

Reason #1: You talk, but don’t listen


Women are sharers. It’s culturally ingrained. You may talk to your best friend or mom five times a day and think nothing of it. Every detail is relevant, and nothing can be left out in the telling of a story. Problem is, men don’t generally communicate that way. So try to consider the ebb and flow of a normal conversation. If he hasn’t spoken in awhile, ask him a question (and not a vague “So tell me about you,” which will make feel self-conscious and put on the spot). If he’s telling a story, try doing a follow-up query instead of refocusing the spotlight on yourself (“You like to travel? Let me tell you about how I backpacked through the Amazon!”). And if it’s occurred to you that you haven’t yet learned a thing about your date, try listening for a bit. It’s not that we’re not interested in getting to know you, it’s that we’d be thrilled if you were interested in getting to know us, too.
 
 
Reason #2: You use conversation as therapy


Talking about your evil ex-boyfriend. Talking about your hatred of your job. Talking about your strained relationship with your mother. It’s not that the bad stuff is irrelevant, it’s that it’s inappropriate. Being negative might be an effective way of winning an election, but it’s not exactly endearing on a date. Even if you feel compelled to touch on such subjects, consider your tone when doing so. And consider how you’d feel if a man were to share his inner turmoil with you too soon.


Reason #3: You’re a little too enthusiastic about him

It’s normal to get excited about a date with potential. It’s normal to consider what kind of husband that date might be. It was also normal to write your grade school crush’s name on the back of your notebook… but you wouldn’t show it to him, would you? Of course not! There’s an unwritten rule in dating that governs the energy flow between a man and a woman: when one party tries too hard, the other party pulls back. If a stranger has ever bought you a costly gift on the first date or called you seven times the day after you had coffee, you know what I mean. We’re not saying you should act cold; just don’t get carried away in front of him. Keep your projections to yourself until you have a better idea whether your affections are reciprocated or not.


Reason #4: Your idea of chit-chat is politics, religion and other heavy topics

So you don’t complain about your ex, your boss or your mom. But you have a bone to pick with the President, the U.N. and the Pope. Hey, if your date is up for a surprise appearance on Meet the Press, that’s cool. Just know that not everybody likes to swim in the deep end of the pool so early. Sometimes, you’re better off sticking with banter about favorite travel spots or good movies or even funny online dates from the past. It’s not that intellectual topics should be off-limits, but until you know where someone lands on the political spectrum, you may want to tread lightly.


Reason #5: You’re not relating to him — you’re testing him

Dating should be fun. Getting to know a fascinating stranger, sharing information about yourself to an interested date… these are the things that keep us optimistic about the process. Where it all goes wrong is when you inadvertently turn him into a defendant and yourself into the prosecuting attorney. “How long was your last relationship?” “Where do you see yourself in two years?” “Do you want kids someday?” The answers to these questions are really important — they may well determine whether you choose to see him again — but great dates do not occur on a hot seat or under a microscope. Try reading between the lines instead of asking him these things point-blank.


Ahem, now back to Franco.

Octo-Franco (James, That Is)

Classy. Perfect. Yum.

     Esquire Magazine has caught the Franco Fever and decided to one-up New York Magazine with a multi-dimensional feature of James Franco, appropriately titled, "Franco Eight Ways." The feature is comprised of eight different genres of work centered around Franco and his multi-dimensional life.

    The first is a series of five short videos made by Franco's brother, Dave, that show Franco behind the scenes, speaking and laughing very intimately with him.
   
    The second is a snapshot profile of Franco (which, compared to other Franco profiles, is slightly forgettable). Don't let this piece deter you from continuing, because it only gets better.
   
    The feature continues with a short, fictional, risible story entitled "Keep Doing What You Are Doing, James Franco," in which James Franco executes every role. (James Franco watches James Franco on television, reads about James Franco delivering a baby, defusing a roadside bomb, making love to five women. James Franco's roommate, James Franco, comes home from a four-minute mile run, smelling like cologne, and immediately begins multitasking. Humorous. Sends a clear message.

    The third part is a HILARIOUS poem by a person who knows nothing about James Franco, and insists not to be told anything about him.

    Part number four of this feature is called "Four Introductions to James Franco," written by Bill Hader of Saturday Night Live. Hader recalls four different occasions when he was introduced to James Franco. Need I tell you that you will be laughing?

    Next are visuals from Franco's first solo art exhibition. Not quite as interesting as the others.

    The Living Art Exhibit is the seventh part, where Franco is takes part in performance artist Marina Abramovic's live exhibition where she sat in a chair every day for seven weeks. Across from her was an empty chair where anyone could sit for as long as they wanted. Franco stops by and participates for just over a minute. (And, damn, does he look good sitting there!) Included also, is a clip of him in the documentary for the exhibit. Interesting.

    The feature concludes with a short story published by Esquire in March 2010, written by Franco himself. The story is titled "Just Before the Black." The story was panned by some critics, who called his writing amateur. The story is about the moment right before you die, and is really not bad at all, considering that it seems to be written in stream of consciousness narrative mode. It seems that critics might have some trouble looking at the dreamy actor as a serious writer, and that may be adding some bias to their opinions.

    The conclusion: It's a good feature. Look at it. Pick up the issue. Rip out his pictures. Put it on your wall.
   
   

An Untiltled Poem

I like to write poetry. I wrote this one a couple of months ago, but it's definitely one of my more recent ones. It's about a boy. A boy who has me like no other, but whom I have yet to possess. So I pine for him through my aching words. And though I typically share my poems with no one other than the voices in my head, I am simply too lazy to write a legit blog today. It has no title. It just is.

Broken Heart Scan by Fabu

To hear your voice is a selfish indulgence
That I deserve only so I may be tortured.

To see your face is a wicked blessing

That passes me by in an instant.

My walls crumble from the smite of your touch

Which leaves the impression that they have been

Sweetly penetrated by your glorious will.

There are frequent times in every single second

When my mind is consumed with thoughts

Of you, and you alone.

You give me your hand, and I'll give you

The world in return.

I'd tear the very flesh off my bones

To shield you from all detriment.

I fear nothing the way I fear you.

Every day I die just to be in your arms,

And yet nothing makes me feel so alive

As the promise of your presence.

I tremble at the possibility that

I could never call you my own.

And at the thought that she could make you

Happier than I.

Although I know that she could not appreciate

The masterpiece that is you

For that is a gift only true lovers possess.

Now Playing...Hooverphonic

I'm crazy about this song. It's called "Mad About You", by Belgian pop/rock group Hooverphonic. The trippiness and dramatic organization of this song almost makes me feel like I'm in some surreal forbidden love story, and I want the whole world to know about it! The song is from 2000, but we definitely need some music like this in the mainstream. The video's a bit creepy, but that's just how I like it.





"Trouble is my middle name, but in the end I'm not too bad. Can someone tell me if it's wrong to be so mad about you?" If I thought it was anything less than cherry, I wouldn't suggest it.

Young Black Hollywood

     As many of you might have heard, seeing as it is kind of old news, Vanity Fair's March issue featured what they referred to as the stars of "New Hollywood." The cover featured nine beautiful actresses supposedly on the rise, but there was only one problem...it seems they took the word "fair" quite seriously.

     You see, it just so happened that all nine of those gorgeous ingenues were white. They represented the ideal physical beauty that Hollywood is known to perpetuate: young, fresh-faced, fair-skinned, and thin. Actresses Abbie Cornish, Kristen Stewart, Carey Mulligan, Amanda Seyfried, Rebecca Hall, Mia Wasikowska, Emma Stone, Evan Rachel Wood, and Anna Kendrick were apparently the only ones that Vanity Fair could think of. Some of these actresses I completely understand. Kirsten Stewart is everywhere, Carey Mulligan was exceptional in "An Education," Amanda Seyfried has made quite a name for herself, and Evan Rachel Wood is never too far away from America's conscious.

     But the magazine neglected rising stars like Gabourey Sidibe of "Precious" and Zoe Saldana when conjuring up their list. As I was reflecting upon this in disappointment, I wondered how long it would take for a major magazine to strike back with a cover full of ethnic, diverse women.

     Well, in August, someone finally decided to strike back. Publicist Arian Simone came out with her own, exclusively digital publication called "Fearless Magazine." On the premiere cover are eight of the most insignificant actresses in Hollywood.

     I know that may seem harsh, but they could have done wayyyy better. Lauren London, Monique Coleman, Tia Mowry, Tiffany Hines, Naturi Naughton, Kyla Pratt, Jennifer Freeman, and Chyna Layne are the eight black actresses gracing this cover, and only a couple of them are actually relevant. Many of you may remember Jennifer Freeman from the hit sitcom "My Wife and Kids," and most recently for abusing her NBA husband. I haven't seen Kyla Pratt in years, nor has Lauren London appeared in a film since giving birth to Lil Wayne's baby...you get the point. The point is...we failed to make a point with this retaliation.


  Who do you think should have been on Vanity Fair's cover?

Why Researchers Think Women Should Settle

     Okay, so maybe I'm being a bit dramatic about it, but I don't think I agree with what this study is saying. The Journal of Family Psychology recently published a research study that suggests that if a woman marries a less attractive man, she is likelier to have a more fulfilling marriage.

     Apparently, what the study found was that when women are in relationships with men who are better looking than they are, their mates tend to be less supportive and attentive because they know they can do better and have other options. On the other hand, men who are less attractive tend to feel so grateful to be with someone who is better-looking, that they are more likely to be supportive, attentive and please you more in bed, ultimately leading to a happy relationship.

     What this says to me is that good-looking guys are shallow assholes who will treat you like shit because you don't look like Kim Kardashian. This is a broad subject that has led to a very narrow conclusion. There is more to a woman's beauty than the size of her waist and the curve of her face. A man, like women, takes into consideration more than just her outer beauty. A woman's inner beauty can make her so much more beautiful on the outside. So even if her man is physically better-looking than she is, he can--and should-- feel lucky to be with her regardless.

     Yes, there is a good moral to this: looks should not be everything. A woman should not choose a guy simply based on his looks, and she should know that she deserves to be treated with the utmost care and respect. With that said, can't we have the same moral for men? Shouldn't they be okay with less attractive women? Shouldn't people who aren't considered conventionally beautiful still be aware that they have many options as well, and don't have to settle?

     I could go on and on about this topic, but I won't. I simply want to make a point: we all have options and we shouldn't ever just settle because we think it might not get much better. With that said, we should not have unrealistic expectations of who we want our mates to be. When you find someone who makes you feel the way you want to feel, I think you'll know it and it will happen the way it's supposed to happen. Meanwhile, I encourage you to read more about this and I'm curious to hear what you come up with.

Fantasia Barrino Continued...

     I apologize for the hiatus on my blog. As you may know, I am a college student and this week I served as a volunteer on campus to help welcome in the new freshman. So occasionally, I will be too overwhelmed with school and work responsibilities to update. But I'll try to get to it as much as I can.

     The reason I am doing this post is because my very first post was a comparison on how Fantasia Barrino and Alicia Keys, both allegedly in affairs with married men, were each treated by the media. In the post, based on an article I read on theroot.com, I mentioned how their skin color could possibly be one of the reasons Fantasia was treated much more harshly than Alicia. This article was a real debate-starter and got the wheels turning in my mind as well.

     Fantasia has just recently revealed in an interview with Vibe magazine that she believes the reason she was treated differently was because of her skin tone and ethnic features. In the interview, she takes it a step further, saying she believes her skin tone, ethnic features, and short hair also got her excluded from red carpet coverage spreads in popular magazines.

     In my opinion, Fantasia took something that the black media was saying in her defense and ran with it as far as she could. Now, while I do believe her skin tone played a part, it is very unlikely that was the whole reason she was treated differently from the Alicia Keys and Angelina Jolies. Fantasia claims that it was difficult being on American Idol, where everyone was "barbied out," as she she says.

     But she forgets to mention that she won the competition. Despite being a teen single mother, dark-skinned, and having a full nose and full lips, the American audience still voted her the winner. With all the pressure and embarrassment following her suicide attempt, I think Fantasia is now trying to play the victim card. And, in my opinion, all this press and all these interviews are putting her back in the spotlight conveniently close to the release of her album.

     Going back to American Idol, she is held to different standards than celebrities not affiliated with that name. And not only that, but her scandal, unlike the others, involved the possible existence of a sex tape. People want to know that the person they rooted for and voted for is not a sex-tape-making, shameless homewrecker. Alicia Keys got into this business on her own accord, and Angelina Jolie already had a reputation as a rebel. The American public feel like Fantasia was made into a star only with their support.

     Fantasia can use the race card as much as she wants, but there are many other factors involved that she overlooked in her haste to defend herself. And if there's one thing that annoys me, it's when people don't own up and try to play the victim instead. What do you think about the situation?
   

Now Playing...Roisin Murphy

     Recently, I discovered an artist whose music I've heard for a long time, but only now have I given her a try. The result...I love it!! The Irish singer's name has become more familiar to the American public in recent months following a controversy including Lady Gaga. Lady Gaga has become a phenomenon thanks to her incredibly unique style and infectious pop songs. However, her orginality was doubted when the rare gem that is Roisin Murphy was uncovered and it turned out that Gaga might have been biting her style big time in side-by-side photo comparisons. While the styles are somewhat similar, I must say these two artists are quite different. Roisin has a sinister, quirky aesthetic that I absolutely love and this is one of my faves from her.






Unzip my body, take my heart out. Cause I need a beat to give this tune. So cherry.

Till Then My Windows Ache

(Photo Courtesy of Brian Uhreen.)

I adore Neruda. Everything about his poetry suggests to me he was filled with the purest love a man ever dared to experience. And he was extraordinarily gifted at expressing it in words. Everyone gushes about Love Sonnet XVII, and, though I love it, I have become increasingly agitated that no one pays the other sonnets any mind. Because I, too, feel lovelorn at the moment, I will share with you a gem. One of my many favorites from Neruda. Enjoy.

Matilde, where are you? Down there I noticed,

under my necktie and just above the heart,

a certain pang of grief between the ribs,

you were gone that quickly.

I needed the light of your energy,

I looked around, devouring hope.

I watched the void without you that is like a house,

nothing left but tragic windows.

Out of sheer taciturnity the ceiling listens

to the fall of the ancient leafless rain,

to feathers, to whatever the night imprisoned:

so I wait for you like a lonely house

till you will see me again and live in me.

Till then my windows ache.

 

 

~Pablo Neruda

 

10 Beauty Things That Guys Find Sexy

     As a woman, I know how it is to obsess over every damn detail of your body. From your hair down to your toes and every curve and jiggle in between. We're all on a constant mission to achieve the perfect body. The bad news: guys really don't care. They love the jiggle, the un-flattened hair, the chemical-free face, and even our embarrassing, oddball habits. If you don't believe it, the proof is in this list from MSN Lifestyle:

1. When you bare it all. Apparently, the average woman (certainly not I) spends about $200 a year on makeup. That's gross. But most men would rather see us bare and natural. Two guys are quoted verbalizing their disdain for lip gloss and all its sticky wonder. Other guys gush over how beautiful their girlfriends look first thing in the morning and when they've just gotten out of the shower. One guy even claims he was attracted to his girlfriend because she didn't wear makeup and therefore appeared as if she didn't care to be noticed. Think about that the next time you decide to torture yourself with that awful mess put on makeup.

2. Your belly. All those hours spent doing doing countless ab exercises in an attempt to flatten your belly, or "fit into your jeans by Friday" (as if) are wasted if you're doing them to impress your guy. Chances are, he loves your curves, the rotundness of your belly, and, yes....your love handles.

3. When you do that thing you do. Your funky little habits that others find unbearable, he may actually find adorable. Whether it's your terrible shower tunes, your love of celebrity culture (ahem), or your messiness. He may actually grow to love the quirky thing that makes you...well, you.

4. When you toss the hair dryer. And by hair dryer, that means flatiron, curling iron, and all other fancy hair products that take up too much of your time. He actually likes your hair curly the way it is. Now, I'm adding my own disclaimer for black girls: I give you....a free pass. Because the world will never understand what we go through and what our hair looks like sans treatment (and we don't intend for them to find out).

5. Your eyelashes. Strange, but it seems that the eyelashes may be the hallway that leads to the window to your soul. Men say they love women's eyelashes because it draws them into their eyes. Oh la la.

6. Your legs. Must I go on? Side note: I've been seeing too many women who bare their legs but neglect to shave. Please stop.

7. Your style! This one makes me particularly happy because I've always been ragged on about my style. You either love my wackiness and boldness or it makes you wanna vomit. But it's good to know that a guy will appreciate my desire to express myself through clothing, no matter how flamboyant. And your guy likes it, too. So you don't have to wear painful heels all the time or compete with Hollywood's leading "fashionistas". Just be yourself.

8. Your scent. Rawr. Men love it even more than we do! So next time while choosing a perfume or spray, pick a really nice scent that could possibly be your signature. He loves it when he can smell it on his sheets when you leave and how everytime he gets a whiff of it, he thinks of you.

9. When you ask for what you want. Men are not mind readers and they don't like to be treated as if they are. What is more frustrating than trying to figure out what someone wants when they refuse to tell you...and then they complain that they're not getting what they want! The best way to avoid this: be upfront and a little aggressive. If he's not doing the right things in bed, tell him what to do. He'll love it...and you will, too.

10. Your job. Not any job in particular, but yours. It may be that you work around kids, and he loves to see you around them because you're great with them. Or, that he loves to see you in your three-piece suit looking powerful and smart. Whatever it is, he loves to see you doing something you're passionate about and good at. It shows him you're intelligent, capable, and independent.

(Photo courtesy of Sue.)

10 Things All Single People Must Do

     I found this really cool list on Yahoo that I think would really help out some single people out there. The main reason why single people hate being single, in my opinion, is a lack of independence and self-esteem. I hear a lot of people (mostly girls) complain about how miserable they are being single, but they don't see the positive things that come out of being your own person. This list should give you somewhere to start, although number two kinda creeps me out (BTW this is verbatim from the article):

1. Travel alone. Whether you’re trying to find your way through the Paris Metro or the London Underground, haggling over a painting in Mexico or choosing where to bed down in the Badlands, traveling by yourself builds a confidence you simply can’t get any other way. In an unfamiliar place, you have to make decisions by yourself, for yourself every day, which will build a self-reliance you’ll always treasure — even when you become part of a twosome.

2. Wallow in the ache of a broken heart. Oh, the pain. The agony. The pints of Ben & Jerry’s in front of the cable TV. Yep, getting dumped is beyond awful, but guess what? It’s the only way that you’ll develop the empathy you’ll need to be a better partner in a relationship. Because if you’re sensitive to the grief someone else has caused you, you’re less likely to do the same to anyone else. So, consider this painful milestone a lesson in karma that’ll serve you well as you travel through your dating days.

3. Spend a weekend with a married couple your age. On lonely nights, it’s common for single folk to envision marriage as a cozy scene from a classic film or mail-order catalog. But by spending 48 hours with a real couple, you’ll learn that in between the snuggling and pet names comes growling, bickering, silent treatments and maybe even a slammed door or two before they ultimately compromise. It will show you what married life is like, warts and all, so you won’t over-idealize the two-becomes-one phenomenon again.

 4. Don’t come home all night. That’s right, wild thing. Crash on a friend’s couch, take your friends up on that offer of a last-minute trip… Once you have a mate, you can’t just take off on your own without explanation. And, truthfully, you won’t want to. So if you don’t have someone you have to call and check in with every few hours, take this opportunity to check out!

5. Stand up for a cause you care about. Whether you volunteer to help register voters for the next election (why not start early?) or convince your neighborhood or apartment complex to start recycling, get fired up over an issue while you have the time to devote to it. It will remind you that while, yes, finding your soul mate is pretty important, there are other issues at stake in the world that could use your help. And besides, the big-heartedness you’ll be cultivating is very attractive.

6. Have a real adventure. Learn to fly a plane, surf some big waves, or start your own business. Give yourself a thrill by doing something just for you, just for the experience — without having someone at home worrying about you or nagging you not to. Oh, and one more gift with purchase: Think about how much fun you’ll have telling your next date about your daring experience.

7. Learn how to take care of yourself. Being solo shouldn’t keep you from cooking for yourself, so learn how to make an impressive meal for one (even if it’s mac and cheese with your own added favorite extra thrown in). While you’re at it, learn how to back up your hard drive and sew on replacement buttons. You’ll feel strong and self-sufficient — and you’ll be armed with skills to share when you are in a relationship.

8. Buy something hugely impractical just because you love it. Once you’re in a relationship, you’ll start thinking about your partner before you purchase pricey items — not just “Will he or she hate it?” but “Is this where I want to be putting my money if we’re saving for a wedding?” The single life means a single bank account and an excuse to blow a wad of cash without (some of the) guilt. So, make yourself happy and buy something you crave, whether it’s an expensive vintage movie poster or a decked-out mountain bike.

9. Develop a hobby. Learn to woodwork, play acoustic guitar, speak French, DJ on turntables, or make digital short films for fun. Of course you can (and should) still have hobbies when you’re dating someone, but your solo time is prime time to devote yourself to something that makes life more interesting for you — and makes you more interesting to others.


10. Be completely, utterly, wholly single for at least three months. Hopping wildly from one relationship to the next can do you a disservice. Why? Because you’re never more ripe for self-reflection than when you’re on your own — and the more you know yourself, the more likely you are to find someone who’s right for the real you.


--------

     Remember, if you need a significant other to make you feel whole, you're probably suffering from low self-esteem. It's okay to want a lover every now and then, but you don't need it. You're probably more likely to end up settling for less than you deserve. Appreciate the freedom that comes with being single. Following these might help boost your confidence. Or, just hire a therapist.

(Photo courtesy of Lachlan Rogers.)

What's the Most F-ed Up Thing You Can Think Of? Ok, Now My Turn.

     A man in Orange County has just been arrested for.....ejaculating in a female co-worker's water bottle...twice. TMZ reported the story earlier. Yes, TMZ.

     According to officials from the O.C. District Attorney's office, the man walked into his co-worker's office in January and rubbed one out into her water bottle, which she went on to drink. But after consuming the water, she felt "sick and irritated" and threw the bottle away.
  
     Three months later, the victim and the suspect were both transferred to another branch...where he struck again. And she drank it...again. This time, however, after feeling sick, the woman saved the bottle and sent it to a lab to be tested. The results allegedly confirmed that the water bottle contained semen. And the DNA was later connected to the suspect.

     The victim has now hired famed attorney Gloria Allred to represent her. They should just hand her the money right now. This story deserves to be told...to everyone you know. Now that I've disturbed you...I'll watch you squirm as you drink your next bottle of water.

The "N-Word"...Again

     *Sigh* Countless discussions, debates, arguments have led nowhere apparently. I cannot recall how many times I have had this discussion with numerous people to no avail. And the word "nigger" keeps creeping up to the consciousness of our society again and again. This time, talk radio host Dr. Laura Schlessinger is the bad guy who dared to not just utter the word, but blurt it out...over and over again. Eleven times, to be exact. After years and years of this issue being pummeled and beaten unconscious by society, it still has not died. In fact, I'm forced to accept that many white people, unbeknownst to us black people, use the word.
    
     Honestly, why should we blame them? Why are we being so hypocritical and childish, demanding that we have free use of the word to our hearts content yet no one else should have the audacity to merely think about using the word. Can't we just retire it completely?

     What do we really get out of using that word? A lot of black people defend the usage, saying they are reclaiming the word when it just appears to me that they are simply keeping it alive. When a white guy is listening to rap music in the privacy of his bedroom, do you think he skips over the n-word knowing that no one is around? And what happens if he then accidently blurts it out while no longer in the confines of his room? He's a racist, right?

     Some black people even now put their own twist on what the word means. I recall back in middle school I was friends with an Asian girl who was well-known among the black community as "one of us." She talked like us, dressed like us, listened to the same music, and lived in the same poverty. One day, as a group of us were standing around checking out the cute guys passing by she  shouted out, "Damn, that nigga is fine!"

     I looked around immediately, fearing that the black girls around her would be angry, but no one seemed to mind. I later approached on of my black friends who had witnessed the occasion and asked why that didn't bother her. "Who cares?" she said. "'Nigga' is just another way of saying 'good-looking guy'."

     It seems that every black person has a different  opinion about the word, and that's when the debate gets messy. After reading a post on theroot.com about the incident with Dr. Laura, I must admit they made a good point: Why do we give people like that the power to work our nerves?

     Dr. Laura has since quit her radio show because of all the backlash from the word, but why do we allow that word to get us so riled up? And it does give them an awful lot of power knowing that by merely uttering that one word, they can ruin our entire day. What people neglected was that in the same day, Dr. Laura went on to accuse the majority of the black population for voting for Obama only because of his race.

     People were so blinded by the word, that they failed to recognize how much more insulting that is to our intelligence and our integrity. We don't just vote for any black person who runs for office. Condoleeza Rice is a black person, however, she does not have much support from the black community. Why? Because black people tend to be Democrats and vote that way.

     I'm retiring this issue for now with this final thought: It's not that serious. Stop using it if you don't want to hear it. Enough already.