I love the random pseudo-facts from the articles of Cracked.com, it's usu. a good way to get through a boring hour or two at work. In Crack, I get to learn things I already knew or suspected but with new, hilarious explication. I get dubious facts(pseudo) I never thought about before, all while laughing—controlled gig's, of course. So the bloggers on the site have compiled their annual end-of-year-best list that's laughing me up bellyaches. Of the 25 articles chosen, my favorite so far (I haven't gone thru the whole list yet) has to be, and this is b/c I was just having a similar conversation, the actors who are the same character (basically) in every movie. But the article is obviously not even dealing with the subjective—something I just love about the humor though scat. at times.
Ok, The 'Skins. My team, and I feel very fortunate to say this, plays in the most difficult division in the NFL or maybe all of American sports for that matter. We hail from a history of dynastic and epic rivalries in the league: the NFC East is the best division in the NFL. With the Giants pretty-much eliminated from playoff play this year, it's up to the Redskins and Cowboys to decide the fate of this division, and I will be watching in a crowded bar, in the City.
So, football, that's how i'm enjoying the end of the year/ welcoming the new year (though I don't really subscribe to the superstition that connotes).
"Ozymandias Melancholia."
As I walked with friends in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania (keyword:
sylvan), we were surprised to be told that it was the capital of the whole
gigantic state (gigantic should be spelled with a J {just my opinion}). So
after getting on our android®s to check up on our forgotten grade-school civic-facts, we embarked on a tour of the two-mile radius downtown section…. At
night!....Our tour guide was a stripper—believe it or not—lol. And that's a
long story i don't feel like telling right now. Anyways, the capital of PA has
these grand-but-decaying buildings that just brought Allen's Stardust Memories
to mind. So I will embark on a project for the phrase.
It's a perfectly valid description of a particular phenomenon. It's that sad and depressed feeling you get when you realize that no matter how great and majestic and important something is at the time, in time it's going to pass. Just like the [Shelley] poem — eventually, time kills everything. It's just that rotting statue of Ozymandias, a once-great statue, and now a broken-down piece of marble in the desert. So you get a depressed feeling because it gives you a sense of the futility of life, that all that you're working for, and all the things that seem so meaningful, are nothing."
Racism is broad sympathy toward some and broader skepticism toward others
"Racism is not merely a simplistic hatred. It is, more often, broad sympathy toward some and broader skepticism toward other"- Ta-Nehisi Coates.
The article was in the Atlantic this past summer, and I felt like posting it way after all the election hubbub was over. It's just great when you see someone make a statement this succinct to sum up something you've felt victim to for a long time, but were not eloquent enough to express it this well. I mean this is a tweet hidden w/n a much larger article, and it's a timeless phrase that only had the misfortune of being part of the election white-noise of shallow quotes.
http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2012/09/fear-of-a-black-president/309064/
If you do end up checking out the article on the website, make sure you watch the video too, on the page, of Coates discussing the article with Scott Stossel.
As for Coates, he's a big deal blogger from Baltimore, and was listed in Time mag's list of best blogs.
The article was in the Atlantic this past summer, and I felt like posting it way after all the election hubbub was over. It's just great when you see someone make a statement this succinct to sum up something you've felt victim to for a long time, but were not eloquent enough to express it this well. I mean this is a tweet hidden w/n a much larger article, and it's a timeless phrase that only had the misfortune of being part of the election white-noise of shallow quotes.
http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2012/09/fear-of-a-black-president/309064/
If you do end up checking out the article on the website, make sure you watch the video too, on the page, of Coates discussing the article with Scott Stossel.
As for Coates, he's a big deal blogger from Baltimore, and was listed in Time mag's list of best blogs.
Statuesque Blondes....
....you just don't see them anymore...
some early late thoughts on The Wire:
Joe Klein: “The Wire never won an Emmy?”
“The Wire should win the Nobel Prize for literature!”
I was re-watching the last-season of The Wire, after I finally got to finish Homeland (boy that Claire Danes huh). So the 2nd episode you get this quote by one of the news paper guys, and man does it bring to mind many things of a yonder-lost-era.
Haynes: “You ever notice how a ‘mother of four’ is always catching hell? Murder? Hit-and-run? Burnt up in a row house fire? Swindled by bigamists?
Price: “Tough gig, ‘mother of four.’”
Twigg: “Innocent bystander’ is worse. He’s always getting the short end.”
Haynes: “Not a lot of them around anymore. Not a lot of innocents anymore, you ask me.”
Phelps: “You know who there’s less of? ‘Statuesque blondes.’ You don’t read about ‘statuesque blondes’ in the newspaper anymore. Buxom ones, neither. They’re like a lost race.”
some early late thoughts on The Wire:
Joe Klein: “The Wire never won an Emmy?”
“The Wire should win the Nobel Prize for literature!”
I was re-watching the last-season of The Wire, after I finally got to finish Homeland (boy that Claire Danes huh). So the 2nd episode you get this quote by one of the news paper guys, and man does it bring to mind many things of a yonder-lost-era.
Haynes: “You ever notice how a ‘mother of four’ is always catching hell? Murder? Hit-and-run? Burnt up in a row house fire? Swindled by bigamists?
Price: “Tough gig, ‘mother of four.’”
Twigg: “Innocent bystander’ is worse. He’s always getting the short end.”
Haynes: “Not a lot of them around anymore. Not a lot of innocents anymore, you ask me.”
Phelps: “You know who there’s less of? ‘Statuesque blondes.’ You don’t read about ‘statuesque blondes’ in the newspaper anymore. Buxom ones, neither. They’re like a lost race.”
Finite prayers??
Dylan Smith, was a surf-boarder, who in NJ, helped rescue some
people during hurricane Sandy. But, tragically, he recently passed away surfing off the
coast of Florida. I'm on the People Magazine website (yeah I know, but I get it on my andriod) reading the article on his death, then I
get to the comments section and guess what? One commenter said 'my prayers are with
him'; another commenter wrote after that saying 'my prayers are with the peoplein Newton'!....wtf
my prayers are with the pepole in newtown
My
prayers are with the people of Newton...? Where did that come from? I know People Mag doesn't really call to the brightest of readerships, but still, I was flabbergasted. Then it occurred
to me that this person was being REAL and practical.... really he was being
practical. You don't see it yet? ...I'm taking you back to George Carlin's pulpit, so to speak...
Down and Out in Yokohama
On a lazy Sunday, such as this one, and as I lay on this couch watching Apocalypse Now for the nth time (for the quotables; and being made from Conrad's Heart of Darkness), I'm reminded of similar Sundays in a quiet Japan. Recovering from Fridays and Saturdays, we seemed to be out of wretched slumbers on Sunday mornings; awake and staggering from major metropolitan cities headed to our various h
omes in rustic towns.
Whether we came from Tokyo, or Yokohama we were always headed back, via Metro express, to the hill houses at Yokosuka or Atsugi to nurse our hangovers. But notwithout eradicating our collective hunger over a beef
bowl and miso soup. We spent the weekend quenching whatever thirsts we'd ganered all week; and our realization of however wild a weekend it had been, was felt over a silent beef bowl breakfast. 
There were mishaps in the misadventures though, for example, a fellow I knew, couldn't find a single article of clothing as he woke up in a motel one morning. Some were more trajic cases that involved arrests or hearing stories of drunks who'd been beaten by local Japanese gangs (certainly not the Yakuza clan, certainly not!) I'm glad that I don't have wild stories like that to tell, albeit I had some eventful nights.
Besides me there was my best friend Brent Jackson, my boy Diggs the fighter, Dukes (breath), Guy (rude boy), and a couple of cool white boys including Decker. Anyways, we slept in on Sundays not worried about wicked Mondays and rigorous work weeks. In my apartment in particular, I favored the couch in the living room down stairs, I'd be there with Lauren (or
whoeverelse before she came around) watching a sophisticated asian action drama. Everyone else was either on the matress in the living room floor, or the various rooms, going back to sleep, and watching their respective tvs. Brent was always in the guest room with incense lit and loud Japanese music, smoking with his woman. It was a time to remember. The sunlight tried to seep in thru the wicker screen doors that overlooked the valley. We slept still, with o.j., chuhais, and kool cigaretts dispersed about the tables. We were all broke suckers that spent recklessly and enjoyed our weekends as if the last. On Sundays we rested and pretended nothing about it. We were down and out in a foreign land and all we had was the atmosphere: each other, beef bowl, and the futuristic facade of Japanese media. 
DefJukies!!!!
omes in rustic towns.Whether we came from Tokyo, or Yokohama we were always headed back, via Metro express, to the hill houses at Yokosuka or Atsugi to nurse our hangovers. But notwithout eradicating our collective hunger over a beef
bowl and miso soup. We spent the weekend quenching whatever thirsts we'd ganered all week; and our realization of however wild a weekend it had been, was felt over a silent beef bowl breakfast. 
There were mishaps in the misadventures though, for example, a fellow I knew, couldn't find a single article of clothing as he woke up in a motel one morning. Some were more trajic cases that involved arrests or hearing stories of drunks who'd been beaten by local Japanese gangs (certainly not the Yakuza clan, certainly not!) I'm glad that I don't have wild stories like that to tell, albeit I had some eventful nights.
Besides me there was my best friend Brent Jackson, my boy Diggs the fighter, Dukes (breath), Guy (rude boy), and a couple of cool white boys including Decker. Anyways, we slept in on Sundays not worried about wicked Mondays and rigorous work weeks. In my apartment in particular, I favored the couch in the living room down stairs, I'd be there with Lauren (or
whoeverelse before she came around) watching a sophisticated asian action drama. Everyone else was either on the matress in the living room floor, or the various rooms, going back to sleep, and watching their respective tvs. Brent was always in the guest room with incense lit and loud Japanese music, smoking with his woman. It was a time to remember. The sunlight tried to seep in thru the wicker screen doors that overlooked the valley. We slept still, with o.j., chuhais, and kool cigaretts dispersed about the tables. We were all broke suckers that spent recklessly and enjoyed our weekends as if the last. On Sundays we rested and pretended nothing about it. We were down and out in a foreign land and all we had was the atmosphere: each other, beef bowl, and the futuristic facade of Japanese media. DefJukies!!!!
The death of the author...?
La mort de l'auter.
(preliminaries of a larger essay i'm working on.... just my initial assessment)
(preliminaries of a larger essay i'm working on.... just my initial assessment)
Have you ever struggled with a book that you particularly didn’t
see a point in reading, or found the verbiage of the book totally different from
what you’re used to, or even found yourself asking if the plot is at all accessible?
If you had, then Roland Barthes’ La Mort de l'Auteur is deceitful to say the
least.
If I get what Barthes is getting across, then there’s a
schizo-Balzac thing happening here: Balzac, the writer, who exists as a person
(the ‘scriptur’), and Balzac the author—that voice you hear narrating a the
text to you (the floating eyeball). The author, whom we usually assume we are conscious of when
reading a story is, in Barthes' case, non-existent, or at least should not exist
in terms of lit. criticism; he commands, “once the Author is removed, the claim
to decipher a text becomes quite futile.” Consciousness of the writer distorts
because the “book and author stand automatically on a single line divided into
a before and an after” and this is problematic as “every text is eternally
written here and now” by the reading public.
The “language speaks, not the author,
through a prereq. impersonality,” rendering the writer as conveyer of a message
in the performative act of using the mosaic of words, phrases, and semantics
from their culture, and for Barthes’ thesis, the author is irrelevant because
“a text’s unity lies not in its origin but in its destination.” Put that way,
we have the Ecclesiastical claim that ideas are not original, and this is at
the heart of the linguistic theory that looks only at the elemental matter of
sentences, down to their basic abstract units: words. With this reasoning,
words exist in the aether as units of discourse while we wiggle through them
ephemerally when we write. (I guess it’s kind
of like breathing oxygen i.e. I’m no more special than anybody else for
breathing. So writers are using words like we breathe; the text may be special,
but not the ‘scriptur’). Semiotic rules viz. the "I" example of the signified and the signifier.
the operator of the funhouse is slumped in a plastic control booth that reeks of sensemilia
Getting into the DFW anthology now...slow going though, I have other obligations right now.
Are you really that into him??
~Butterflies have fleeting lives...and so do relationships.
~But the residual lies stain hearts forever.~
No Homo
........................................................
A few years back, when I was a somewhat ardent church goer. I eventually met a ladyfriend that I was really feeling.
I mean, I did the commendable thing right? Go to church and find a woman lol.We spent mad time together, and realized we enjoyed each other's company. It was at this time of preamble that she informed me of a guy she was seeing.
Disappointed as I was, I still settled for friendship. B/c like I said, I was really feelin O'girl. She was a fly-independent sistah. She struck me as a tender and caring person, as nice as people come. But my cause for concern came to be the relationship with her so-called boyfriend. It turned out that i knew who this fella was and he knew me well, albeit he did not know I was close to said woman. The problem was, this guy had a family that we all knew he'd been living with. He acutally lived with his fiance' and children. Mainwhile he's got my girl stringing along in his palms as his side dish, while She was deluded into thinking that she's the entree.
I feel bad now for not telling her what I knew. But back then I thought nothing could've changed the way she felt for this guy. That even if I had told her, she'd still not have showed great concern as he continued to invent new lies for her. Though i showed signs of admonishment, she was headstrong in her "love" for this man. I informed her that though we were not intimate on that level I still saw more of her than her so-called man ever did. She claimed it's b/c he's hard working. Right. Implying that i'm not hard working enough. I also went further and advised her that him always postponing planned events b/t them is just a sign of his playerism. She brushed that off too: "...dates are not that important as long as I have him." But do you really? That was where my morals were torn, I didn't know if I should tell her or not. No, I honestly didn't know what was the right thing to do.
It's kind of retarded!!!
As a matter-of-fact I think it is retarded as hell to be so pretentious as to want to win every argument. Sometimes you can concede a point for the benefit of the doubt. But I fear any such relationship (friendship, dating, etc) in which one individual has to completely have a last say on any differential situation. These people are just corny as shit. Like an ex of mine arguing with my cousin over something as dumb as a comment made (explicitly innapropriate......and...) and letting the whole thing fuck up her day. Now that chick is crazy all across the board. Although this blog is sparked because of something different, it ended up reminding me of that crazy ass chick. I mean, ma has managed to fuck up and taint any good thing that come in her life. She's supposed to be one of the most pure things to have happened to human kind, but somewhere her still nascent mind drasticated in such narcissism that anything and anyone must be below her. You know people that play those games, where they are thrillied that they are giving you hell, just for the hell of it. One of them player chicks that love the drama and melancholy. She can't live without melancholy. She fucking patronizes shit with her euphemisms, or aggravates a situation with her craziness. I mean crazy as shit!!!! You wouldn't understand.
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