the entire day reading Virginia Woolf's "Mrs. Dalloway," which, I discovered, is a complete abomination of a book. Utterly terrible - not the least bit engaging. A few paragraphs were well-written - I did my share of underlining bits I enjoyed, sketching a star here and there, an exclamation point on occasion. However, it felt as if I had listened (and actually paid attention) to an entire album and only enjoyed a couple verses. No redeeming melodies or choruses, just the occasional turn of phrase that jumped out at me.
The story begins with a whimper, continues like a prolonged, sickly wheeze, and finally fades out into a little more than nothing (for at least "nothing" in and of itself is an end; "Mrs. Dalloway" can barely claim to possess such.)
I know it's highly pretentious of a young writer to criticize one of the most highly regarded authors, but someone's gotta do it - I mean, she did suffer from bouts of mental illness. "Mrs. Dalloway," I suspect, was a manifestation of said illness - a manifestation the world could do without and I sure as Hell could do without writing a paper about.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Saturday, March 24, 2007
Like the Linen
Everyone leave this page immediately, and go to this one.
Fatt turned me on to this site a while ago, and I just rediscovered how awesome it is. Read about Thao Nguyen, the new love of my life and download four of her songs for free. She's got kind of a Memphis Minnie (v.2k7) / Regina Spektor "Soviet Kitsch"iness about her, but, y'know - Asian.
She's great.
Stop reading - leave. Go here.
Visual DNA
I got this from my brother's blog and decided to make one for myself - actually pretty cool site. Try it out.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
It's the Little Things
The purple Skittles in Ireland are NOT grape - they are, in fact, blackcurrant.
Also - an equal combination of red, yellow, and green Skittles (The Rasta Rainbow, as it were) is the most satisfactory way in which to enjoy the candy.
Go forth and Skittle.
Also - an equal combination of red, yellow, and green Skittles (The Rasta Rainbow, as it were) is the most satisfactory way in which to enjoy the candy.
Go forth and Skittle.
Legend American Buskers
So I know it's been a while since I've posted, but -- actually, no excuses. I've had plenty of "material;" I just haven't gotten around to it. But today, on this fresh, mowed-grass, Irish morning - I'm going to post, as it were - pictures and all. Thank you for your patience.
Mundane backstory: A few weeks ago, my friend, Mike (SWM, Boston, seeks SWF), and I went down to K 'n B Music to purchase cheap guitars to sate our finger-picking, good-time tendencies. I bought the cheapest one they had - a decent (looking) classical for about 70 Euro - Mike, on the other hand, going East Egg on me and springing for a nicer solid-body acoustic.
So for the next few weeks we jammed, received noise complaints, et cetera, et cetera. He taught me a lot, as he is a lot better than me, and I learned a lot. Let's just say don't worry about bringing a copy of Nelly's "Ride Wit Me" to the next party - as long as I've got my axe, we've got the raps.
We finally decided that we should give busking (playing instruments and singing in the streets) a shot - despite my complete lack of experience as far as performing goes, I was comforted by the fact that Mike could more than compensate for my mistakes and lapses, so I agreed - next weekend, let's go busking in Dublin.
Book.
So we spent that week frantically working on our "repertoire," if you will, which consisted of little more than a few Oasis, Creedence Clearwater Revivial, Bob Marley, Kings of Leon, and Britney Spears songs - very few of them in their complete state, save Oasis and KoL.
Regardless - on Saturday morning, we hit the streets of Dublin.
We found a nice little tunneled alleyway in the Temple Bar area that served as a perfect shelter in case of rain and also worked as a good people-funneling structure - anyone entering Temple Bar after crossing the River Liffey pretty much had to lend an ear, provided the individual was endowed with such.
It was such a beautiful day - partly cloudy, people everywhere doing their shopping, buskers on every corner, trad music spilling out of the center of Temple Bar, birds, smoke, the city.
So Mike and I stationed ourselves in the tunnel picture above, and began to play. I was somehow thrust into the position of singer, which should've bothered me a lot more than it did. But I was somehow comfortable with it all, maybe because I knew we were on the periphery - we weren't in focus - just extras in some urban musical depicting life in Dublin. I found myself actually singing out and people seemed to be enjoying what we were doing.
At one point, an older Asian man video-taped his timid son, probably about 4 years of age, waddle over and toss a coin in my guitar-case. I think that was the most beautiful moment of the day - the realization that we would now be packed up, loaded onto an airplane, flown to wherever they call home, and finally watched on some rainy, reminiscent Sunday.
Do you remember that, son?
Dublin? Not really - I was like, three or four, right?
And maybe the Dad will smile and remember it all so clearly - the jacket he was wearing, how his son fell asleep on his shoulder as he carried him back to the hotel, how the two young men had smiled when his son tossed a coin in their bag.
We ended up making almost 50 Euro between the two of us - quite a bit when we expected to barely make the train fare back to Maynooth.
Three Spanish girls stopped to dance, laugh, talk, and sing with us while we played.
Two Dubliners, about our age, stopped and talked music for a while and listened to us, calling their friends when they found out we could play a Kings of Leon song.
While he was on the phone, I heard him say to his friend, "Some f-ing legend American buskers are playing f-ing KoL..."
It felt good to be embraced by people.
A camera crew filmed us for a Spanish television show.
We played music in Dublin.
Jacob Smith says that I crave glory, and maybe that's why I loved busking so much. Maybe I do want those things - respect, esteem, glory, et cetera. I know I do desire those things to a certain extent, but the home video remains with me.
Is it that I find comfort in permanency? That I want to spread my effect across the globe and thus insure that I am in some way remembered?
I haven't figured it out yet. It is not something that bothers me or arrests sleep from my nights, it is simply something that I wear like a shirt - it's comfortable, lightweight, and it doesn't cost much. But then I remember that at one point very early on in history, the shirt and every other kind of adornment - shoes, necklaces, crowns - all of it was completely
superfluous.
---------corona&coltrane---------
Mundane backstory: A few weeks ago, my friend, Mike (SWM, Boston, seeks SWF), and I went down to K 'n B Music to purchase cheap guitars to sate our finger-picking, good-time tendencies. I bought the cheapest one they had - a decent (looking) classical for about 70 Euro - Mike, on the other hand, going East Egg on me and springing for a nicer solid-body acoustic.
So for the next few weeks we jammed, received noise complaints, et cetera, et cetera. He taught me a lot, as he is a lot better than me, and I learned a lot. Let's just say don't worry about bringing a copy of Nelly's "Ride Wit Me" to the next party - as long as I've got my axe, we've got the raps.
We finally decided that we should give busking (playing instruments and singing in the streets) a shot - despite my complete lack of experience as far as performing goes, I was comforted by the fact that Mike could more than compensate for my mistakes and lapses, so I agreed - next weekend, let's go busking in Dublin.
Book.
So we spent that week frantically working on our "repertoire," if you will, which consisted of little more than a few Oasis, Creedence Clearwater Revivial, Bob Marley, Kings of Leon, and Britney Spears songs - very few of them in their complete state, save Oasis and KoL.
Regardless - on Saturday morning, we hit the streets of Dublin.
We found a nice little tunneled alleyway in the Temple Bar area that served as a perfect shelter in case of rain and also worked as a good people-funneling structure - anyone entering Temple Bar after crossing the River Liffey pretty much had to lend an ear, provided the individual was endowed with such.
It was such a beautiful day - partly cloudy, people everywhere doing their shopping, buskers on every corner, trad music spilling out of the center of Temple Bar, birds, smoke, the city.
So Mike and I stationed ourselves in the tunnel picture above, and began to play. I was somehow thrust into the position of singer, which should've bothered me a lot more than it did. But I was somehow comfortable with it all, maybe because I knew we were on the periphery - we weren't in focus - just extras in some urban musical depicting life in Dublin. I found myself actually singing out and people seemed to be enjoying what we were doing.
At one point, an older Asian man video-taped his timid son, probably about 4 years of age, waddle over and toss a coin in my guitar-case. I think that was the most beautiful moment of the day - the realization that we would now be packed up, loaded onto an airplane, flown to wherever they call home, and finally watched on some rainy, reminiscent Sunday.
Do you remember that, son?
Dublin? Not really - I was like, three or four, right?
And maybe the Dad will smile and remember it all so clearly - the jacket he was wearing, how his son fell asleep on his shoulder as he carried him back to the hotel, how the two young men had smiled when his son tossed a coin in their bag.
We ended up making almost 50 Euro between the two of us - quite a bit when we expected to barely make the train fare back to Maynooth.
Three Spanish girls stopped to dance, laugh, talk, and sing with us while we played.
Two Dubliners, about our age, stopped and talked music for a while and listened to us, calling their friends when they found out we could play a Kings of Leon song.
While he was on the phone, I heard him say to his friend, "Some f-ing legend American buskers are playing f-ing KoL..."
It felt good to be embraced by people.
A camera crew filmed us for a Spanish television show.
We played music in Dublin.
Jacob Smith says that I crave glory, and maybe that's why I loved busking so much. Maybe I do want those things - respect, esteem, glory, et cetera. I know I do desire those things to a certain extent, but the home video remains with me.
Is it that I find comfort in permanency? That I want to spread my effect across the globe and thus insure that I am in some way remembered?
I haven't figured it out yet. It is not something that bothers me or arrests sleep from my nights, it is simply something that I wear like a shirt - it's comfortable, lightweight, and it doesn't cost much. But then I remember that at one point very early on in history, the shirt and every other kind of adornment - shoes, necklaces, crowns - all of it was completely
superfluous.
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