[	mood	|	bugging the fuck out	]
[	groove	|	"i want you to want me"--letters to cleo (cover)	]

WHAT???

http://www.livejournal.com/userinfo.bml?user=susan_chang

[	mood	|	crushed	]
[	groove	|	"Southern California Wants to be Western New York"--Dar	]

( Cut for your convenience )

[

mood

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curious

]

Lately I've had an obsession with understanding things that I used to feel were outside my realm of interest---luckily, it's been a good thing.

*Articles/Essays/Prayers about the Jesuit Order and St. Loyola. Did you know just how many schools are Jesuit? I just assumed it was all the "Loyola" schools, but Fordham and Georgetown are both in on it. They have a couple of enlightening outlooks (and some altogether narrow ones), but it made for good reading.

*Business articles about the importance of the dollar in relation to foreign currency. Maybe I'm the last one boarding this train, but although I knew the goverment has its reasons for promoting a "weak dollar", I had only a vague idea what those reasons were. A slightly dated, but easy to read article on the topic

*Alabama is still the most backward & bigoted state in the country. First, Heaven Forfend that girls sports teams get equal facilities under Title IX because the male coach noticed it! Then there's the recent vote to keep segregationalist language in their state constitution.

There's more, but I'm leaving work now. :)

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mood

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happy

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Boooya!

[

mood

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amused

]

So VH-1 dubbed H-Town's "Knockin' Da Boots" as the 37th worst sex song ever...so I downloaded it. I don't know about you, but I think it's ridiculously awesome.

[

mood

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busy

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What did y'all get?

[

mood

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happy

]

Erin and I adopted a kitty today---he's about a year old, and looks almost exactly like my 10 year old cat.

He's all white, pink ears, and very very sweet/cuddly/friendly.

*However*, we haven't yet named him---suggestions?

[	mood	|	energetic	]
[	groove	|	Boyskout--because queer rock makes the day go by	]

Last night was one raging great time, with a musical pregame of Salt N' Pepa, & sponsored by Newcastle (there was an accidental Sam Adams, but who talks about that anyway).

The Lasers were as horrifying as those friends of kyanos predicted. As much as my PoMo saturated mind likes--nay---loves/(understands?) noise, they did nothing at all for me.

I tripped out to HNATIW, but after a while Jodi began to feel a bit overstimulated and used tried + true Pavlovian methods that resulted in a mid-gig cigarette break. (i.e. she took out a smoke and walked towards the doorway).

Boyskout was the shizzle--- Erin was quite uncharacteristically dancing along with me, and "The Girl on the Keyboard" had us both rediscovering Walt Whitman-ish libidos. To make the night more fab, the Brown duo rocked out like whoa and were fun as hell to watch.

Also, I remembered my latent love of H.P. Lovecraft & quiet/crazy nights hallucinating throughout the city with the beautiful boy that introduced it all to me...simultaneously jaded/enamored with the idea that the nature of Memory almost condoned our recklessness (we'd be misunderstood in the present, our sins forgotten in the future) and cowering over the idea of blankfaced Night-Gaunts stalking us in dark Benefit St. alleys.

In other news, I have already done some Xmas shopping and feel like an upstanding consumer. (Beatrice! Where shall I send your present? Germany, Chicago, or to your parents' house? Drop an email, gf.)

[

mood

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idle

]

I'd update with something interesting, but my life currently consists of playing Co-op Halo2 with my older brother. At work, I've been doing research that I can't talk about. Effectively, I've been silenced by The Man and his amusing entertainment opiates.

**Actually--- my supervisor, who is sweeter than an Elvis banana-nutter-butter sandwich, bought me this abacus when I confessed to having a strange (hopefully just quirky) dislike for counting numbers in my head, and how it directly caused me to procrastinate when filling out my timecard:



For kicks, we've experimented with using it to calculate million dollar money transfers. It works fabulously, but somehow I think the government would prefer that we stick to the use of calculators. (Otherwise, I'd continue along a path of regression and show up with a stone slab + chisel to our next Quarterly Review)
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Aside #920: I *have* been Xmas shopping. I've already picked out gifts for my two best friends (fyi--Dan is probably getting deployed in January), my brother, and Erin. I'm going to make cutesy holiday goodie bags for my co-workers, but I haven't any clue what to buy for my supervisor and our UberBoss -- does anyone have any good ideas about this?

[

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curious

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Sorry for those who will see this post twice, but considering my LJ friend list (and the cheap price!), I figured that this would be a fab FYI.
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November 22: BoySkout, San Serac, The Lasers and Hnatiw

http://www.as220.org/news/calendar.html#22112004

Monday, November 22, 2004: 9pm
BOYSKOUT: "This San Francisco quartet of tough-looking baby dykes has produced a terrific, fiercely addictive blend early punk and new wave on this, their first full-length album. Hints of virtually every major influence from the early eighties can be heard here; The Cure, Siouxie and the Banshees, Devo, Kim Gordon.you name it. Yet, even when they go so far as to shamelessly steal the keyboard line from Costello & The Attractions "Pump It Up" on the opening track, they never sound stale. Indeed, old music has never sounded newer. Much of this is due to the compelling vocal work of singer/guitarist Leslie Satterfield, and singer/keyboard player China Lajczok. One sings with a tortured but melodic voice that breaks in all the right places, the other with a deep, smoky register that draws you into its depths. Together, their delivery seethes with the kind of raw, snarling, muff-diving sexuality that no doubt haunts the nightmare of our asshole-President, and his horde of marriage-defending homophobes. As an ensemble, the band has effortlessly mastered the goth/punk/new wave genres that have inspired them, and transformed them into a gender-breaking assault on mainstream sexuality. This is precisely the lipstick-coated, fist-shaped enema that the country needs right now. Yes!" (Ghetto Blaster) SAN SERAC from Providence creates "80's inspired music that doesn't get bogged down in the electro-clash mire, but manages to sound unique, but with some obvious influences, such as KRAFTWERK, NUMAN, the New Romantic stuff, but also METRO AREA. All the tracks are vocal, but they aren't silly. So it's retro chic, but done with a large amount of style and panache." (Small Fish) "...multi-instrumentalist Nat Rabb (aka SAN SERAC) expunges CHIC, LIPPS INC., POP GROUP, and the serenity of the Windham Hill sampler into a panoply of smooth, yet stylized, movements. The electro-beats of We Want More would sound at home on some Belgian dance floor (SWEAT, anyone?), In The Labyrinth Part 1 recalls TANGERINE DREAM's later new age proclivities, and Religious Crusaders recalls ARTO LINDSAY's AMBITIOUS LOVERS project. This is the type of record you can't tell if you like it 'cause it's great, or if you hate it 'cause it's cheesy." (The Big Takeover). HNATIW is brothers Tim and Eric Hnatow from Western Massachusetts. Hnatiw=high energy electro dance music made on 3 Korg Electribes. Tons of dancing+knob twiddling. Influences-Rephlex,808state, Kraftwerk,Aphex Twin,Acid. THE LASERS from Providence make "kinda electronic sorta stuff"...or "like anal cunt doing digital hardcore: screamy, fast, distorted and pure fun".
steve@43rocket.com Nat Rabb sanserac@frogmanjake.com > 1st - hnatiw > 2nd - ?? providence act ?? > 3rd - san serac > 4th - boyskout
$6

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mood

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bored

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http://www.fuckthesouth.com/

[	mood	|	confused	]
[	groove	|	"The Jump Off"--Lil' Kim	]

I feel very restless today---perhaps it's the snow, or perhaps the feeling has been building slowly over time, but I'd like to spend weekend DAYS with my friends. Yes, yes...tonight is Mamba night, and everyone will be drinking/conversing then....but I find that it's confined to a whole lot of shouting over music and drunken confessions. I want to take my walls down because of trust and comraderie, as children do, over days simply spent in someone's company.

I want to be friends with Jack Kerouac. I want his intense letters to find their way into my mailbox:

We had a dangerous storm 500 miles out & almost foundered.... in all my years as seaman I never saw my ship bury its nose in mountain waves & plunge up into other valleys like a rowboat.... it was awful, we had to flee South & lose a day—

During this ordeal, I heard the words:—

EVERYTHING IS GOD, NOTHING EVER HAPPENED EXCEPT GOD—and I believed & still do.

Kierkegaard & the storm together made me see this luminous peaceful truth—You must read FEAR AND TREMBLING (never mind SICKNESS UNTO DEATH, which is an abstract discussion of despair)—F&T; is about Abraham & Isaac & made me cry—

At moments I was sad remembering your tears—we'll meet again—

I didn't even know he read dearest Soren K., or found the same sense of consolation from his God-maddened prose. Once, a good friend/professor told me that I thought and felt like Kerouac, but was trying my damnedest to be T.S. Eliot. At the time, I was slightly offended/mortified. Years later, I wonder if maybe she's right, or if I'm just head-over-heels for Jack.

[

mood

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horny

]

---Velvet Revolver put on an amazing show including my two favorite STP songs (Crackerman + Closer), a few GNR songs that I didn't know well, and an Aerosmith song.
---Scott is as hot as ever..especially shirtless, wearing tight fitting black pants, and a cop-type hat that was part of his hot black "uniform".
---A bullhorn was a primary instrument.
---GNR, without Axl, proved that they are absolutely amazing/talented musicians when they got their solos on.
---I swore I was straight when Scott finished up "Closer" and sexually/sensually dragged out the line Here I come to sound like he was in fact getting off.
---I swore Scott wasn't straight when he humped Slash...and whatever....he dances like my more effeminate gay friends. I still want him.

[

mood

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hopeful

]

Considering that we're not a swing state, and that there wasn't a snowman's chance in Hell of Bush winning RI, I decided that a little nudge for a third party (keep going, moderate conservatives!) wouldn't hurt. I don't really agree with the Green party (a smidge too left for me), but I'm awfully fond of the Libertarians and their platform, so they got my vote.



That said, I'm disappointed about the Bush win, but not contemplating:

*Moving to a foreign country
*Rioting/Killing/Stealing
*Falling into an abstract state of depression

Activism should go beyond elections, and even with The Wrong Guy in office, there's still so much to be done in our communities and/or on a national level. Chin up, fight The Man, and wait for Hilary to finally prove that women can do it better.

[	mood	|	melancholy	]
[	groove	|	"sweet thing"--mary j. blige	]

Tori Amos snuck on my playlist and destroyed any/all motivation to finish my personal statement, despite a fee waiver from an amazing school (received in today's mail).

Instead, I decided to take some "Me" time---listen to old songs, relive bitter(sweet) memories, and draft a letter to my first love/best friend.

To go into a truly bizarre reverie, imagine what your life would have been if things had worked out with the one (or the one hundred) that got away. In this chair, tonight, I've:

*spent summer days on the roof outside her window, overlooking the bay, listening to a heartbroken emo boy sing his life out on her tape deck, reading her postmodern poems over strong herbal tea
or
*drank bottles + bottles of wine with her...only to tumble home, entangled and laughing. In her quiet room, I'd ask her to teach me everything (in ways that only polar opposites can impart to one another) and spend the rest of my life kissing the most beautiful lips that the Creator has ever bestowed upon a woman
or
**lurked museums, bookstores, and bohemian bars with Her (the entire Beat Movement, embodied). Entire days would slip by while we'd drink strong coffee and talk in the corner of forgotten exhibits. I learned all her Polish, German, and hints of French and Russian. Like a pauper, I'd offer only my native Spanish and perhaps love notes written in careful Latin script. Cats whose colors were in binary opposition, Edwardian furniture, and homemade sushi perfected to an art form. She would be the one who would enchant me for the rest of my days (even now, just as friends, the rest of the world ceases to exist when she speaks but a word).

After all this, could a personal statement entice me? It can't. I shall make my last packet of Cherry-Vanilla tea and read Soren K. for wisdom.

[

mood

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crazy

]

Most likely inspired by lacombe:

If I could never love nor understand you, then why am I sitting here finding metaphors of loss in paper clips and staplers? It's so quiet here in the morning--just my(self), my memories, and sometimes the cleaning woman. My Staples Rotating Desk Organizer, then, is my only true company. If I could, I'd either go back in time to discuss this, or perhaps I'd knock on the door of one Mr. Randy Blazing to say that I've finally figured out my own Meaning of Poetry.

I never could understand how the man who translated the poems of "the great Turkish poet, Nazim Hikmet" (fuck thee, canon of literature. He is not a superlative in your hierarchical bullshit ethnic category. He is a great poet, better than many of your insipid American transcendentalists, and happens to be Turkish) could look me in the eye and say that all poetry was about sex and death. Regardless, I loved his conviction & intrigued by his belief that everyone could eventually lump the entire poetic genre into two concepts of his/her own choosing.

Well, I've found it in my organizer, dear man! All poetry is about warning and/or cohesion. Take love poems for example: Every sage/fool rushes into love(s), good or bad, and only regrets in the end the belief that the love was true. Human nature is to exercise our Will to the best of our capabilities within the societal and emotional frameworks that we are given, and so "I do what I want, it's my body" is probably the best axiom of our sad generation. Still, all the great poets would've just liked a warning or two---a Post-It™ flag here, a yellow highlight there, and perhaps a note or two in the margin (left by the last sorry undergrad, most likely). Emily Dickenson may have said it better than the combination of myself and Cartman (The heart asks pleasure first/ And then, excuse from pain), but no conclusions have been made.

Cartman, of course, could be Emily Dickenson in his own right. Our discourse is so bound in the words/thoughts of the past, that every single utterance could be its own tribute to the immortality of another's words. Cohesion, then! T.S. Eliot is the 3rd that walks beside me, like his elusive Wasteland Jesus, though my belief of his powers renders him visible. I can see the pastiche of his borrowed quotes, languages, and footnotes---only the blind are seers--I see the bumps of uneven rubber cement dried beneath the cut-out letters of (t)his madman's threat to classical poetry. What am I saying? Something about immortality, I know...the wish, or perhaps the inevitability, for/of it.

[

mood

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inquisitive

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Speaking of which,

The program director for the LVA knows about a thousand languages, and is going to "see what she can do" about helping me brush up my French into something resembling fluency. I've practiced (thanks, Rimbaud!) to the point where I can read complicated (poetic) French, but I still write it pretty sketchily, and cannot speak it at all (despite my ability to speak Spanish, my tongue feels leaden when trying to imitate delicate French cadence).

Did any of y'all URI folks take French while attending The Institution? My company will reimburse employees who successfully take college courses, up to $1500/yr. Since I'm taking an Econ class in spring to avoid failing my first year of law school, I figured I'd try to learn the basics of French with an intro course. My one German class at URI was pretty f-cking amazing, but I don't know if language instruction is strong across the whole foreign language department.

[	mood	|	potentially disappointed	]
[	groove	|	"Truce"--Dresden Dolls	]

S'il m'expliquait ses tristesses, les comprendrais-je plus que ses railleries? Il m'attaque, il passe mes heures à me faire honte de tout ce qui m'a pu toucher au monde, et s'indigne si je pleure.

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true

]

Last night, my father gave me a hard time (and he never does this) about not really driving my standard car---not because he doesn't like Erin driving it, but rather because he (and he didn't explicitly say it) doesn't like how dependent and weak it makes me out to be. "And what will you do when it snows? And what will happen when Erin isn't around??" The weakness, we both know, isn't that I can't drive it (I can)...but rather how drawn into her I am, manifested in the absurdity of letting/wanting her to drive with me to work.

I wanted to tell him that even though I spend most of my free time in her company, there is nothing like seeing her first thing in the morning--green eyes smiling over at me, her always friendly discourse pulling all memories of the past night's darkness out of my awareness. Then, after a day in the rigid halls of The Man, seeing her (so human, so lovely) again and taking our dinner together before meeting our friends or separating to run errands brings me back into myself.

But there is no way to say this; to him or to her. I don't have the heart to tell him that his little girl is truly in love and leaving in a year, hand-in-hand with her beautiful suitor. I don't have the grace to tell her how I feel without weeping in gratitude, humility, and adoration--my words would falter into awkwardness, and my countenance would betray my dandyish carelessness as a facade.

To them both, then, I leave a piece of Swann's Way--for Proust can always say what one hasn't the courage to utter:

My sole consolation when I went upstairs for the night was that Mamma would come in and kiss me after I was in bed. But this good night lasted for so short a time: she went down again so soon that the moment in which I heard her climb the stairs, and then caught the sound of her garden dress of blue muslin, from which hung little tassels of plaited straw, rustling along the double-doored corridor, was for me a moment of the keenest sorrow. So much did I love that good night that I reached the stage of hoping that it would come as late as possible, so as to prolong the time of respite during which Mamma would not yet have appeared. Sometimes when, after kissing me, she opened the door to go, I longed to call her back, to say to her “Kiss me just once again,” but I knew that then she would at once look displeased, for the concession which she made to my wretchedness and agitation in coming up to me with this kiss of peace always annoyed my father, who thought such ceremonies absurd, and she would have liked to try to induce me to outgrow the need, the custom of having her there at all, which was a very different thing from letting the custom grow up of my asking her for an additional kiss when she was already crossing the threshold. And to see her look displeased destroyed all the sense of tranquillity she had brought me a moment before, when she bent her loving face down over my bed, and held it out to me like a Host, for an act of Communion in which my lips might drink deeply the sense of her real presence, and with it the power to sleep.

[

mood

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bouncy

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I NEED to watch "I ♥ Huckabees"

http://www2.foxsearchlight.com/huckabees/main_site/main.html -- click "ABOUT" for a synopsis.