CLIENT: [ITEM EXPUNGED: WILL BE NOTED AS X]
INTERVIEW #016
TIME: 7:05 PM
INTERVIEWEE: [ITEM EXPUNGED]
Q: Did you know X?
A: X? Yeah, I knew him, if by knowing him you mean I wanted to beat the shit out of his head. He was a cocky bastard that one. He would come into my business, well knowing I hated his guts, and proceed to waste my time.
Q: And did other people see X as such?
A: Yeah, most of us did, I'm sure. X was known, he didn't hide anything about himself. And as soon as people got to know him, they were either used by X, or saw through him and hated his sly ass. Although there was one person that was close with him, they're very similar. What's his name again? Oh right, it was [ITEM EXPUNGED].
Q: How were X and [ITEM EXPUNGED]?
A: Worked too well. Everyone hated them both. Good riddance X died. I kneeled down and kissed the ground knowing there was one less scumbag on the land.
Q: And yet you had nothing to do with it?
A: I don't like the accusation you're making there. You think I had a part in this? Let me tell you, I wish I did, I wish I did. But no, 'pparently he died of his own accord? I heard it was [ITEM EXPUNGED], and let me tell you, I got no pity. I will dance, laugh and spit on his grave.
Q: And you know of no one who was part of it?
A: Look, I said, I wish I was part of it. I don't know no one who been a part of this. Now I'm going to kindly ask for you to get your ass out of here before I'm forced to be a part of something I didn't wish I was a part of.
[INTERVIEW ENDED AT 7:12 PM]
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Thursday, February 17, 2011
X Marks the Spot
The large vessel tipped and turned as each wave pounded incessantly at its underbelly. The dark skies rumbled in tune with the seas, giving no indication of being night or day as jagged bolts danced to this macabre tune in the distance. Onboard the ship were men; men at war with the ropes and water, screaming and fighting for every last inch. As they struggled, a jaded old man grabbed tightly to the main mast in one hand and raised his cutlass with the other. His single glass eye glistened with the dark color of the sea with every crack of lightning.
"These are the nights that summon fear and swallow the frail!", screamed the man above the roar of the tempest. "Stand your ground as brethren and Davy Jones himself will tremble in panic!" The crew clamored in agreement, as the ship shoved against each wave, fighting. The men knew that the crash each time the ocean heaved upon the sides of the ship, the crack following each lightning whip in the black skies, were all equal to the clash of swords and the burst of gunfire. It was a battle. A battle between the deep and mankind. The men knew that there would never be peace, only an uneasy tension. They were at the mercy of the spirits of the sea.
The din of the rushing water grew louder and louder, and sailors struggling near the bow looked ahead to see Davy Jones' eyes staring back. The sailors struggled no more, only fixated in horror at the whirling cyclone that lay ahead. Some broke free and ran back, in hopes the Captain would have the necessary actions. The old sea dog stood silent, lips pursed. From his experience, he knew what he was facing. He was facing the fickle waters of the sea. The waters that would gamble upon the lives of men. And the sea had not rolled in their favor this time.
The weathered wood of the vessel cracked and flooding began as it began to sink. The men that had accepted their fates dove right in, their date with the abyssal plain had come. Others fought tooth and nail to the bloody end, breathing air for only seconds more than their weaker brethren. Chaos described the landscape, a typhoon of lumber, cloth and lives, masked by a storm of screams that echoed in the air.
And then.
Nothing.
--------------------------
Bodies would wash up days later upon the shores that marked the map. The map that was now lost, torn into mulch by the arms of the ocean. Carried by the currents, the empty carcasses would rest, only footsteps away from the faint X in the ground. The X that marked the spot. The spot that would always and forever, be out of reach.
"These are the nights that summon fear and swallow the frail!", screamed the man above the roar of the tempest. "Stand your ground as brethren and Davy Jones himself will tremble in panic!" The crew clamored in agreement, as the ship shoved against each wave, fighting. The men knew that the crash each time the ocean heaved upon the sides of the ship, the crack following each lightning whip in the black skies, were all equal to the clash of swords and the burst of gunfire. It was a battle. A battle between the deep and mankind. The men knew that there would never be peace, only an uneasy tension. They were at the mercy of the spirits of the sea.
The din of the rushing water grew louder and louder, and sailors struggling near the bow looked ahead to see Davy Jones' eyes staring back. The sailors struggled no more, only fixated in horror at the whirling cyclone that lay ahead. Some broke free and ran back, in hopes the Captain would have the necessary actions. The old sea dog stood silent, lips pursed. From his experience, he knew what he was facing. He was facing the fickle waters of the sea. The waters that would gamble upon the lives of men. And the sea had not rolled in their favor this time.
The weathered wood of the vessel cracked and flooding began as it began to sink. The men that had accepted their fates dove right in, their date with the abyssal plain had come. Others fought tooth and nail to the bloody end, breathing air for only seconds more than their weaker brethren. Chaos described the landscape, a typhoon of lumber, cloth and lives, masked by a storm of screams that echoed in the air.
And then.
Nothing.
--------------------------
Bodies would wash up days later upon the shores that marked the map. The map that was now lost, torn into mulch by the arms of the ocean. Carried by the currents, the empty carcasses would rest, only footsteps away from the faint X in the ground. The X that marked the spot. The spot that would always and forever, be out of reach.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
SO MANY ALBUMS
There's so many good albums, so I'll just review a couple of my recent favorites.
Girl Talk makes some of the greatest pump up music. Starting with Night Ripper, his latest three albums have all been an eclectic mix of samples, taken from a variety of genres and mixing them to make something that sounds simply amazing. Each time you listen to it, you’ll discover something new. Who knew Black Sabbath and Ludacris would work so well together? Feed the Animals was his fourth album, the second latest album, and, what I think to be his best. The beginning and ending encapsulate the entire album so well. While his latest All Day seems to just end at a stop, Feed the Animals goes out with a bang. [Play Your Part Pt. 2 | http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-ek9CchVpWE]
Matthew Thomas Dillon is a genius. I remember when I first discovered Windmill, and like many others, I could not get past the voice. But after a couple listens, I realized how beautiful it was, and how the voice is the only voice that would fit. Almost ethereal and child-like, it captures the lyrics, style and idea behind his albums, especially his latest, Epcot Starfields. Based off the Disneyworld attraction and his childhood memories and feelings from that visit, the album is haunting and beautiful. [Ellen Save Our Energy | http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YIYXu-GLdt8]
Misteur Valaire is a Quebecer band that is hard to describe. They have some jazz influences, but their sound is electronic with twee pop and hip-hop mixed in. They have so much variety; at times it reminds me of the Gorillaz, but also so much more. On their latest album, Golden Bombay, it’s hard to pick a song because they are quite different, yet cohesive. November Number 3 is one of my favorite tracks [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uTJrPonsFfc]. But all of the other tracks on Golden Bombay deserve a listen to.
Honorable mentions to Albums and artists I wanted to talk about but couldn't:
Bromst by Dan Deacon,
Devil's Music by Teddybears,
Lust, Lust, Lust by The Raveonettes,
Treats by Sleigh Bells
Misteur Valaire is a Quebecer band that is hard to describe. They have some jazz influences, but their sound is electronic with twee pop and hip-hop mixed in. They have so much variety; at times it reminds me of the Gorillaz, but also so much more. On their latest album, Golden Bombay, it’s hard to pick a song because they are quite different, yet cohesive. November Number 3 is one of my favorite tracks [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uTJrPonsFfc]. But all of the other tracks on Golden Bombay deserve a listen to.
Honorable mentions to Albums and artists I wanted to talk about but couldn't:
Bromst by Dan Deacon,
Devil's Music by Teddybears,
Lust, Lust, Lust by The Raveonettes,
Treats by Sleigh Bells
Thursday, February 3, 2011
FADE IN FROM BLACK, DOOR CLOSES, GANG ENTERS
“I know it means something!”Seymour shouts to the rest of the gang, “I just don’t know what!”
We see Seymour sitting at the dinner table in a classic 80’s home, with his friends around the room, waiting for him to finish.
They turn away, facepalming and showing signs of disgust as they collectively groan. Seymour sits, troubled over the scrap sheet of paper, inspecting it thoroughly, turning it over and over several times.
“Give it up Seymour”, snaps Martha, “It’s obviously nothing special.” She takes out a compact and starts working on her make-up, “We have a lot more important things to care about.” Light chuckles emerge from the audience.
Skip stops pacing and spreads and slams his hands on the table, emanating a no-nonsense attitude, “Guys, we need to focus on the soapbox derby race if we want to beat those smug Robinsons!” Everyone minus Seymour cheers and shouts crude vulgarities at the name of the rich kids down the street.
Always the joker, Boris speaks up, “Hey guys! But this could be the ULTIMATE RECIPE Seymour always talks about!” The audience laughs uproariously, with a wheezing old laugh piercing the din, slowly dying out with each wheeze sounding more and more sick, while the crowd’s laughter dies to nothing more than a couple of “hoo-hoo-hoo”s.
Martha replies without looking up from her compact, “Oh grow up Boris, you can’t even say anything. Your parents are dead!” The crowd responds with cackles and jeers, deep, raspy and throaty, there are claps and kneeslaps. Saliva flies through the air with such mass that it is audible as it whizzes around the studio. One man kneels, screaming primitive guttural cries until he collapses of exhaustion. Soon after a minute of collecting themselves, the laughter dies down to wheezes.
Seymour suddenly stands up, holding the sheet in his hand, “I know what it means guys!” Everyone, even Martha, pauses to look up. Some in the audience guffaw, in preparation for the next line. “It says that we have a blog entry due Friday and no one has any clue what it means!” The audience starts slowly, with childlike giggles, growing with each second, as more people join, increasing the volume. It passes the decibel levels of an Usher concert, then a jet, then an Usher concert if the audience was nothing but jets, and Usher himself was Jetsher. Some audience members crumple to the floor from the force and start spasming, while others begin to vomit. They cannot stop. There is no end. The cacophony rings throughout the tri-state area, igniting forest fires, and the cries of the forest animals in pain mix with the continuous laughter. It continues until the end of time, creating an area that has to be quarantined. No one dares to step in it. In the future there are legends of the pain if one would step into the area. There are always a couple fools that do not believe the stories that are lost every year. All because of a blog entry.
This is what it means.
We see Seymour sitting at the dinner table in a classic 80’s home, with his friends around the room, waiting for him to finish.
They turn away, facepalming and showing signs of disgust as they collectively groan. Seymour sits, troubled over the scrap sheet of paper, inspecting it thoroughly, turning it over and over several times.
“Give it up Seymour”, snaps Martha, “It’s obviously nothing special.” She takes out a compact and starts working on her make-up, “We have a lot more important things to care about.” Light chuckles emerge from the audience.
Skip stops pacing and spreads and slams his hands on the table, emanating a no-nonsense attitude, “Guys, we need to focus on the soapbox derby race if we want to beat those smug Robinsons!” Everyone minus Seymour cheers and shouts crude vulgarities at the name of the rich kids down the street.
Always the joker, Boris speaks up, “Hey guys! But this could be the ULTIMATE RECIPE Seymour always talks about!” The audience laughs uproariously, with a wheezing old laugh piercing the din, slowly dying out with each wheeze sounding more and more sick, while the crowd’s laughter dies to nothing more than a couple of “hoo-hoo-hoo”s.
Martha replies without looking up from her compact, “Oh grow up Boris, you can’t even say anything. Your parents are dead!” The crowd responds with cackles and jeers, deep, raspy and throaty, there are claps and kneeslaps. Saliva flies through the air with such mass that it is audible as it whizzes around the studio. One man kneels, screaming primitive guttural cries until he collapses of exhaustion. Soon after a minute of collecting themselves, the laughter dies down to wheezes.
Seymour suddenly stands up, holding the sheet in his hand, “I know what it means guys!” Everyone, even Martha, pauses to look up. Some in the audience guffaw, in preparation for the next line. “It says that we have a blog entry due Friday and no one has any clue what it means!” The audience starts slowly, with childlike giggles, growing with each second, as more people join, increasing the volume. It passes the decibel levels of an Usher concert, then a jet, then an Usher concert if the audience was nothing but jets, and Usher himself was Jetsher. Some audience members crumple to the floor from the force and start spasming, while others begin to vomit. They cannot stop. There is no end. The cacophony rings throughout the tri-state area, igniting forest fires, and the cries of the forest animals in pain mix with the continuous laughter. It continues until the end of time, creating an area that has to be quarantined. No one dares to step in it. In the future there are legends of the pain if one would step into the area. There are always a couple fools that do not believe the stories that are lost every year. All because of a blog entry.
This is what it means.
CAN YOU FEEL IT? CAN YOU SMELL IT? CAN YOU TASTE IT?
IT’S THE ULTIMATE RECIPE. THIS DESCRIPTION WOULD DEMAND EXPLETIVES, BUT SOMETHING KNOWN AS SCHOOL-APPROPRIATE CONDUCT PREVENTS IT. EVEN ULTIMATE THINGS WILL TRY AND CONTAIN ITSELF WHEN NECESSARY. BUT THE CAPS LOCK IS NECESSARY. I CAN’T BELIEVE WE HAD A BLOG ENTRY THE DAY AFTER FINALS. A DAY WHERE WE HAD NO SCHOOL. THIS BLOG ENTRY SHOULD NOT EXIST. THEREFORE IT DOESN’T? I DON’T KNOW. THIS IS A PHILOSOPHY CLASS. YOU SHOULD KNOW BETTER. THIS IS A PRETTY DISGRACEFUL BLOG ENTRY TO BE HONEST. IT CANNOT CONTAIN THE FEELINGS OF ENDORPHINS OOZING OUT OF EVERY LAST PORE IN ONE’S BODY IN RAYS OF SHIMMERING LIGHT WITH EACH SHIMMER A MINIATURE UNICORN WITH A SMALL WIRY ITALIAN MAN SITTING ON IT WAVING A MIRROR REALLY FAST. EACH COPY OF HIM GRINS AT YOU CREEPILY, TWIDDLING THEIR MUSTACHES WITH SUCH SPEED THEY NEARLY CATCH ON FIRE. YOU CAN FEEL THE CREEPY AWKWARDNESS, BUT ARE TOO BUSY BEING PREOCCUPIED BY THE ENDLESS CARNIVAL IN YOUR HEAD. YOU CAN FEEL YOUR NOSE HAIRS IN YOUR NOSTRILS ENTWINE WITH EACH AROMA, AS EACH OF THEM MAKE SHADY DEALS TO TAKE YOU ON A JOURNEY. A JOURNEY TO A WORLD OF WARM CHOCOLATEY GOODNESS WHERE THERE ARE WATERFALLS, NAY, ENTIRE WATER CYCLES IF THE WATER WAS NOT WATER AND INSTEAD MOLTEN CHOCOLATE. IT WOULD BE KNOWN AS A CHOCOLATE CYCLE THEN. CAN YOU TASTE IT? NO YOU CAN’T. YOU HAVE NEVER TASTED IT. YOU WILL NEVER TASTE IT. THE ULTIMATE RECIPE IS THAT COOKIE. THAT DELICIOUS COOKIE IN YOUR HEAD. THE PERFECT PROTOTYPE OF A COOKIE. IT JUST GOT LIKE INCEPTION. YOU KNOW YOU CAN FEEL THAT WARM MOIST COOKIE IN YOUR HAND, FRESH FROM THE OVEN WITH THE SMELLS STILL LINGERING IN THE TOASTY AIR. AS YOU TAKE A BITE THE SOFTNESS MELTS IN YOUR MOUTH AND CRUMBLES INTO NOTHING BUT SENSORY TRIGGERS, TRIGGERING ALL THOSE PLEASURE SPOTS YOU NEVER KNEW YOUR MOUTH HAD. YOU SAVOR EACH BITE UNWILLINGLY, MILK OR NO MILK, IT DOESN’T MATTER. THE COOKIE WAS ALREADY PERFECT. ONLY THE PERFECT MILK WILL WASH IT DOWN.
TOO BAD YOU WILL NEVER HAVE THAT EITHER.
TOO BAD YOU WILL NEVER HAVE THAT EITHER.
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