For years, Miami-area highways and bus terminals have featured gigantic billboards illustrating a semi-automatic weapon with the text “10. 20. Life” under the handgun. The numbers represent the minimum prison sentence an individual will receive for pulling a firearm on someone. Simply stated, 10 years for making the gun visible, 20 for firing the weapon and life in prison if someone is shot and killed. Surely other cities in the great state of Florida advertise criminal penalties, but too my knowledge, no more than those in the South Florida region.
Anyhow, Fitzroy Salesman, a Miramar city commissioner was arrested and charged with aggravated assault with a deadly weapon, a felony, according to various news reports.
Mr. Salesman and another individual were witnessed in a minor verbal altercation at a local supermarket around the Thanksgiving holiday. NBC6 Online reported that Lazavious Hudson, the victim, told Mr. Salesman to continue the minor dispute outside which subsequently resulted with the commissioner’s loaded gun poking Mr. Hudson’s side.
Nearly a month later, Mr. Salesman turned himself into authorities, and was released on bail. He has yet to make a personal statement, and his lawyer said that his client felt threatened, therefore pulled out a loaded handgun at the Winn Dixie.
Florida Gov. Charlie Crist said that because the charge is a felony, Mr. Salesman has been suspended indefinitely.
This is not Mr. Salesman first run-in with the law, or the first time the governor has suspended him. He was previously suspended for a DUI charge, though he was acquitted of the charge at trial.
Remember the 10. 20. Life? It was reported that the suspended commissioner is actually only facing a maximum sentence of three years if convicted. More than likely he’ll serve 16-months, and be released on good behavior, if even found guilty. His name will be added to the long list of shady South Florida politicians and in no time, he’ll be back on the streets recklessly waving around a loaded gun while under the influence of Kentucky Gentleman. Happy Holidays from South Florida.
Cheers,
Victor
Friday, December 21, 2007
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Lil Wayne: No Homo?
I’m not one to read Hip Hop magazines, nor do I watch BET, and in reality, I rarely listen to urban music at all. But as of late I’ve been listening to Lil Wayne’s music occasionally and noticed some queer occurrences in his catalog of mediocre rap.
I did a little research on the New Orleans rapper and was surprised to find out that Bryan “Baby” Williams, also known-as “Birdman,” is not his biological father, rather a mentor he met in his early years. Sometime last year, a photograph surfaced that showed the two grown men kissing—an understandable act given the nature of their relationship, but a bit odd given the intensity captured by paparazzi. Lil Wayne is pictured tilting his head towards his left side, while Birdman is eagerly awaiting the sloppy peck, tilting his head towards his right. The picture paved the path for homosexual rumors.
Williams was asked about the photograph on Q93, a hip-hop station in their native New Orleans. He told DJ Uptown Angela, “Before I had a child, Wayne and all of them were my children, you hear me?” In semi-proper English he continued saying, “Wayne to me is my son—my first born son—and that’s what it do for me. That’s my life, that’s my love, and that’s my thing. That’s my lil’ son. I love him to death.”
After the publicity stunt, more rumors hit the Internet, and alleged Williams of molesting Wayne as a child, though those reports are rarely, if ever, discussed.
When Wayne’s song “We Taking Over (Remix)” was released, the first use of the word “homo” was introduced to me. Though he could’ve possibly said the word in various other tracks—most of the time it sounds like mumbling—the track’s opening lines, “Yezzsir/It’s me…the rapper eater…feed me feed me feed me. No homo,” features the word clearly.
Though it is intended as a slap in the face for all the critics calling Wayne gay, the 10th line of the song, “Damn right I kiss my daddy,” suggests a double meaning, possibly meaning, sure, I kiss my daddy, the man that isn’t really my daddy.
Wayne also lives by the motto, “Fuck bitches. Get money.” Though the majority of Wayne fans will actually associate the motto with having sex with women and making money, skeptic counterparts feel as if though there is a deeper, darker meaning behind the simple line: forget women, just make money. This is where my ‘Lil Wayne might actually be gay’ mentality is introduced.
In a number of songs, many of which I don’t know the name of because remixes, mix tapes, and full length albums make it nearly impossible to keep up with, Wayne will rhyme a word with homo for the sake of reminding everyone he is, in fact, no homo. For example, he rhymes Tony Romo with homo (ironically the quarterback’s team won three championships in the 90’s, and was lead by Troy Aikmen, a sometimes rumored homosexual), and the line doesn’t even make sense. I’ve also heard songs that say he’s rich, but not a homo. What the fuck does that mean?
The liberally used word and the fact Wayne includes it in many of his songs is a subconscious way of stepping out of his metaphorical closet and embracing his homosexuality. Though Lil Wayne is reportedly engaged to a woman, possibly a cover-up for the fact that he is gay, the day the state of Louisiana allows same sex marriages, which will likely never happen, this writer believes Lil Wayne and Bryan Williams will once again engage in a disturbing kiss, only this time at the altar. It’s not my cup of tea, but the thought of a thug with tattooed teardrops, bullet wounds and a gold mouth grill surrounded by shirtless men and a male video hoe is hilarious.
Cheers,
Victor
I did a little research on the New Orleans rapper and was surprised to find out that Bryan “Baby” Williams, also known-as “Birdman,” is not his biological father, rather a mentor he met in his early years. Sometime last year, a photograph surfaced that showed the two grown men kissing—an understandable act given the nature of their relationship, but a bit odd given the intensity captured by paparazzi. Lil Wayne is pictured tilting his head towards his left side, while Birdman is eagerly awaiting the sloppy peck, tilting his head towards his right. The picture paved the path for homosexual rumors.
Williams was asked about the photograph on Q93, a hip-hop station in their native New Orleans. He told DJ Uptown Angela, “Before I had a child, Wayne and all of them were my children, you hear me?” In semi-proper English he continued saying, “Wayne to me is my son—my first born son—and that’s what it do for me. That’s my life, that’s my love, and that’s my thing. That’s my lil’ son. I love him to death.”
After the publicity stunt, more rumors hit the Internet, and alleged Williams of molesting Wayne as a child, though those reports are rarely, if ever, discussed.
When Wayne’s song “We Taking Over (Remix)” was released, the first use of the word “homo” was introduced to me. Though he could’ve possibly said the word in various other tracks—most of the time it sounds like mumbling—the track’s opening lines, “Yezzsir/It’s me…the rapper eater…feed me feed me feed me. No homo,” features the word clearly.
Though it is intended as a slap in the face for all the critics calling Wayne gay, the 10th line of the song, “Damn right I kiss my daddy,” suggests a double meaning, possibly meaning, sure, I kiss my daddy, the man that isn’t really my daddy.
Wayne also lives by the motto, “Fuck bitches. Get money.” Though the majority of Wayne fans will actually associate the motto with having sex with women and making money, skeptic counterparts feel as if though there is a deeper, darker meaning behind the simple line: forget women, just make money. This is where my ‘Lil Wayne might actually be gay’ mentality is introduced.
In a number of songs, many of which I don’t know the name of because remixes, mix tapes, and full length albums make it nearly impossible to keep up with, Wayne will rhyme a word with homo for the sake of reminding everyone he is, in fact, no homo. For example, he rhymes Tony Romo with homo (ironically the quarterback’s team won three championships in the 90’s, and was lead by Troy Aikmen, a sometimes rumored homosexual), and the line doesn’t even make sense. I’ve also heard songs that say he’s rich, but not a homo. What the fuck does that mean?
The liberally used word and the fact Wayne includes it in many of his songs is a subconscious way of stepping out of his metaphorical closet and embracing his homosexuality. Though Lil Wayne is reportedly engaged to a woman, possibly a cover-up for the fact that he is gay, the day the state of Louisiana allows same sex marriages, which will likely never happen, this writer believes Lil Wayne and Bryan Williams will once again engage in a disturbing kiss, only this time at the altar. It’s not my cup of tea, but the thought of a thug with tattooed teardrops, bullet wounds and a gold mouth grill surrounded by shirtless men and a male video hoe is hilarious.
Cheers,
Victor
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Real Life Sims
NOTE: The following essay was recently submitted for a workshop. The names in the story have been changed to remain loyal to my rule of never using names in my blogs.
Located on a private farm about a mile from where Gulf Avenue and 315th Street intersect in obscure Clear Lake, Iowa, there is a small stainless steel guitar, sitting on its side, inscribed with the names Buddy Holly, Ritchie Vallens and Big Bopper. Under the three names, the date, 2-3-59, is etched into the steel, and three records made of the same metal sit atop the guitar’s neck in pyramid form. This monument commemorates the day the three musician’s chartered, single-engine Beechcraft Bonanza, crashed on the same Iowa field.
In 1971, twelve years after the plane carrying Holly, Vallens and Jiles Perry Richardson (Big Bopper) crashed, a man from New York, Don McLean, recorded a song entitled American Pie. Although the song never directly mentions the three men that perished on February 3, 1959, the song does refer to the ill-fated morning as “The Day The Music Died.”
Great music has evolved since then, and Americans eventually forgot the meaning behind McLean’s hit single, but since the crash happened, music has seen complete rebirths and, sadly, many disappointing metaphorical deaths. Unfortunately, music’s newest disease is a hypnotizing cancer that has plagued artistic expression since November 8, 2005. The day the music died…again.
To my knowledge no popular musician overdosed or had their stomach pumped on that day, rather a surprisingly successful videogame, Guitar Hero, hit North American stores, subsequently resulting in America’s self-inflicted gunshot to the creative mind.
Guitar Hero is a game created by Harmonix Music Systems, in which the player(s) can choose popular rock songs that are pre-installed in the game, and strum a plastic controller-like guitar along with the tracks, earning points and unlocking new levels along the way. The guitar, based on Gibson’s SG model, has no real strings and makes no real noise. There is no amplifier, just a PlayStation wire and a plastic whammy bar used to earn more points. Since the first Guitar Hero was introduced, four installments of the game have been released, and it is no longer exclusive to the PlayStation entertainment platform.
The Guitar Hero epidemic that is sweeping the nation was first brought to this writer’s attention the summer of 2006 when my friend, possibly under the influence of various narcotics, called me while I was in Miami, from our Tallahassee apartment, giggling and rambling nonsense.
“Dude, you need to get back up here.”
“Why?”
“Cause these people just got Guitar Hero, and it’s fucking nuts.”
“What people?”
“The neighbors. They brought it over. I got to go, it’s my turn. Later.”
Growing up, I was never a huge fan of videogames. My parents always bought my brother and me the latest console, and we always had a lot of games, but rarely did I spend more than 15 minutes on a game, or beat popular ones like Mario and Grand Theft Auto in later years, like my peers. I played baseball when I was a kid, and I had guitar lessons and band rehearsals to attend; I had no time for Madden. Somehow my best friend managed to play sports and balance a full season of MVP Baseball on “Expert Mode,” but that’s a rarity. The fact he called me and mentioned how he was playing our neighbor’s game, and how I needed to be there, meant that this thing was life changing—religious even—so I did some research.
I went back to my parent’s house that night and asked my brother if he had ever played this game, and how it actually worked.
“Yea man, it’s pretty cool.”
“I don’t get it; there’s no strings?”
“No dude. It was sick, I actually played ‘Woman” today.”
“The Wolfmother song? I can play that on my real guitar.”
“Oh.”
The conversation upset me and I left his room. I walked through the house with my head hung low and into my room. I was upset because my brother, the kid that looked up to me when I learned new songs on my guitar, no matter how simple the chord structure, cared more about his simulated performance of “Woman” at his friend’s house. This was the first inkling I had that Guitar Hero would destroy the undiscovered artistic abilities of many talented musicians because Skynyrd’s Free Bird is a lot easier on Xbox than it is on a Fender.
I mentioned having taken guitar lessons at one point in my life, truth be told I only took lessons for about a year, and really learned how to play the guitar on my own, years later, with the help of the Internet, cigarettes and alcohol.
The introduction of a game like Guitar Hero was revolting, and I assumed other musicians, semi-musicians like myself, and Americans in general, would share my concern for the youth of the nation and rise against the evil technological empire that was slowly replacing guitar lessons with simulated rock star success.
Jared Roth is a Florida State University student and has been playing the guitar on and off for about six years. Like my friend, he was able to balance true artistic representation and videogames as a child, and into adulthood—again, a rarity. Though he prefers sports-themed games, he was open to the idea of tinkering with the newest version of Harmonix Music System’s guitar game, Guitar Hero III: Legends of Rock.
I recently accompanied Jared to BestBuy, where a demo version of the game was available in the electronic game aisle. After waiting in line with balding men, young children and a stock-boy from neighboring OfficeMax, it was Jared’s turn to test the game for the first time. His first song choice was Kiss’ “Rock and Roll All Nite.” As the screen introduces the simulated band, and Peter Chris’ simple drumbeat begins, Jared starts fingering the colored buttons on the neck of the guitar/game-controller-hybrid, eight counts into the song. His musical background is evident through the way he taps his right foot and continually misses the simulated chord changes because of their terribly represented pattern as compared to real-life. The digital crowd starts booing and Jared’s first Guitar Hero experience comes to a crashing halt.
“Fuck.”
“What the fuck just happened?”
“Bro, this game is weird. I was playing, but it just kicked me off the stage for sucking.”
On the way back to Jared’s apartment, we have a deep discussion on the impact the game he just played is having on society.
“I get why you’d be upset,” he tells me, “but seriously, it’s not as serious as you make it out to be.”
“Not as serious?” I yell, “a fucking guy with no talent is going to this he’s Jimi-Fucking-Hendrix ‘cause he learned how to play Purple Haze on a Nintendo game. Some kid that could be at Guitar Center buying a beginner’s kit is on his grandmother’s living room floor, on his knees, pretending to be playing at Woodstock. Fuck that.”
Jared takes a hit of the slow burning joint, coughs and as he passes it back to me, says, “I guess I see where you’re coming from. It’s a lot like Dance Dance Revolution. Those people who play at arcades, they can’t fucking dance for real.”
Dance Dance Revolution, or DDR, is a popular arcade game, which now has a home version, where “dancers” step on colored floor lights, as indicated by the simulated nightclub dance floor on the screen. Often times, socially awkward people that wear faded t-shirts with Bob Ross-like nature settings printed on them are spotted jumping, sweating and running in place at various movie theater lobbies. They’re not auditioning for Flashdance: The Sequel, rather playing the annoyingly popular videogame. Rarely will these people be seen at large social gatherings, local bars or popular nightclubs, because (a) people scare them and (b) they’re busy searching Youtube, eager to find footage of new DDR techniques they can incorporate into their own routine.
Thirteen minutes after leaving BestBuy, we arrive at Jared’s apartment. His roommates and a group of their friends, all former high school athletes that have turned to binge drinking, keg stands and water bongs, are gathered around a small glass table. Some stand, other sit and one paces frantically back and forth. There are four or five laptops spread around the room. An egg timer goes off in the background and everyone starts yelling.
“Two minute warning.”
“Fuck, I don’t know what to do yet.”
“Bro, that’s a terrible pick.”
“Yea, you’re going lose for sure.”
It turns out this was the day 12 friends would skip class, the gym and an intramural flag-football game to hold an NBA draft for a new fantasy league. Moreover, they will continue skipping classes, the gym and intramural sports to gather around a high definition television set and watch every basketball game and basketball highlight at any given time. When there is no basketball to watch or relive through SportsCenter, many of these people sit on the edge of their seats, trash talking while passing around a giant bong as they play NCAA Football on Xbox.
“You saw that sick juke?”
“Bro, the game’s fucked up.”
“Oh, yea, cry about it.”
“Look who I’m playing with, of course you’ll beat me.”
“You’re a sore fucking loser, man.”
The trash talking will go on for hours, well into the evening and straight through early the next morning. A few weeks into the NBA season the trash talking is replaced by trade talking and, like those lost to Guitar Hero, society risks losing athletic talent too.
In years passed, parents have complained about violence in videogames, and watchdog groups were boycotting popular shooting games like Grand Theft Auto and others, all while ignoring the fact that games like Guitar Hero, Dance Dance Revolution and Madden were as damaging, if not more so, to the lives of people that play them. Not until a recent South Park episode did the media take note of the increasingly dangerous evolution of Guitar Hero.
A week after the third installment of Guitar Hero was released, the creators of South Park, wrote an episode in which two of the characters sign a record deal because of how well they play the game. One of the character’s fathers, intrigued by his son’s new game, attempts to play Kansas’ Carry On My Wayward Son. Though he played the song perfectly on a real guitar, he is unable to play the game’s version of the song. Eventually, the father and son turn to a new game, Heroin Hero, which pokes fun at an addiction that has surrounded many talented musicians, and how their lives are subsequently ruined.
On the surface it appears that Matt Stone and Trey Parker’s intentions were to produce another hilarious episode of the popular animated program, but their sarcastic humor and social commentary the show uses to prove a point leads me to believe that I’m not the only person disappointed with society’s current direction; a musician’s talent is now overshadowed by talent-less children unlocking secret characters and socially awkward teens. ESPN hired a Fantasy Sports Editor, and there is even a Madden Tournament Tour for the popular football videogame.
With the advancements in technology and depreciation of talent, maybe Harmonix Music Systems can make a game that simulates tripping on acid so I wont have to actually eat mushrooms to write like Hunter Thompson. Society is living life vicariously through digital characters. Rather than joining friends at a pub for a pint, people spend hours in front of plasma televisions, in their three-day old underwear, eating pineapple pizza in their living room. They do this while trying to earn more points on Guitar Hero and manage their fantasy sports franchise, oblivious to life passing them by. Our digital world isn’t positively evolving, our digital world is corrupting American society and we’re too busy checking our e-mail.
Cheers,
Victor
Located on a private farm about a mile from where Gulf Avenue and 315th Street intersect in obscure Clear Lake, Iowa, there is a small stainless steel guitar, sitting on its side, inscribed with the names Buddy Holly, Ritchie Vallens and Big Bopper. Under the three names, the date, 2-3-59, is etched into the steel, and three records made of the same metal sit atop the guitar’s neck in pyramid form. This monument commemorates the day the three musician’s chartered, single-engine Beechcraft Bonanza, crashed on the same Iowa field.
In 1971, twelve years after the plane carrying Holly, Vallens and Jiles Perry Richardson (Big Bopper) crashed, a man from New York, Don McLean, recorded a song entitled American Pie. Although the song never directly mentions the three men that perished on February 3, 1959, the song does refer to the ill-fated morning as “The Day The Music Died.”
Great music has evolved since then, and Americans eventually forgot the meaning behind McLean’s hit single, but since the crash happened, music has seen complete rebirths and, sadly, many disappointing metaphorical deaths. Unfortunately, music’s newest disease is a hypnotizing cancer that has plagued artistic expression since November 8, 2005. The day the music died…again.
To my knowledge no popular musician overdosed or had their stomach pumped on that day, rather a surprisingly successful videogame, Guitar Hero, hit North American stores, subsequently resulting in America’s self-inflicted gunshot to the creative mind.
Guitar Hero is a game created by Harmonix Music Systems, in which the player(s) can choose popular rock songs that are pre-installed in the game, and strum a plastic controller-like guitar along with the tracks, earning points and unlocking new levels along the way. The guitar, based on Gibson’s SG model, has no real strings and makes no real noise. There is no amplifier, just a PlayStation wire and a plastic whammy bar used to earn more points. Since the first Guitar Hero was introduced, four installments of the game have been released, and it is no longer exclusive to the PlayStation entertainment platform.
The Guitar Hero epidemic that is sweeping the nation was first brought to this writer’s attention the summer of 2006 when my friend, possibly under the influence of various narcotics, called me while I was in Miami, from our Tallahassee apartment, giggling and rambling nonsense.
“Dude, you need to get back up here.”
“Why?”
“Cause these people just got Guitar Hero, and it’s fucking nuts.”
“What people?”
“The neighbors. They brought it over. I got to go, it’s my turn. Later.”
Growing up, I was never a huge fan of videogames. My parents always bought my brother and me the latest console, and we always had a lot of games, but rarely did I spend more than 15 minutes on a game, or beat popular ones like Mario and Grand Theft Auto in later years, like my peers. I played baseball when I was a kid, and I had guitar lessons and band rehearsals to attend; I had no time for Madden. Somehow my best friend managed to play sports and balance a full season of MVP Baseball on “Expert Mode,” but that’s a rarity. The fact he called me and mentioned how he was playing our neighbor’s game, and how I needed to be there, meant that this thing was life changing—religious even—so I did some research.
I went back to my parent’s house that night and asked my brother if he had ever played this game, and how it actually worked.
“Yea man, it’s pretty cool.”
“I don’t get it; there’s no strings?”
“No dude. It was sick, I actually played ‘Woman” today.”
“The Wolfmother song? I can play that on my real guitar.”
“Oh.”
The conversation upset me and I left his room. I walked through the house with my head hung low and into my room. I was upset because my brother, the kid that looked up to me when I learned new songs on my guitar, no matter how simple the chord structure, cared more about his simulated performance of “Woman” at his friend’s house. This was the first inkling I had that Guitar Hero would destroy the undiscovered artistic abilities of many talented musicians because Skynyrd’s Free Bird is a lot easier on Xbox than it is on a Fender.
I mentioned having taken guitar lessons at one point in my life, truth be told I only took lessons for about a year, and really learned how to play the guitar on my own, years later, with the help of the Internet, cigarettes and alcohol.
The introduction of a game like Guitar Hero was revolting, and I assumed other musicians, semi-musicians like myself, and Americans in general, would share my concern for the youth of the nation and rise against the evil technological empire that was slowly replacing guitar lessons with simulated rock star success.
Jared Roth is a Florida State University student and has been playing the guitar on and off for about six years. Like my friend, he was able to balance true artistic representation and videogames as a child, and into adulthood—again, a rarity. Though he prefers sports-themed games, he was open to the idea of tinkering with the newest version of Harmonix Music System’s guitar game, Guitar Hero III: Legends of Rock.
I recently accompanied Jared to BestBuy, where a demo version of the game was available in the electronic game aisle. After waiting in line with balding men, young children and a stock-boy from neighboring OfficeMax, it was Jared’s turn to test the game for the first time. His first song choice was Kiss’ “Rock and Roll All Nite.” As the screen introduces the simulated band, and Peter Chris’ simple drumbeat begins, Jared starts fingering the colored buttons on the neck of the guitar/game-controller-hybrid, eight counts into the song. His musical background is evident through the way he taps his right foot and continually misses the simulated chord changes because of their terribly represented pattern as compared to real-life. The digital crowd starts booing and Jared’s first Guitar Hero experience comes to a crashing halt.
“Fuck.”
“What the fuck just happened?”
“Bro, this game is weird. I was playing, but it just kicked me off the stage for sucking.”
On the way back to Jared’s apartment, we have a deep discussion on the impact the game he just played is having on society.
“I get why you’d be upset,” he tells me, “but seriously, it’s not as serious as you make it out to be.”
“Not as serious?” I yell, “a fucking guy with no talent is going to this he’s Jimi-Fucking-Hendrix ‘cause he learned how to play Purple Haze on a Nintendo game. Some kid that could be at Guitar Center buying a beginner’s kit is on his grandmother’s living room floor, on his knees, pretending to be playing at Woodstock. Fuck that.”
Jared takes a hit of the slow burning joint, coughs and as he passes it back to me, says, “I guess I see where you’re coming from. It’s a lot like Dance Dance Revolution. Those people who play at arcades, they can’t fucking dance for real.”
Dance Dance Revolution, or DDR, is a popular arcade game, which now has a home version, where “dancers” step on colored floor lights, as indicated by the simulated nightclub dance floor on the screen. Often times, socially awkward people that wear faded t-shirts with Bob Ross-like nature settings printed on them are spotted jumping, sweating and running in place at various movie theater lobbies. They’re not auditioning for Flashdance: The Sequel, rather playing the annoyingly popular videogame. Rarely will these people be seen at large social gatherings, local bars or popular nightclubs, because (a) people scare them and (b) they’re busy searching Youtube, eager to find footage of new DDR techniques they can incorporate into their own routine.
Thirteen minutes after leaving BestBuy, we arrive at Jared’s apartment. His roommates and a group of their friends, all former high school athletes that have turned to binge drinking, keg stands and water bongs, are gathered around a small glass table. Some stand, other sit and one paces frantically back and forth. There are four or five laptops spread around the room. An egg timer goes off in the background and everyone starts yelling.
“Two minute warning.”
“Fuck, I don’t know what to do yet.”
“Bro, that’s a terrible pick.”
“Yea, you’re going lose for sure.”
It turns out this was the day 12 friends would skip class, the gym and an intramural flag-football game to hold an NBA draft for a new fantasy league. Moreover, they will continue skipping classes, the gym and intramural sports to gather around a high definition television set and watch every basketball game and basketball highlight at any given time. When there is no basketball to watch or relive through SportsCenter, many of these people sit on the edge of their seats, trash talking while passing around a giant bong as they play NCAA Football on Xbox.
“You saw that sick juke?”
“Bro, the game’s fucked up.”
“Oh, yea, cry about it.”
“Look who I’m playing with, of course you’ll beat me.”
“You’re a sore fucking loser, man.”
The trash talking will go on for hours, well into the evening and straight through early the next morning. A few weeks into the NBA season the trash talking is replaced by trade talking and, like those lost to Guitar Hero, society risks losing athletic talent too.
In years passed, parents have complained about violence in videogames, and watchdog groups were boycotting popular shooting games like Grand Theft Auto and others, all while ignoring the fact that games like Guitar Hero, Dance Dance Revolution and Madden were as damaging, if not more so, to the lives of people that play them. Not until a recent South Park episode did the media take note of the increasingly dangerous evolution of Guitar Hero.
A week after the third installment of Guitar Hero was released, the creators of South Park, wrote an episode in which two of the characters sign a record deal because of how well they play the game. One of the character’s fathers, intrigued by his son’s new game, attempts to play Kansas’ Carry On My Wayward Son. Though he played the song perfectly on a real guitar, he is unable to play the game’s version of the song. Eventually, the father and son turn to a new game, Heroin Hero, which pokes fun at an addiction that has surrounded many talented musicians, and how their lives are subsequently ruined.
On the surface it appears that Matt Stone and Trey Parker’s intentions were to produce another hilarious episode of the popular animated program, but their sarcastic humor and social commentary the show uses to prove a point leads me to believe that I’m not the only person disappointed with society’s current direction; a musician’s talent is now overshadowed by talent-less children unlocking secret characters and socially awkward teens. ESPN hired a Fantasy Sports Editor, and there is even a Madden Tournament Tour for the popular football videogame.
With the advancements in technology and depreciation of talent, maybe Harmonix Music Systems can make a game that simulates tripping on acid so I wont have to actually eat mushrooms to write like Hunter Thompson. Society is living life vicariously through digital characters. Rather than joining friends at a pub for a pint, people spend hours in front of plasma televisions, in their three-day old underwear, eating pineapple pizza in their living room. They do this while trying to earn more points on Guitar Hero and manage their fantasy sports franchise, oblivious to life passing them by. Our digital world isn’t positively evolving, our digital world is corrupting American society and we’re too busy checking our e-mail.
Cheers,
Victor
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Addy-ios
Technically, this fall semester of college is my fourth year, unless of course I take into account that I haphazardly took a yearlong hiatus. In those 4 years it’s obvious that experimentation would be an everyday occurrence, but unlike most of my collegiate peers, I had yet to experience the pleasure of pulling an “all-nighter” thanks to the wonder pill commonly referred to “addy” by the cool kids.
I never felt the need to study all night or type two five-page papers in one evening on two entirely different topics, but when I realized that the fall semester is coming to an end, and that it is my first year back doing the whole school thing, and I had yet to write my midterm papers discussing the rhetorical choices Larry Levis uses in his poem, My Story in a Late Style of Fire, for my poetic technique class. And that I had yet to write my midterm paper on the themes of naïveté, innocence, gender subjugation and individual agency found in Kate Chopin’s "Desiree’s Baby" and Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s "The Yellow Wall-paper," I figured it was time for me to test adderall out for the first time.
Prior swallowing one of two 20-miligram pills, I had only heard from friends how remarkable this works.
“Time is just efficient”
“Dude, it’s pretty great”
“I was all addy’d out last night—turned into a Halo-fest”
But I was skeptical, and ignorantly associated adderall with Jesse Spano’s ‘pep-pills’—the ones that Zach Morris so caringly disposed of in an early episode of "Saved by the Bell." I think Jesse nearly overdosed studying for Mr. Tuttle’s exam.
It’s 6:55 in the morning, the sun hasn’t come out yet, but it’s approaching. I haven’t danced, cried or had random high school buddies climb through my bedroom window like Jesse had, but I did, however, just complete two of my best essays.
I took a long nap today, woke up feeling groggy and had ‘afternoon-nap-breath.’ It’s a lot like morning breath, just a few hours overdue. The lights were off in the house; my people were watching "Monday Night Football" across town, drinking beers and celebrating the start of the week, ironically. I made the conscious decision to join this group, have a couple of beers, watch the first half of the Colts/Jags blowout, and purchase two tiny pink pills from an inconspicuous collegiate drug dealer.
These 18-20 year old college drug dealers share little similarities with real drug dealers: (a) they’re 'college' drug dealers. Selling a couple of prescription pills and 1/8 oz of green to a tight circle of acquaintances is barely a crime—slap on the wrist at most. It's not a career move. And (b), it’s a hell of a lot safer than scoring some crack on the street. I don’t do crack.
When I got back home, roughly 10:45-ish, my roommate and I sat on the couch, ate some dinner and watched the rest of the game. At 11:30-ish, feeling tired and contemplating if I’d even do the assignments today since they are not due until Wednesday, I made my way towards “The Factory.” A new name I gave my room because of the massive amounts of incredible work that is produced at a small, black desk that stores the soundtrack of my life. And it’s an undersized homage to legendary artist Andy Warhol.
I started reading over my instructions, popped a pill and opened a blank document on Microsoft Word for Mac. Three hours later, a brilliantly crafted essay. It was time for a short break.
15-minutes went by, and I was back at my desk, joined by Mozart and Beethoven, Chopin and Bach. Three hours later…BOOM!...another brilliant essay—time for bed.
Actually, no—I’m 40-miligrams deep, and there is no sign of this wearing off before morning. I’m left with no choice besides updating my growing blog and roaming the streets of the information super highway—Internet, you know. Why else would I be awake at 7:19 in the morning on a day I don’t have class till 11?
Cheers,
Victor
I never felt the need to study all night or type two five-page papers in one evening on two entirely different topics, but when I realized that the fall semester is coming to an end, and that it is my first year back doing the whole school thing, and I had yet to write my midterm papers discussing the rhetorical choices Larry Levis uses in his poem, My Story in a Late Style of Fire, for my poetic technique class. And that I had yet to write my midterm paper on the themes of naïveté, innocence, gender subjugation and individual agency found in Kate Chopin’s "Desiree’s Baby" and Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s "The Yellow Wall-paper," I figured it was time for me to test adderall out for the first time.
Prior swallowing one of two 20-miligram pills, I had only heard from friends how remarkable this works.
“Time is just efficient”
“Dude, it’s pretty great”
“I was all addy’d out last night—turned into a Halo-fest”
But I was skeptical, and ignorantly associated adderall with Jesse Spano’s ‘pep-pills’—the ones that Zach Morris so caringly disposed of in an early episode of "Saved by the Bell." I think Jesse nearly overdosed studying for Mr. Tuttle’s exam.
It’s 6:55 in the morning, the sun hasn’t come out yet, but it’s approaching. I haven’t danced, cried or had random high school buddies climb through my bedroom window like Jesse had, but I did, however, just complete two of my best essays.
I took a long nap today, woke up feeling groggy and had ‘afternoon-nap-breath.’ It’s a lot like morning breath, just a few hours overdue. The lights were off in the house; my people were watching "Monday Night Football" across town, drinking beers and celebrating the start of the week, ironically. I made the conscious decision to join this group, have a couple of beers, watch the first half of the Colts/Jags blowout, and purchase two tiny pink pills from an inconspicuous collegiate drug dealer.
These 18-20 year old college drug dealers share little similarities with real drug dealers: (a) they’re 'college' drug dealers. Selling a couple of prescription pills and 1/8 oz of green to a tight circle of acquaintances is barely a crime—slap on the wrist at most. It's not a career move. And (b), it’s a hell of a lot safer than scoring some crack on the street. I don’t do crack.
When I got back home, roughly 10:45-ish, my roommate and I sat on the couch, ate some dinner and watched the rest of the game. At 11:30-ish, feeling tired and contemplating if I’d even do the assignments today since they are not due until Wednesday, I made my way towards “The Factory.” A new name I gave my room because of the massive amounts of incredible work that is produced at a small, black desk that stores the soundtrack of my life. And it’s an undersized homage to legendary artist Andy Warhol.
I started reading over my instructions, popped a pill and opened a blank document on Microsoft Word for Mac. Three hours later, a brilliantly crafted essay. It was time for a short break.
15-minutes went by, and I was back at my desk, joined by Mozart and Beethoven, Chopin and Bach. Three hours later…BOOM!...another brilliant essay—time for bed.
Actually, no—I’m 40-miligrams deep, and there is no sign of this wearing off before morning. I’m left with no choice besides updating my growing blog and roaming the streets of the information super highway—Internet, you know. Why else would I be awake at 7:19 in the morning on a day I don’t have class till 11?
Cheers,
Victor
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Gonzo Gainesville
It was some time in the early evening when the Pillsbury Doughboy fed the five of us magic mushrooms. He sprinkled edible confetti in his creamy chocolate frosting, and made the fungi taste somewhat delightful. After a cloudy 20-minutes and four glasses of purified water they asked us to join them—John, Paul, George and Ringo—in the patio and hop aboard the yellow submarine.
“Those Brits put on one hell of light show and really get deep into your mind, right?”
“Yea, man. San Francisco is really cool.”
“What?”
“I understand totally. But why?”
“Seriously.”
“I’m lost.”
“Me too!”
When Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Heart Club Band wrapped their set, we drifted towards the soundstage. The forest scene was dimly lit and three of the five actors smoked cigarettes and chatted near the coffee maker. I saw myself as one of these actors and captured the entire conversation with a mental movie camera.
“This role is boring. I want to play a professor.”
“How come?”
“Yea”
“Yea what?
“You puked?”
“Yea, man.”
“We’re saying ‘yea’ a lot.”
“Me too!”
“I know.”
The documentary was long and only made sense in the moment. Other actors would walk in and out of the conversation and look confused—they giggled for hours, especially the girls.
“I can’t stop laughing.”
“Me too!”
“Like, seriously, if I start talking now, I’ll talk forever.”
“Me too!”
I must say that the forest set was quite remarkable. Luckily for us, the main tree caressed our patio in its furry arms. He swayed us back and forth and gave us a guided tour of the lot. At any moment, the ride could have collapsed, killing us instantly upon impact with the bottom of the pre-historic volcanic island. Dinosaurs, evil squirrels and even bats would have feasted on our decomposing corpses and only sobriety could save us. We must go inside—much safer with animation.
“Let’s see what’s going on inside.”
“Yea, I think I want to go inside for a while.”
“Me too!”
I remember the Rugrat’s house being much less colorful. Maybe Top Gun’s Aviators will balance the color. Yes, much better. The green becomes muted and the purple looks red.
“This is insane. When did we get into the cartoon?”
“I know what you mean.”
“Me too!”
“You haven’t stopped saying ‘me too’ since we ate the mushrooms.”
“Guys, I’m sorry if I’m being bossy.”
A football team from the Midwest kicked a field goal directly through our big screen. It won the game for them, but apparently the faces behind the curtains were rooting for the other team. They looked upset.
“Those faces, over there…it might be Julius Caser, but I don’t know.”
“They look pissed.”
“Maybe we should see what’s going on outside.”
“I can’t move right now.”
“Me too!”
“I’m going alone.”
A broom sat in the corner of the operating room and was the only weapon I could find. The front door was miles away from the O.R. but we managed to come off our cloud-like sofa bed.
“I thought you guys were staying”
“Me too!”
“Why are you holding a broom?”
“Because we need it.”
“Look, over there, go there.”
“This is what we’re supposed to be doing.”
We beat the wild boar with the broom-sword and were back in time for the Blind Melon concert. Beethoven opened for them. That was a tough act to follow.
“This song is fun.”
“Yea, three is the magic number.”
“No Rain? That’s not what it said in the paper.”
“I wouldn’t care if it rains.”
“Me too!”
The blood is rushing to my brain as I walk on the roof. The Vietnamese Airplane’s propeller almost cut my bare foot. That damn Charlie is always sneaking around our house.
“Did you see that? Hello? Is anyone there? Holy shit.”
I escaped the prison camp, but barely. Luckily, Jared Roth was there with his guitar. The strings looked odd, and his fingers were bleeding, but it sounded great.
“Seriously, you’re killing me over there.”
“Sorry, it just sounds so great.”
“I thought it sounded cool.”
“Me too!”
None of it made sense and everyone was in a daze. Some vomited and others slept. I did the latter—slept right through the slumber party. When I awoke, early the next morning, the submarine was gone, the boar was dead and the movie set no longer sat behind the house. Reality sucks.
Cheers,
Victor
“Those Brits put on one hell of light show and really get deep into your mind, right?”
“Yea, man. San Francisco is really cool.”
“What?”
“I understand totally. But why?”
“Seriously.”
“I’m lost.”
“Me too!”
When Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Heart Club Band wrapped their set, we drifted towards the soundstage. The forest scene was dimly lit and three of the five actors smoked cigarettes and chatted near the coffee maker. I saw myself as one of these actors and captured the entire conversation with a mental movie camera.
“This role is boring. I want to play a professor.”
“How come?”
“Yea”
“Yea what?
“You puked?”
“Yea, man.”
“We’re saying ‘yea’ a lot.”
“Me too!”
“I know.”
The documentary was long and only made sense in the moment. Other actors would walk in and out of the conversation and look confused—they giggled for hours, especially the girls.
“I can’t stop laughing.”
“Me too!”
“Like, seriously, if I start talking now, I’ll talk forever.”
“Me too!”
I must say that the forest set was quite remarkable. Luckily for us, the main tree caressed our patio in its furry arms. He swayed us back and forth and gave us a guided tour of the lot. At any moment, the ride could have collapsed, killing us instantly upon impact with the bottom of the pre-historic volcanic island. Dinosaurs, evil squirrels and even bats would have feasted on our decomposing corpses and only sobriety could save us. We must go inside—much safer with animation.
“Let’s see what’s going on inside.”
“Yea, I think I want to go inside for a while.”
“Me too!”
I remember the Rugrat’s house being much less colorful. Maybe Top Gun’s Aviators will balance the color. Yes, much better. The green becomes muted and the purple looks red.
“This is insane. When did we get into the cartoon?”
“I know what you mean.”
“Me too!”
“You haven’t stopped saying ‘me too’ since we ate the mushrooms.”
“Guys, I’m sorry if I’m being bossy.”
A football team from the Midwest kicked a field goal directly through our big screen. It won the game for them, but apparently the faces behind the curtains were rooting for the other team. They looked upset.
“Those faces, over there…it might be Julius Caser, but I don’t know.”
“They look pissed.”
“Maybe we should see what’s going on outside.”
“I can’t move right now.”
“Me too!”
“I’m going alone.”
A broom sat in the corner of the operating room and was the only weapon I could find. The front door was miles away from the O.R. but we managed to come off our cloud-like sofa bed.
“I thought you guys were staying”
“Me too!”
“Why are you holding a broom?”
“Because we need it.”
“Look, over there, go there.”
“This is what we’re supposed to be doing.”
We beat the wild boar with the broom-sword and were back in time for the Blind Melon concert. Beethoven opened for them. That was a tough act to follow.
“This song is fun.”
“Yea, three is the magic number.”
“No Rain? That’s not what it said in the paper.”
“I wouldn’t care if it rains.”
“Me too!”
The blood is rushing to my brain as I walk on the roof. The Vietnamese Airplane’s propeller almost cut my bare foot. That damn Charlie is always sneaking around our house.
“Did you see that? Hello? Is anyone there? Holy shit.”
I escaped the prison camp, but barely. Luckily, Jared Roth was there with his guitar. The strings looked odd, and his fingers were bleeding, but it sounded great.
“Seriously, you’re killing me over there.”
“Sorry, it just sounds so great.”
“I thought it sounded cool.”
“Me too!”
None of it made sense and everyone was in a daze. Some vomited and others slept. I did the latter—slept right through the slumber party. When I awoke, early the next morning, the submarine was gone, the boar was dead and the movie set no longer sat behind the house. Reality sucks.
Cheers,
Victor
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Venezuela is Behind the Times
Following in the footsteps of long time friend Fidel Castro, Venezuelan President Hugo Chavez has decided to put his own country behind the times. The only difference is that Venezuela will literally be half-an-hour behind what they’ve been accustomed too, while Cuba remains 50 years behind technology.
Chavez ordered that at midnight, September 24, 2007, the people of Venezuela turn their clock hands one half hour back, but when explaining the bizarre time change on his weekly television show, along with his brother (minister of education), mistakenly told them to add one half hour, subsequently sending the people of Venezuela into a time-lapsed frenzy.
Millions of Venezuelans panicked when their TV Guides featured show times with question marks. “American Idol – Monday at…?” Oh wait, American Idol isn’t scene in Venezuela, it’s too evil – just like Americans.
At least Chavez had the right intentions when he made the decision to mind-fuck the country. Apparently, the reason for the odd new demand is so that the children of Venezuela wont have to wake-up prior to dawn for school. Chavez, like Trick, “loves the kids.”
Señor Chavez, why not make school start and end an hour later? Why ruin the lives of single, childless people that just figured out how to use their government issued rebel watches with the anti-American ‘seconds-hand’ detector? Why add to the headache of air travel?
I’m sure that to the Castro brothers, surviving members of Che Guevara’s family and the ghost of Karl Marx, this half-hour time change makes perfect sense and could only be executed by a brilliant leader like Chavez. But to the rest of the world’s population, with the exception of Nepal - which is 15 minutes ahead of India - and the handful of other odd countries that don’t follow GMT, this is just another absurd move by a dictator.
Cheers,
Victor
Chavez ordered that at midnight, September 24, 2007, the people of Venezuela turn their clock hands one half hour back, but when explaining the bizarre time change on his weekly television show, along with his brother (minister of education), mistakenly told them to add one half hour, subsequently sending the people of Venezuela into a time-lapsed frenzy.
Millions of Venezuelans panicked when their TV Guides featured show times with question marks. “American Idol – Monday at…?” Oh wait, American Idol isn’t scene in Venezuela, it’s too evil – just like Americans.
At least Chavez had the right intentions when he made the decision to mind-fuck the country. Apparently, the reason for the odd new demand is so that the children of Venezuela wont have to wake-up prior to dawn for school. Chavez, like Trick, “loves the kids.”
Señor Chavez, why not make school start and end an hour later? Why ruin the lives of single, childless people that just figured out how to use their government issued rebel watches with the anti-American ‘seconds-hand’ detector? Why add to the headache of air travel?
I’m sure that to the Castro brothers, surviving members of Che Guevara’s family and the ghost of Karl Marx, this half-hour time change makes perfect sense and could only be executed by a brilliant leader like Chavez. But to the rest of the world’s population, with the exception of Nepal - which is 15 minutes ahead of India - and the handful of other odd countries that don’t follow GMT, this is just another absurd move by a dictator.
Cheers,
Victor
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Defending a Gator
Rarely will I come to the defense of anyone caught in the middle of situation involving police, especially someone that goes to the University of Florida. But with the events that occurred during a forum held by the university with U.S. Senator John Kerry and a crowd of supporters and non-supporters alike, I felt compelled to give my opinion on the Andrew Meyer fiasco.
For those not familiar with the story, 21-year-old Andrew Meyer, a University of Florida student, was unfairly silenced and subsequently arrested for allegedly disrupting Sen. Kerry’s forum. He was irresponsibly tasered and detained by campus police and has since been released.
My grandfather first informed me of this story early Tuesday morning. From what he said, I was already upset at the situation and automatically put myself in his shoes. When I arrived home from class, I decided I’d find the video of the events and further my understanding of what happened. What I saw truly disappointed me.
Mr. Meyer begins discussing the 2004 election and recommends a book for Sen. Kerry to read. He asks if Bill Clinton could be impeached for a “blow job,” why not impeach President George W. Bush before he invades Iran. The crowd, presuming it is primarily comprised of Democrats, begins to laugh; some applaud while others remain quiet. Sen. Kerry pays no attention to the question, but does nothing to stop the forum.
Mr. Meyer appears to be enjoying his time at the microphone, as any eager student would, and proceeds to ask Sen. Kerry if he were a member of the Skull & Bones society while at Yale. As he blurts out the last words of the question, someone in the background dressed in a suit, is seen performing the universal “cut” sign with his hands representing a knife slicing his own neck. Seconds later, the police officers standing behind Mr. Meyer rush to his side and begin the arrest process.
While this mayhem is in its infant stage, Sen. Kerry is heard saying, “I’m sorry, let me answer his question.” His wish was ignored.
The police officers are now forcing Mr. Meyer’s left arm behind his back while he shouts he did nothing wrong. He threw his arms up well above his head as to show the police that he meant no harm. He is tasered, dragged outside the auditorium and taken to jail.
Mr. Meyer never physically resisted arrest. He did nothing wrong. He was asking legitimate questions that his collegiate peers did not have the opportunity to ask. On his personal website he is self-described as a “Good Jew.”
Why the fuck would the University of Florida’s police department use excessive force on a nice Jew?
Simple. These dirty cops are full of envy. They are paid to ‘protect’ rich kids and future leaders of this country, and rather than making arrest and fighting crime, they’re stuck writing $20 parking tickets all day. More than likely they have no desire to be at a John Kerry forum and more than likely didn’t even vote in the Kerry election. They let the badge get to their head and upon graduating police academy develop a taser-trigger-happy persona.
This scene is all too common and needs to stop. Police have no rights to silence someone for speaking their mind and certainly have no reason to use taser guns on unarmed, un-dangerous human beings.
Maybe I’ll go to Internet jail for speaking out on this topic.
Cheers,
Victor
For those not familiar with the story, 21-year-old Andrew Meyer, a University of Florida student, was unfairly silenced and subsequently arrested for allegedly disrupting Sen. Kerry’s forum. He was irresponsibly tasered and detained by campus police and has since been released.
My grandfather first informed me of this story early Tuesday morning. From what he said, I was already upset at the situation and automatically put myself in his shoes. When I arrived home from class, I decided I’d find the video of the events and further my understanding of what happened. What I saw truly disappointed me.
Mr. Meyer begins discussing the 2004 election and recommends a book for Sen. Kerry to read. He asks if Bill Clinton could be impeached for a “blow job,” why not impeach President George W. Bush before he invades Iran. The crowd, presuming it is primarily comprised of Democrats, begins to laugh; some applaud while others remain quiet. Sen. Kerry pays no attention to the question, but does nothing to stop the forum.
Mr. Meyer appears to be enjoying his time at the microphone, as any eager student would, and proceeds to ask Sen. Kerry if he were a member of the Skull & Bones society while at Yale. As he blurts out the last words of the question, someone in the background dressed in a suit, is seen performing the universal “cut” sign with his hands representing a knife slicing his own neck. Seconds later, the police officers standing behind Mr. Meyer rush to his side and begin the arrest process.
While this mayhem is in its infant stage, Sen. Kerry is heard saying, “I’m sorry, let me answer his question.” His wish was ignored.
The police officers are now forcing Mr. Meyer’s left arm behind his back while he shouts he did nothing wrong. He threw his arms up well above his head as to show the police that he meant no harm. He is tasered, dragged outside the auditorium and taken to jail.
Mr. Meyer never physically resisted arrest. He did nothing wrong. He was asking legitimate questions that his collegiate peers did not have the opportunity to ask. On his personal website he is self-described as a “Good Jew.”
Why the fuck would the University of Florida’s police department use excessive force on a nice Jew?
Simple. These dirty cops are full of envy. They are paid to ‘protect’ rich kids and future leaders of this country, and rather than making arrest and fighting crime, they’re stuck writing $20 parking tickets all day. More than likely they have no desire to be at a John Kerry forum and more than likely didn’t even vote in the Kerry election. They let the badge get to their head and upon graduating police academy develop a taser-trigger-happy persona.
This scene is all too common and needs to stop. Police have no rights to silence someone for speaking their mind and certainly have no reason to use taser guns on unarmed, un-dangerous human beings.
Maybe I’ll go to Internet jail for speaking out on this topic.
Cheers,
Victor
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Literally Daydreaming in Literature
The pencils glided along the paper, continually making a faint hissing noise and occasionally releasing a small squeak. Everyone around me seemed to be writing while I quietly scanned the room trying to find someone else who forgot to do the first day’s assignments.
The girl wearing a green dress beside me appears to have just finished writing. She’s cute. I’d say she’s about 5’4; she’s more than likely in a sorority, possibly Delta Gamma, and walks around the campus wearing heels. She’ll lean her head on her right hand, held up by her skinny elbow resting on the desk. She has a pink water container and sips water like most the girls in these “attractive” sororities do – she’ll look up, briefly close her eyes, place the plastic sippy-straw on the tip of her lips, and sip – then she’ll slip off her shoes and expose her freshly painted toes as she waits for the instructor’s lecture.
I take my eyes off this presumably 3rd year English major and focus my eyes to the front of the class. The professor, a young African American lady, begins talking and assures those of us that didn’t access the required reading assignment were okay and would have the opportunity to reflect on the essay at home. She begins the classroom discussion on the aforementioned reading assignment - a piece from the “Age of Realism” about war and love.
By the 20-minute mark, the class begins to open up a bit. At this time I learn who plays what role in this character-filled room. Behind me is the know-it-all that answers questions with confidence and condescending voice patterns, in hideous southern twang. Ironically enough, she’ll have to be corrected every time she answers a question, and proves to actually know absolutely nothing, about anything. A few rows to my left, a closeted lesbian sits comfortably in her tie-dye t-shirt. She has a deep voice and an Adam’s apple the size of my ...
I kid; she has no Adam’s apple, just the deep voice, and a faint mustache. She too is quite the know-it-all, except she makes sense. She’s actually quite smart, I conclude, from the two 50-minute classes I’ve attended.
Behind her is the leader of the social outcast crew. Does that make sense? If a person is considered a social outcast, could they realistically be the leader of a group? Are they the voice of the voiceless and dateless? It’s almost like an anarchist rally. If anarchists are rallying, an organized, hypocritical gathering ruins their sole mission. If you cannot trust anarchist, then whom can you trust?
Anyways, the social outcast crew typically wears faded t-shirts with 1980-esque drawings of wolves. The wolves are typically set in a purplish-blue background, possibly representing the night, and tend to appear as if they’re howling at the moon. This goes for both males and females. The only thing separating the men and women in the group is facial hair. Often times, the men lack true facial hair, but the women sport large enough beards to go around.
Finally, after identifying other minor roles, I think of the role I play. What am I to these people I’ve never met, but managed to fantasize about 1/3 of the girls in the class? Maybe I’m the cynical asshole that will casually ruin someone’s day. No, that’s not me. Contrary to popular belief, I have a huge heart. I could be that guy who thinks way to highly of his self and never talks to anyone because they are not worth my time, but that would only true when referring to the social outcast crew. Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against Bob Ross, the guy that painted “happy trees,” but when your everyday attire looks like an original Ross painting, we have nothing in common.
Cheers,
Victor
The girl wearing a green dress beside me appears to have just finished writing. She’s cute. I’d say she’s about 5’4; she’s more than likely in a sorority, possibly Delta Gamma, and walks around the campus wearing heels. She’ll lean her head on her right hand, held up by her skinny elbow resting on the desk. She has a pink water container and sips water like most the girls in these “attractive” sororities do – she’ll look up, briefly close her eyes, place the plastic sippy-straw on the tip of her lips, and sip – then she’ll slip off her shoes and expose her freshly painted toes as she waits for the instructor’s lecture.
I take my eyes off this presumably 3rd year English major and focus my eyes to the front of the class. The professor, a young African American lady, begins talking and assures those of us that didn’t access the required reading assignment were okay and would have the opportunity to reflect on the essay at home. She begins the classroom discussion on the aforementioned reading assignment - a piece from the “Age of Realism” about war and love.
By the 20-minute mark, the class begins to open up a bit. At this time I learn who plays what role in this character-filled room. Behind me is the know-it-all that answers questions with confidence and condescending voice patterns, in hideous southern twang. Ironically enough, she’ll have to be corrected every time she answers a question, and proves to actually know absolutely nothing, about anything. A few rows to my left, a closeted lesbian sits comfortably in her tie-dye t-shirt. She has a deep voice and an Adam’s apple the size of my ...
I kid; she has no Adam’s apple, just the deep voice, and a faint mustache. She too is quite the know-it-all, except she makes sense. She’s actually quite smart, I conclude, from the two 50-minute classes I’ve attended.
Behind her is the leader of the social outcast crew. Does that make sense? If a person is considered a social outcast, could they realistically be the leader of a group? Are they the voice of the voiceless and dateless? It’s almost like an anarchist rally. If anarchists are rallying, an organized, hypocritical gathering ruins their sole mission. If you cannot trust anarchist, then whom can you trust?
Anyways, the social outcast crew typically wears faded t-shirts with 1980-esque drawings of wolves. The wolves are typically set in a purplish-blue background, possibly representing the night, and tend to appear as if they’re howling at the moon. This goes for both males and females. The only thing separating the men and women in the group is facial hair. Often times, the men lack true facial hair, but the women sport large enough beards to go around.
Finally, after identifying other minor roles, I think of the role I play. What am I to these people I’ve never met, but managed to fantasize about 1/3 of the girls in the class? Maybe I’m the cynical asshole that will casually ruin someone’s day. No, that’s not me. Contrary to popular belief, I have a huge heart. I could be that guy who thinks way to highly of his self and never talks to anyone because they are not worth my time, but that would only true when referring to the social outcast crew. Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against Bob Ross, the guy that painted “happy trees,” but when your everyday attire looks like an original Ross painting, we have nothing in common.
Cheers,
Victor
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Poseidon’s Misadventure
In 1987, I’m told that I went on my first cruise vacation aboard the MS Britanis – a three-day Bahamas cruise. Since that significant sailing, a rather large and somewhat odd obsession with the cruise industry has basically consumed my 21 years.
Growing up, I was the only 10-year old American watching the “Love Boat” in order to see the interior shots of the Pacific Princess, rather than taking advice from a knowledgeable bartender. In fact, when UPN decided to cancel the short-lived remake of the 1970’s classic, I was pretty devastated.
In high school, I managed get hired by a staffing agency that specialized in the cruise industry. I was able to work for Royal Caribbean, my favorite cruise line, as a guest service representative. I was also able to get roughly 13 of my friends a job working pier-side, next the largest passenger ships in the world, and subsequently managed to get the same group fired, along with myself, because we took 30-minute cigarette breaks and mid-day excursions to South Beach, while on the clock.
No surprise, but whenever a movie is filmed on a cruise ship or a ship serves as the underlying plot line, I’m anxious to see how well Hollywood can depict modern-day ocean travel.
OnDemand is currently offering the 2006 box-office bomb “Poseidon” on HBO. A remake of the 1972 film and re-adaptation of the 1969 novel, the new film lacks acting skills and most notably, a real ship.
Besides the CGI-produced Poseidon exteriors looking like a futuristic seaboard medical facility, the interior is as predictable and tacky as a sappy romance novel. Set on New Year’s Eve, the passengers aboard the ill-fated ship are decked-out (pun intended) in luxurious evening attire.
No one that cruises dresses as if they are nominated for best actor at the Academy Awards. Just last week, Norwegian Cruise Lines announced that men and women are encouraged to wear jeans in their dining rooms. Only Princess Cruises has a strict “no-jeans” policy in their dining room.
The film features the former mayor of New York (played by Kurt Russell) staying in a stateroom the size of Donald Trump’s penthouse. To my knowledge, even the largest staterooms at sea do not offer vaulted ceilings and two-story swooping staircases.
The ship’s onboard entertainment comes courtesy of Gloria (played by Fergie). My only kudos for the film’s casting department is using the Black Eyed Peas front-woman as a washed up cruise sensation. I predict that in about 6 years, I too can catch Fergie lip-syncing and dressed like long-time “Love Boat” guest-star Charo on a cruise.
Nearly 20 minutes into this nail-biting thriller, the ship somehow capsizes. Predictable lines spoken by the captain and the film’s hero soon follow. I’m not sure if Fergie is dead yet, but that would make the movie a lot more interesting.
I can go on and on about how poorly the cruise industry is portrayed or how bad of an actor Kevin Dillon really is, but I wont. Instead I’ll go back to watching this shit movie, contemplate boycotting Warner Brothers and finish my bowl of pasta.
Cheers,
Victor
Growing up, I was the only 10-year old American watching the “Love Boat” in order to see the interior shots of the Pacific Princess, rather than taking advice from a knowledgeable bartender. In fact, when UPN decided to cancel the short-lived remake of the 1970’s classic, I was pretty devastated.
In high school, I managed get hired by a staffing agency that specialized in the cruise industry. I was able to work for Royal Caribbean, my favorite cruise line, as a guest service representative. I was also able to get roughly 13 of my friends a job working pier-side, next the largest passenger ships in the world, and subsequently managed to get the same group fired, along with myself, because we took 30-minute cigarette breaks and mid-day excursions to South Beach, while on the clock.
No surprise, but whenever a movie is filmed on a cruise ship or a ship serves as the underlying plot line, I’m anxious to see how well Hollywood can depict modern-day ocean travel.
OnDemand is currently offering the 2006 box-office bomb “Poseidon” on HBO. A remake of the 1972 film and re-adaptation of the 1969 novel, the new film lacks acting skills and most notably, a real ship.
Besides the CGI-produced Poseidon exteriors looking like a futuristic seaboard medical facility, the interior is as predictable and tacky as a sappy romance novel. Set on New Year’s Eve, the passengers aboard the ill-fated ship are decked-out (pun intended) in luxurious evening attire.
No one that cruises dresses as if they are nominated for best actor at the Academy Awards. Just last week, Norwegian Cruise Lines announced that men and women are encouraged to wear jeans in their dining rooms. Only Princess Cruises has a strict “no-jeans” policy in their dining room.
The film features the former mayor of New York (played by Kurt Russell) staying in a stateroom the size of Donald Trump’s penthouse. To my knowledge, even the largest staterooms at sea do not offer vaulted ceilings and two-story swooping staircases.
The ship’s onboard entertainment comes courtesy of Gloria (played by Fergie). My only kudos for the film’s casting department is using the Black Eyed Peas front-woman as a washed up cruise sensation. I predict that in about 6 years, I too can catch Fergie lip-syncing and dressed like long-time “Love Boat” guest-star Charo on a cruise.
Nearly 20 minutes into this nail-biting thriller, the ship somehow capsizes. Predictable lines spoken by the captain and the film’s hero soon follow. I’m not sure if Fergie is dead yet, but that would make the movie a lot more interesting.
I can go on and on about how poorly the cruise industry is portrayed or how bad of an actor Kevin Dillon really is, but I wont. Instead I’ll go back to watching this shit movie, contemplate boycotting Warner Brothers and finish my bowl of pasta.
Cheers,
Victor
Monday, July 30, 2007
Facebook Observation
Can someone please explain to me why so many people on facebook insist on describing themselves as “the real deal; what you see is what you get,” or the hilariously popular “I tell shit the way it is, if you don’t like it, fuck off?”
This seems to be a common trend among my collegiate peers. Each and every day, I find at least 5 profiles in which the creator uses the entire ‘about me’ column to either, (a) make them feel like Tony Montana or (b) completely isolate themselves from society.
Someone not familiar with the social networking group might assume that only males do this to their profiles. Truth be told, the majority of profiles I’ve described come from self-proclaimed “bitches.”
Typically these girls have major weight issues, suffer from a slight social disorder or have yet to come out of the closet.
Enough with the cartoon threats and please remove the enormous chip resting on your shoulder. Tell people the truth: “I was unpopular in high school and now, I’m an emotional rollercoaster.”
Cheers,
Victor
This seems to be a common trend among my collegiate peers. Each and every day, I find at least 5 profiles in which the creator uses the entire ‘about me’ column to either, (a) make them feel like Tony Montana or (b) completely isolate themselves from society.
Someone not familiar with the social networking group might assume that only males do this to their profiles. Truth be told, the majority of profiles I’ve described come from self-proclaimed “bitches.”
Typically these girls have major weight issues, suffer from a slight social disorder or have yet to come out of the closet.
Enough with the cartoon threats and please remove the enormous chip resting on your shoulder. Tell people the truth: “I was unpopular in high school and now, I’m an emotional rollercoaster.”
Cheers,
Victor
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Part-ly like a Rockstar
When the great musical groups of the 1960’ and 70’s would trash hotel rooms, snort cocaine off a groupie’s ass and funnel Jack Daniels from a beer bong, they were partying like ‘rock stars.’
When everyday people go out, get drunk and maybe even randomly engage in some type sexual act, they too are partying like ‘rock stars.’
But when a bunch of talent-less, self proclaimed ‘hood-rockers’ rap about playing golf with Marilyn Manson and hanging out with Ozzy Osbourne, they are simply making a mockery out of all that is sacred in the universe of Rock-n-Roll.
Please, do your part and never mouth the words to this utterly tasteless piece of shit music, courtesy of the ATL.
Cheers,
Victor
When everyday people go out, get drunk and maybe even randomly engage in some type sexual act, they too are partying like ‘rock stars.’
But when a bunch of talent-less, self proclaimed ‘hood-rockers’ rap about playing golf with Marilyn Manson and hanging out with Ozzy Osbourne, they are simply making a mockery out of all that is sacred in the universe of Rock-n-Roll.
Please, do your part and never mouth the words to this utterly tasteless piece of shit music, courtesy of the ATL.
Cheers,
Victor
Monday, July 23, 2007
Those bloody eye-lands
I’m back from my weeklong voyage aboard the Mariner of the Seas; also know as “underage disappointment.”
Although jobless at the moment, I think I’m having a ‘case of the Monday’s.’ It could very well be that my body is recuperating from 7 nights of binge drinking or it may simply be summer boredom.
The clubhouse pool where I live is marketed as the largest pool in Pembroke Pines. In the 6 years I’ve lived here, I’ve used the pool roughly 3 times. I figured with nothing else to do, and in need of some cardio, I’d try it a fourth time.
The pool was wonderful, warm and sunny outside; I did about 10 laps on the Olympic side and managed to tan a bit in the process. The biggest down side, well, besides the bratty kids taking swimming lessons, was that my already damaged eyes might have been irritated some more thanks to the chlorine.
Dry heaving, caused by a night of seasickness and a day at Carlos'n Charlie’s, apparently ruptured two blood capillaries. Oddly enough, yesterday they seemed to be getting better, but when I saw myself in the mirror moments ago, it looked as if a small body of bloody water was oozing towards the center of my eye - a bit disturbing but none the less entertaining.
Cheers,
Victor
Although jobless at the moment, I think I’m having a ‘case of the Monday’s.’ It could very well be that my body is recuperating from 7 nights of binge drinking or it may simply be summer boredom.
The clubhouse pool where I live is marketed as the largest pool in Pembroke Pines. In the 6 years I’ve lived here, I’ve used the pool roughly 3 times. I figured with nothing else to do, and in need of some cardio, I’d try it a fourth time.
The pool was wonderful, warm and sunny outside; I did about 10 laps on the Olympic side and managed to tan a bit in the process. The biggest down side, well, besides the bratty kids taking swimming lessons, was that my already damaged eyes might have been irritated some more thanks to the chlorine.
Dry heaving, caused by a night of seasickness and a day at Carlos'n Charlie’s, apparently ruptured two blood capillaries. Oddly enough, yesterday they seemed to be getting better, but when I saw myself in the mirror moments ago, it looked as if a small body of bloody water was oozing towards the center of my eye - a bit disturbing but none the less entertaining.
Cheers,
Victor
Saturday, July 14, 2007
Shoelace Nightmare
Assume you buy a new pair of shoes-Hugo Boss, perhaps-and after a solid year of comfort, the ultimate tragedy occurs: broken shoelaces.
In my 21 years on this Earth, I have only changed shoelaces on one pair of sneakers-my 3rd grade year, when it was cool to have non-tie-laces. Today, for the second time in my life, I managed to overcome the daunting task of changing the laces on a pair of relatively expensive dress shoes, but not without a long, tedious battle.
Let me re-step (pun intended): About 3 month ago while on a weekend getaway to what could have been my new home state, I snapped the laces on my black, Hugo Boss dress shoes. Since then, I’ve managed to match everything I own with brown Hugo Boss dress shoes. But as I was packing for my weeklong cruise and got to my black suit, I realized the time had come and I’d have to ‘man-up’ and change the laces.
I’ll be honest, I’ve broken a lot more shoelaces in my lifetime, but I’ve always found it easier to just buy a new pair of shoes.
Back to the story: I started by lacing the shoes in a traditional cris-cross formation, and after completing both shoes, I decided I hated it.
Soon after, I attempted the popular straight-lace technique only to find out that if I were to leave them this way, I’d end up snapping these shoelaces too.
Finally, I incorporated both the cris-cross and the straight-lace technique and found the perfect combination of comfort and fashion. Next time, I’ll buy slip-ons.
Cheers,
Victor
In my 21 years on this Earth, I have only changed shoelaces on one pair of sneakers-my 3rd grade year, when it was cool to have non-tie-laces. Today, for the second time in my life, I managed to overcome the daunting task of changing the laces on a pair of relatively expensive dress shoes, but not without a long, tedious battle.
Let me re-step (pun intended): About 3 month ago while on a weekend getaway to what could have been my new home state, I snapped the laces on my black, Hugo Boss dress shoes. Since then, I’ve managed to match everything I own with brown Hugo Boss dress shoes. But as I was packing for my weeklong cruise and got to my black suit, I realized the time had come and I’d have to ‘man-up’ and change the laces.
I’ll be honest, I’ve broken a lot more shoelaces in my lifetime, but I’ve always found it easier to just buy a new pair of shoes.
Back to the story: I started by lacing the shoes in a traditional cris-cross formation, and after completing both shoes, I decided I hated it.
Soon after, I attempted the popular straight-lace technique only to find out that if I were to leave them this way, I’d end up snapping these shoelaces too.
Finally, I incorporated both the cris-cross and the straight-lace technique and found the perfect combination of comfort and fashion. Next time, I’ll buy slip-ons.
Cheers,
Victor
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Writer's Block
Although it may seem like a myth to some, as a writer this shit really does exists.
It has been 2 long weeks since my last post. But fear not, a lot has happened in the last couple of weeks; just give me some time to turn it into an entertaining blog entry.
Keep checking back, friends.
Cheers,
Victor
It has been 2 long weeks since my last post. But fear not, a lot has happened in the last couple of weeks; just give me some time to turn it into an entertaining blog entry.
Keep checking back, friends.
Cheers,
Victor
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Spice Girls Give Acid Reflux
The greatest talentless music group to emerge from Great Britain is finally announcing a lowly -anticipated reunion tour. The 5-member Spice Girls are expected to make the decision public sometime Thursday, in London.
The original members, which include, among others, a former nude model, the mother of Eddie Murphy's bastard child and a desperate soccer player's wife (GIRL POWER!), will reunite for the first time since, eh, not long enough.
In the mid 90's, the Fab-Five preached feminist empowerment to adoring young fans, while enticing older brothers and perverse fathers by wearing next-to-nothing attire. They sold nearly 55-million albums, attempted to act in a hilarious feature film and became so popular, even Jesus Christ was a fan.
But as many suspected, the girls dis-banded, some dis-robed and others married rich. Disappointing solo careers and instrumental, elevator-like versions of "Wannabe" plagued the ladies, leaving them no choice but to announce a reunion tour, album and documentary. This just months after VH1 stopped replaying "I love the 90's," and it was safe to turn on the TV without hearing "Spice up your Life."
With any luck, the tour will feature surprise guests acts from the world of 1990's embarrassments like Los del Rio and "Macarena," or maybe we can get 'Jiggy' with Will Smith on opening night?
One thing is certain, though, and that is a new wardrobe - well, maybe just an altered one to keep things in place. Rock on Spice Girls.
Cheers,
Victor
The original members, which include, among others, a former nude model, the mother of Eddie Murphy's bastard child and a desperate soccer player's wife (GIRL POWER!), will reunite for the first time since, eh, not long enough.
In the mid 90's, the Fab-Five preached feminist empowerment to adoring young fans, while enticing older brothers and perverse fathers by wearing next-to-nothing attire. They sold nearly 55-million albums, attempted to act in a hilarious feature film and became so popular, even Jesus Christ was a fan.
But as many suspected, the girls dis-banded, some dis-robed and others married rich. Disappointing solo careers and instrumental, elevator-like versions of "Wannabe" plagued the ladies, leaving them no choice but to announce a reunion tour, album and documentary. This just months after VH1 stopped replaying "I love the 90's," and it was safe to turn on the TV without hearing "Spice up your Life."
With any luck, the tour will feature surprise guests acts from the world of 1990's embarrassments like Los del Rio and "Macarena," or maybe we can get 'Jiggy' with Will Smith on opening night?
One thing is certain, though, and that is a new wardrobe - well, maybe just an altered one to keep things in place. Rock on Spice Girls.
Cheers,
Victor
Friday, June 22, 2007
F-L-O-R-I-D-A S-T-A-T-E.
It's 3:17 in the morning and I'm wide awake.
It's been about 20 minutes since I got back home from a very uneventful night at the Grove and around this time is when my insomnia kicks in. I'll sit on this computer for hours, like a voyeur, just clicking different profiles, all for no real reason.
That's my new thing, facebook; I'll sit there for hours, checking useless stuff out. The funny thing is, that about a week ago I was deleting my myspace account because I couldn't decide what current song or unoriginal classic I'd use as my profile song, only to see that facebook is now offering music players to 'myspace' your facebook.
In the news today was a frightening announcement made by current Florida State University's President, T.K. Wetherell. In a statement released sometime Thursday, Mr. Wetherell stated that enrollment at the University will be frozen due to poor state budgeting, in a nutshell.
Because South Floridians can't afford their property taxes and demand excessive cutbacks, students and teachers will get fucked, royally.
As an amateur Realtor I came to a conclusion that others should address. When a person qualifies for a $500,000 home, they must pay taxes on $500,000. When a person can't afford that, they should move to home in their price range. It's that simple.
Let's keep our fingers crossed. Maybe the Sunshine State will realize what a disgrace it will be when other prestigious state-funded universities have to close their doors too. God forbid the new upper-level manager at Circuit City can't afford his/her 5 bedroom, 4 bath home.
Cheers,
Victor
It's been about 20 minutes since I got back home from a very uneventful night at the Grove and around this time is when my insomnia kicks in. I'll sit on this computer for hours, like a voyeur, just clicking different profiles, all for no real reason.
That's my new thing, facebook; I'll sit there for hours, checking useless stuff out. The funny thing is, that about a week ago I was deleting my myspace account because I couldn't decide what current song or unoriginal classic I'd use as my profile song, only to see that facebook is now offering music players to 'myspace' your facebook.
In the news today was a frightening announcement made by current Florida State University's President, T.K. Wetherell. In a statement released sometime Thursday, Mr. Wetherell stated that enrollment at the University will be frozen due to poor state budgeting, in a nutshell.
Because South Floridians can't afford their property taxes and demand excessive cutbacks, students and teachers will get fucked, royally.
As an amateur Realtor I came to a conclusion that others should address. When a person qualifies for a $500,000 home, they must pay taxes on $500,000. When a person can't afford that, they should move to home in their price range. It's that simple.
Let's keep our fingers crossed. Maybe the Sunshine State will realize what a disgrace it will be when other prestigious state-funded universities have to close their doors too. God forbid the new upper-level manager at Circuit City can't afford his/her 5 bedroom, 4 bath home.
Cheers,
Victor
Monday, June 18, 2007
Semi-Sweet 16
One week ago today I was getting drunk, listening to spoken-word poetry and loving life. Tonight, on the other hand, I'm on my makeshift bed, sober and watching a spoiled Hialeah Princess demand a brand new Lexus at the age of 15, hire an amateur singing group (ironically the jokers went to high school with me), and turn South Florida's Parrot Jungle into a playground for the children of the wannabe-rich-and-famous.
MTV's hit show "My Super Sweet 16" encourages parents to spend hundreds-of-thousands-of-dollars so that their son/daughter can be featured on a half-hour television show, expose their truly arrogant personalities and, with any luck, get a seat on next season's "reunion" show.
As these high school sophomores loose their fake id's on South Beach or miss the list at Paris Hilton's release party in Vegas, they are left with no choice but to spend 3-years of their guardian's earnings on a single night of extreme decadence, obviously.
My brother just attended a similar party that didn't make the MTV cut. The over-the-top shin-ding was held at the same location where the aforementioned Princess held hers, featured a popular hip-hop artist and had a guest list the size of my...well, you get picture. But why didn't MTV care to televise this person? Simple. The people who can actually afford these parties, and are appreciative of the fact their parents sacrifice a new car, or vacation plans, or whatever, feel in unnecessary to have a perverse camera crew in their private bedrooms at 8 in the morning.
The saddest part of this phenomenon is not the fact insecure girls are documenting their destructive paths; the saddest part of this phenomenon is that it is one of my guiltiest pleasures.
Let me stop 'blogging,' as the cool kids say, and illegally download Paul McCartney's new song before I admit any more guilty pleasures.
Cheers,
Victor
MTV's hit show "My Super Sweet 16" encourages parents to spend hundreds-of-thousands-of-dollars so that their son/daughter can be featured on a half-hour television show, expose their truly arrogant personalities and, with any luck, get a seat on next season's "reunion" show.
As these high school sophomores loose their fake id's on South Beach or miss the list at Paris Hilton's release party in Vegas, they are left with no choice but to spend 3-years of their guardian's earnings on a single night of extreme decadence, obviously.
My brother just attended a similar party that didn't make the MTV cut. The over-the-top shin-ding was held at the same location where the aforementioned Princess held hers, featured a popular hip-hop artist and had a guest list the size of my...well, you get picture. But why didn't MTV care to televise this person? Simple. The people who can actually afford these parties, and are appreciative of the fact their parents sacrifice a new car, or vacation plans, or whatever, feel in unnecessary to have a perverse camera crew in their private bedrooms at 8 in the morning.
The saddest part of this phenomenon is not the fact insecure girls are documenting their destructive paths; the saddest part of this phenomenon is that it is one of my guiltiest pleasures.
Let me stop 'blogging,' as the cool kids say, and illegally download Paul McCartney's new song before I admit any more guilty pleasures.
Cheers,
Victor
Sunday, June 17, 2007
Let's Get Sirius.
Don McLean refers to February 3, 1959 as "The day the music died," while "Time" states that December, 1980, is "When the music died."
Music almost died again two months ago - at least for me - when, after trading in the old car, I was subject to the shit music South Florida listens to on regular radio. Between Avril's dumb-ass "girlfriend" and Fergie on constant loop, I was a plastic bag away from attempting an A.J. Soprano. But thank god (small g) for my father (ironically enough it's father's day) and his masterful installment of another Sirius unit.
The greatest invention since genie pants, Sirius Satellite Radio has, once again, injected a boost of hope in me - that one day true rock-n-roll will piss all over post-2004 hip-hop and truly meaningful music will dick-slap emotionally unstable oddballs like Pete Wentz, in the face.
Alt Nation, Little Steven's Underground Garage and Left of Center understand that the state of music is on the brink of a massive terror attack led by Ne-Yo and Nelly Furtado. Classic Vinyl, Jam On and even the potheads at Coffee House have joined forces with the aforementioned stations as they fight to keep music alive.
Local bands will emerge as hometown pop stars retire. Techno music will return to touchy-feely pill poppers and the Arctic Monkeys will win a Grammy. Wolfmother's follow-up album will rock hard and Oasis will do something huge in 2008. Mute Math wins a Grammy, or two, and The Raconteurs kick ass. Muse will co-headline with My Chemical Romance, rather than open for them.
Those that welcome change will love Maroon 5's new sound and realize Yellowcard is just catchy. Regina Spektor deserves a Grammy and if she does not get one, fuck the Grammy Awards.
The opening words of the greatest, most underrated song by The Killers:
"Glamorous
Indie rock'n'roll is what I want
It's in my soul, it's what I need
Indie rock'n'roll, it's time"
Yes, it's time. It's time to stop listening to the same 15 songs and relate with criminals and 15-second celebrities. It's time for artists to play an instrument and write their songs. It's time for beat makers to use a drum set rather than a drum machine. It's time to bring musicianship back to music.
Cheers,
Victor
Music almost died again two months ago - at least for me - when, after trading in the old car, I was subject to the shit music South Florida listens to on regular radio. Between Avril's dumb-ass "girlfriend" and Fergie on constant loop, I was a plastic bag away from attempting an A.J. Soprano. But thank god (small g) for my father (ironically enough it's father's day) and his masterful installment of another Sirius unit.
The greatest invention since genie pants, Sirius Satellite Radio has, once again, injected a boost of hope in me - that one day true rock-n-roll will piss all over post-2004 hip-hop and truly meaningful music will dick-slap emotionally unstable oddballs like Pete Wentz, in the face.
Alt Nation, Little Steven's Underground Garage and Left of Center understand that the state of music is on the brink of a massive terror attack led by Ne-Yo and Nelly Furtado. Classic Vinyl, Jam On and even the potheads at Coffee House have joined forces with the aforementioned stations as they fight to keep music alive.
Local bands will emerge as hometown pop stars retire. Techno music will return to touchy-feely pill poppers and the Arctic Monkeys will win a Grammy. Wolfmother's follow-up album will rock hard and Oasis will do something huge in 2008. Mute Math wins a Grammy, or two, and The Raconteurs kick ass. Muse will co-headline with My Chemical Romance, rather than open for them.
Those that welcome change will love Maroon 5's new sound and realize Yellowcard is just catchy. Regina Spektor deserves a Grammy and if she does not get one, fuck the Grammy Awards.
The opening words of the greatest, most underrated song by The Killers:
"Glamorous
Indie rock'n'roll is what I want
It's in my soul, it's what I need
Indie rock'n'roll, it's time"
Yes, it's time. It's time to stop listening to the same 15 songs and relate with criminals and 15-second celebrities. It's time for artists to play an instrument and write their songs. It's time for beat makers to use a drum set rather than a drum machine. It's time to bring musicianship back to music.
Cheers,
Victor
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