Buy A Moleskin You Whiny Little Pissant

i know the written language is a dying art form. i know people rather communicate with internet acronyms than with words that have a heritage and whose etymology teaches you as much about the place and time it originated in as the words themselves. i know the feeling of a pen or pencil against a page is unfamiliar to most. (receipt signatures and comment cards don’t count). i know. BUT, i will never understand why people take to the internet and give people the tools needed to dismantle them. i see blog posts and notes and statuses full of personal information and “why me” declarations. i see tweets full of self loathing and pity, exposing weaknesses and character flaws. and frankly, I DON’T GET IT.

do people even know what diaries and journals are used for anymore?

they’re for sharing your innermost thoughts. for relieving your soul and mind of the burdensome load of misgivings and intense emotions intent on disrupting your contentment. they are for working through hardships and telling stories others might not care about, but that are utterly important to you. journals are for self expression and therapy and keepsakes and laughs and tears. they are for your mental health and to mark personal growth. make use of them, instead of laying your inner turmoil out for everyone to see. people are cruel and strike when they seek weakness… why anyone would make an attack on themselves any easier is beyond me.

is it just me or do the youth these days seem soft and ill equipped to handle the challenges of living?

Check Yourself: Chippy D

Montana Fishburne, daughter of Laurence Fishburne is starring in a sex tape in an effort to catapult herself into the spotlight and land serious acting roles. Inspired by the publicity and subsequent celebrity that Kim Kardashian’s sex tape afforded her, Montana, stage name: Chippy D, hopes to have the same type of success. "I'm impatient about getting well-known and having opportunities and this seemed like a great way to get started,” said Montana B.K.A. Chippy D recently.

First off, Chippy D is not at all an improvement over Montana (alias FAIL) and more importantly, porn is not a stepping-stone to serious acting roles (master plan FAIL). If one wants to be well known for their sexual prowess and is excited for opportunities to perform fellatio for compensation, then yes, porn is an excellent idea. But if one wants the opportunity to act in critically acclaimed films or movie franchises, porn is a terrible idea.

Adult film stars are not known for their incredible acting ability or range of emotion. They are more easily recognized by their body parts than their headshots. As such, more often than not, their goals of mainstream stardom are hampered by their previous works.

Before rushing off and releasing a sex tape to garner fame: develop a talent, a penchant for hard work, and a viable plan of action, maybe even ask your actor/director/producer/playwright father for a little advice or a few introductions. Just remember - all publicity is not good publicity and there are usually ramifications for poor decisions. Especially when those decisions are imprinted indelibly on (celluloid) the Internet.

Check yourself before you wreck yourself. A reputation is a terrible thing to waste.

"As Soon As There Is Life . . .

There is Danger." Cowboy up kiddies. The acts of cowards are not canonized, but condemned.

Who's Gonna Save My Soul Now ?

passive agressive contentiousness

did you ever stop to wonder?

Forte is Free

John Forte "Runnin Up That Hill" from The ICU on Vimeo.

As you all probably know, the illustrious and incredibly talented John Forte has been free from federal prison for a little over two months. What has he been doing with his time you ask? Well, if you watched the video then you already know. He's been performing and recording BANGERS.

La Ritournelle

i wanna be the blanket draped around your huddled shoulders

and the pillow propping up your weary head.

i wanna be the cushions of the couch you rest on:

all of the stuffing, the fabric, and connecting thread.

i wanna be the lines and shades leaping off the screen

you watch, and the sounds that surround you and your breath.

as you dream, I want to be your unclean imaginings

and the recurring images of greater depth.

What an Inagural Poem SHOULD Look and Sound Like

I know President Obama was inaugurated about a month ago but I’m still reeling from the Inaugural poem. Elizabeth Alexander’s Inaugural poem was an utter disappointment. On a day of historic change, I expected words that would inspire and bolster a people. I expected a poem that was artistic yet accessible and I got neither. The language was dull, the theme: hackneyed, the delivery: poor and robotic (and that’s putting it lightly). I do not desire to dwell on it any further (but I will include a link below so you can read a scathing review). Below I’ve posted an example of what an Inaugural poem should look like. On The Pulse of The Morning, was written and delivered by Maya Angelou for President Clinton’s 1993 Inauguration.

On The Pulse Of Morning

A Rock, A River, A Tree
Hosts to species long since departed,
Marked the mastodon.
The dinosaur, who left dry tokens
Of their sojourn here
On our planet floor,
Any broad alarm of their hastening doom
Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.

But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,
Come, you may stand upon my
Back and face your distant destiny,
But seek no haven in my shadow.
I will give you no more hiding place down here.

You, created only a little lower than
The angels, have crouched too long in
The bruising darkness,
Have lain too long
Face down in ignorance.
Your mouths spilling words
Armed for slaughter.
The Rock cries out today, you may stand on me,
But do not hide your face.

Across the wall of the world,
A River sings a beautiful song,
Come rest here by my side.

Each of you a bordered country,
Delicate and strangely made proud,
Yet thrusting perpetually under siege.
Your armed struggles for profit
Have left collars of waste upon
My shore, currents of debris upon my breast.
Yet, today I call you to my riverside,
If you will study war no more. Come,
Clad in peace and I will sing the songs
The Creator gave to me when I and the
Tree and the stone were one.
Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your
Brow and when you yet knew you still
Knew nothing.
The River sings and sings on.

There is a true yearning to respond to
The singing River and the wise Rock.
So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew
The African and Native American, the Sioux,
The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek
The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh,
The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,
The privileged, the homeless, the Teacher.
They hear. They all hear
The speaking of the Tree.
Today, the first and last of every Tree
Speaks to humankind. Come to me, here beside the River.
Plant yourself beside me, here beside the River.

Each of you, descendant of some passed
On traveller, has been paid for.
You, who gave me my first name, you
Pawnee, Apache and Seneca, you
Cherokee Nation, who rested with me, then
Forced on bloody feet, left me to the employment of
Other seekers--desperate for gain,
Starving for gold.
You, the Turk, the Swede, the German, the Scot
You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru, bought
Sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmare
Praying for a dream.
Here, root yourselves beside me.
I am the Tree planted by the River,
Which will not be moved.

I, the Rock, I the River, I the Tree
I am yours--your Passages have been paid.
Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need
For this bright morning dawning for you.
History, despite its wrenching pain,
Cannot be unlived, and if faced
With courage, need not be lived again.

Lift up your eyes upon
The day breaking for you.
Give birth again
To the dream.

Women, children, men,
Take it into the palms of your hands.
Mold it into the shape of your most
Private need. Sculpt it into
The image of your most public self.
Lift up your hearts
Each new hour holds new chances
For new beginnings.
Do not be wedded forever
To fear, yoked eternally
To brutishness.

The horizon leans forward,
Offering you space to place new steps of change.
Here, on the pulse of this fine day
You may have the courage
To look up and out upon me, the
Rock, the River, the Tree, your country.
No less to Midas than the mendicant.
No less to you now than the mastodon then.

Here on the pulse of this new day
You may have the grace to look up and out
And into your sister's eyes, into
Your brother's face, your country
And say simply
Very simply
With hope
Good morning

link to Alexander's Poem: http://www.nytimes.com/2009/01/20/us/politics/20text-poem.html

link to a Review of Alexander's Poem: http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/booksblog/2009/jan/21/elizabeth-alexander-obama-inauguration-praise-song

link to analysis of Angelous's Masterpiece: http://www.answers.com/topic/on-the-pulse-of-morning-poem-2