Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Monday, July 13, 2009
all friends (are) faggots
zum zum zum zum zum zum
zummmm
all my friends are faggots
zum zum zum zum zum zum
zummmm
reassuring words don't look more dead than words like 'all my friends are faggots'
because all you need is a cup of cigarettes and a box of whiskey
zummmm
all my friends are faggots
zum zum zum zum zum zum
zummmm
reassuring words don't look more dead than words like 'all my friends are faggots'
because all you need is a cup of cigarettes and a box of whiskey
more.mp3
check dis out
http://tindeck.com/listen/mnii
part of a collective album that I'm working on.
Samples (only the prominent ones, I can't remember the rest) :
Excerpts from the Ian Anderson Interview
9 Teeth Picabia - Gellers
High Five (Rocks the Catskills) - Beck
Tthhee Ppaarrttyy - Justice
Reason is Treason - Kasabian
People - Gorillaz
Read My Mind - The Killers
A Song for the Deaf - Queens of the Stone Age
Bottle Rocket - The Go! Team
and at least 7 others in the background, probably the Field and DJ Shadow.
http://tindeck.com/listen/mnii
part of a collective album that I'm working on.
Samples (only the prominent ones, I can't remember the rest) :
Excerpts from the Ian Anderson Interview
9 Teeth Picabia - Gellers
High Five (Rocks the Catskills) - Beck
Tthhee Ppaarrttyy - Justice
Reason is Treason - Kasabian
People - Gorillaz
Read My Mind - The Killers
A Song for the Deaf - Queens of the Stone Age
Bottle Rocket - The Go! Team
and at least 7 others in the background, probably the Field and DJ Shadow.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Anniversary
My friend died today.
Drake was that friend. In that morning, he hadn't been particularly chuffed that he missed the bus to school. To wait another twenty minutes for the other bus meant just another day to school marked 'late'.
"Berserk damn crap," Drake insinuated to me during lunch break. He was lunching on some strange brown wrap of broccoli and roasted chicken. I could only chuckle at his misfortune to miss the bus.
On that day, Drake woke up a minute early. His body alarm clock had woken him up just seconds before a physical plastic alarm clock would. He shuddered his blanket off and hit the showers. Drake liked bathing. He liked the warmth and soothingness of the hot water piling down on his back. The radiating cleanliness of the shampoo.
Came breakfast. Toast, eggs and other miscellaneous breakfast items you could have off Cafe Cartel. He sliced every bit so neatly, and nothing was on his plate after he had finished. Nothing. Nothing, even when he'd been eating his breakfast while reading the newspapers.
Newspapers were usually too big sized for a kid like Drake. Thus, he would take up half of the 8-seater dining table to spread the newspaper out with the breakfast still on the table.
He changed into his uniform, a plaid, white shirt with black, long jeans. It was cold outside, that's why. That's why the plaid material. He left the house by 6:30 A.M. and walked himself to the bus stop, a mile away.
The road to the bus stop was simple. A long, narrow road to follow, and then a long staircase down to the right, and an industrialized tunnel would lead Drake to the bus stop.
He proceeded the steps taken every day to school, and sat down on the bus stop stools. The bus came and he hopped on in. The bus had a colourful seating arrangement and a long white stretch of light on the ceiling lighting up the vehicle.
"Mornin', kid," the bus driver would say daily.
"Mornin', unc," Drake would reply daily.
He wasn't late for school that day, and Drake was happy of that achievement. This was the last day of school and it marked the fact he hadn't been late or absent for school throughout the year.
I lied about him being late. He wasn't. He got to school on time and was pretty chuffed about it.
I also lied about him dying. He didn't die. Why would he die?
- July 11, 2008
- 8:01 - 8:21 P.M.
Drake was that friend. In that morning, he hadn't been particularly chuffed that he missed the bus to school. To wait another twenty minutes for the other bus meant just another day to school marked 'late'.
"Berserk damn crap," Drake insinuated to me during lunch break. He was lunching on some strange brown wrap of broccoli and roasted chicken. I could only chuckle at his misfortune to miss the bus.
On that day, Drake woke up a minute early. His body alarm clock had woken him up just seconds before a physical plastic alarm clock would. He shuddered his blanket off and hit the showers. Drake liked bathing. He liked the warmth and soothingness of the hot water piling down on his back. The radiating cleanliness of the shampoo.
Came breakfast. Toast, eggs and other miscellaneous breakfast items you could have off Cafe Cartel. He sliced every bit so neatly, and nothing was on his plate after he had finished. Nothing. Nothing, even when he'd been eating his breakfast while reading the newspapers.
Newspapers were usually too big sized for a kid like Drake. Thus, he would take up half of the 8-seater dining table to spread the newspaper out with the breakfast still on the table.
He changed into his uniform, a plaid, white shirt with black, long jeans. It was cold outside, that's why. That's why the plaid material. He left the house by 6:30 A.M. and walked himself to the bus stop, a mile away.
The road to the bus stop was simple. A long, narrow road to follow, and then a long staircase down to the right, and an industrialized tunnel would lead Drake to the bus stop.
He proceeded the steps taken every day to school, and sat down on the bus stop stools. The bus came and he hopped on in. The bus had a colourful seating arrangement and a long white stretch of light on the ceiling lighting up the vehicle.
"Mornin', kid," the bus driver would say daily.
"Mornin', unc," Drake would reply daily.
He wasn't late for school that day, and Drake was happy of that achievement. This was the last day of school and it marked the fact he hadn't been late or absent for school throughout the year.
I lied about him being late. He wasn't. He got to school on time and was pretty chuffed about it.
I also lied about him dying. He didn't die. Why would he die?
- July 11, 2008
- 8:01 - 8:21 P.M.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Thursday, July 9, 2009
you all have no hope
when you grow up what do you want to be?
APPLICATION FOR MUSIC 'O' LEVEL COURSE
PLEASE STATE NA FOR ANY INAPPLICABLE QUESTION.
1. DO YOU HAVE ANY MUSIC BACKGROUND? (I.E. GRADE 4 PIANO)
NA
2. DO YOU PLAY ANY MUSICAL INSTRUMENTS?
NA
(submitted)
APPLICATION FOR MUSIC 'O' LEVEL COURSE
PLEASE STATE NA FOR ANY INAPPLICABLE QUESTION.
1. DO YOU HAVE ANY MUSIC BACKGROUND? (I.E. GRADE 4 PIANO)
NA
2. DO YOU PLAY ANY MUSICAL INSTRUMENTS?
NA
(submitted)
Monday, July 6, 2009
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Saturday, July 4, 2009
deadened
let's talk about....
you know that time when the sun goes up, and you can still see the moon.... it's proof the moon doesn't exactly remain opposite of the Sun. that's how eclipses happen.
you know that time when the sun goes up, and you can still see the moon.... it's proof the moon doesn't exactly remain opposite of the Sun. that's how eclipses happen.
Friday, July 3, 2009
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Monday, June 29, 2009
Happening again
where is my transcript
no transcript
no
where is my datalog
no datalog
no
where is anything
no anything
no
no transcript
no
where is my datalog
no datalog
no
where is anything
no anything
no
three seconds
Ready.
I never really liked myself for who I was. I was never really an aficionado of sports. I wanted to be a musician. I could imagine, right on the spot, experimenting with synthesizers, arranging the greatest tunes known to man. I would go under the nom de plume of something mysterious, misty and magical. DJ Shadow. Probably.
I looked around. A couple of others by my side, in the same position as I am. I wondered what they were thinking. One thing I knew, was that they probably weren't thinking the same things as I did. They were meditating. Focusing on the gold. Making sure they were the one, the one who'd have that je ne sais quoi to beat the rest, to beat the rest, and win the glorious medal, the glorious medal which proved they were the best, the best amongst the rest.
Yet, I was who I was. And the rest were who they were. I couldn't change that if I wanted to. Everyone was counting on me to do something which I wouldn't want to do. Yet, inter alios, I was their pride. I was their national pride. They, my friends, my family, my nation... they wanted to see me win. They wanted to see me prove that this small country of ours wasn't one to be taken lightly of. They wanted to see me prove that this small country of ours were a competitive force amongst the rest. Beat the rest.
Set.
I couldn't do it. I couldn't do it even if my country's lives depended on it. The rest of them, around me. Look at them. They were so full of pride and joy. They were compos mentis, so ready to hold their flags up and run for their country de rigueur. They stood their position, eyes with passion. In each of their hearts, which stood in place beneath athletic wear with their national flag and register number on, a burning apple martini of patriotic apple cider swashed around in a thick, hearty spirit of vodka, topped with a light dazzle of rum which invigorated a driven force striving for accuracy and excellence. What was my raison d'être of being here in the first place? I was completely unlike them. Compos mentis.... non compos mentis, more like.
I stuck semper fidelis to the plans the coach gave me. Stay in the game, stay focused. It didn't last long though. By the time I had reached the soft synthetic material of the track, coup de foudre struck. I sweated ad nauseam. I panicked apropos of almost wanting to call on locum tenens. The pressure which rested on my shoulders were truly to hard to handle. I was crumbling right in front of the crowd and the coach knew it. He was looking at me with desperandum. It was strange. He was always sans souci, and that made him simpatico to me. But now, he wasn't. He was in as much fear and anxiety as me. In a sotto voce, I could hear his distant whimpers. I was his chosen one, out of the few, after all. And still, on the big stage, I could not handle it all.
But there was hope. I could do it. I felt no pain in my joints, no aches in my bones. I was in perfect condition to run the tracks. And I could do it. The coach of mine, he always told me to strive for excellence. I read the Youth Olympics homepage before, and it told me to strive for excellence. My friends who were always along with me, together, we strove for excellence. Che sara sara, comme il faut.
Go.
I never really liked myself for who I was. I was never really an aficionado of sports. I wanted to be a musician. I could imagine, right on the spot, experimenting with synthesizers, arranging the greatest tunes known to man. I would go under the nom de plume of something mysterious, misty and magical. DJ Shadow. Probably.
I looked around. A couple of others by my side, in the same position as I am. I wondered what they were thinking. One thing I knew, was that they probably weren't thinking the same things as I did. They were meditating. Focusing on the gold. Making sure they were the one, the one who'd have that je ne sais quoi to beat the rest, to beat the rest, and win the glorious medal, the glorious medal which proved they were the best, the best amongst the rest.
Yet, I was who I was. And the rest were who they were. I couldn't change that if I wanted to. Everyone was counting on me to do something which I wouldn't want to do. Yet, inter alios, I was their pride. I was their national pride. They, my friends, my family, my nation... they wanted to see me win. They wanted to see me prove that this small country of ours wasn't one to be taken lightly of. They wanted to see me prove that this small country of ours were a competitive force amongst the rest. Beat the rest.
Set.
I couldn't do it. I couldn't do it even if my country's lives depended on it. The rest of them, around me. Look at them. They were so full of pride and joy. They were compos mentis, so ready to hold their flags up and run for their country de rigueur. They stood their position, eyes with passion. In each of their hearts, which stood in place beneath athletic wear with their national flag and register number on, a burning apple martini of patriotic apple cider swashed around in a thick, hearty spirit of vodka, topped with a light dazzle of rum which invigorated a driven force striving for accuracy and excellence. What was my raison d'être of being here in the first place? I was completely unlike them. Compos mentis.... non compos mentis, more like.
I stuck semper fidelis to the plans the coach gave me. Stay in the game, stay focused. It didn't last long though. By the time I had reached the soft synthetic material of the track, coup de foudre struck. I sweated ad nauseam. I panicked apropos of almost wanting to call on locum tenens. The pressure which rested on my shoulders were truly to hard to handle. I was crumbling right in front of the crowd and the coach knew it. He was looking at me with desperandum. It was strange. He was always sans souci, and that made him simpatico to me. But now, he wasn't. He was in as much fear and anxiety as me. In a sotto voce, I could hear his distant whimpers. I was his chosen one, out of the few, after all. And still, on the big stage, I could not handle it all.
But there was hope. I could do it. I felt no pain in my joints, no aches in my bones. I was in perfect condition to run the tracks. And I could do it. The coach of mine, he always told me to strive for excellence. I read the Youth Olympics homepage before, and it told me to strive for excellence. My friends who were always along with me, together, we strove for excellence. Che sara sara, comme il faut.
Go.
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