Golden slumbers so carry that weight

I watch bad movies and TV shows all day, critique current pop songs, and procrastinate on work. If only I could toss in skipping lectures and hating my long shifts at the Eagle, then it would sound like the school year. But alas, it's summer and I don't have those obligations considering I'm not in a place long enough to hold a job and I don't feel like taking summer school. But perhaps, in a week, my daily schedule will change as I'll be in New Mexico, where it is surprising 10 degrees cooler than LA. How is that possible? Aren't we all desert land? And how is it possible that I am sweating in places that shouldn't be sweating in this tragic high 90s temperature? Not cool. But two pieces of good news, at least I will get to see some silly boy while in Santa Fe and if anybody wants a souvenir, I would be more than happy to bring bag a small bag of dirt for them. It's New Mexico dirt, quite possibly an alien could have walked or spit on it. Secondly, I lied when I said that I had another piece of good news. That should teach you to trust me.

(One.)

I see a little silhouette of a man

I love the commercials for the drink Fanta. Something about girls in colorful, body tight clothes asking me if I "wanna Fanta" with them that intrigues me. I had no idea that Fanta had so many different flavors that I now want to collect all 75 bottle labels nor was I aware of how many countries it's sold in (at least 50!!!). I don't care so much about their taste but I just think it would be neat to collect them. I feel that this is a valid obsession if some people can collect stamps and belly lint.

Sunday night TV scheduling has a lot of "interesting programming." I'm currently watching a Discovery Channel documentary on the 2004 tsunami tragedy with my dad. This makes up for the fact that he watches Fox News and I still can't determine if he watches it for its absurdity value or for its terrible blitzkrieg, poor man's imitation of Larry King-style interviews. I just found myself suckered into watching a "God compels the devil out of you" type of informercial, to which I might continue watching out of sheer curiosity. And if I call now, I can receive my very own Miracle Holy Water. I'm not sure what good that will do for me, but it never hurts to have Holy Water in case a poltergiest might attack my house. And we all know how frequently that happens.

(Answers: The Byrds, Bob Dylan, or Peter, Paul and Mary. The hint was written with just the first two in mind and it wasn't until the other day that someone informed PPM covered "Mr. Tambourine Man." I would have awarded points nonetheless if PPM was given.

HINT: six part greatness, one part headbang, all worthy of Her Majesty)

In the jingle jangle morning I'll come following you

I love Pitchfork too much to hate them because the writers are so full of themselves and pull so many music references out of their sleeves that you wonder, "How does this even remotely tell me what this band sounds like?" I was reading about this band Tokyo Police Club and I had to reread the review:

"Opening with a Les Savy Fav riff tenderized to Strokes-level infectiousness, the vocals half-heartedly ape the Casablancas-via-intercom bit, though the pathos here comes across as much more dire."

It's like you have to be in on all of music's secrets to figure out that TPC is another garage band who doesn't add anything new to the music scene but they're polished enough to pull of a good toe-tapping song. Which I kinda of find sad, only because I'm over the post-punk scene ala the Strokes/Hives/et al. The stuff that's churned out by the bands post that era, which was sadly just two and a half years ago, seem to be hitting it late. And that makes me sad because I love music so much due it's ability to reinvent itself so quickly. I've always believe that music is a reaction to itself. Around the turn of the century, emo was a reaction to the boy bands and pop idols of the late 90s, which was a reaction to grunge, which was a reaction to the metal hair bands, and I could trace the chain for a few more decades.

New music is good music to my ears. Hence my appreciation for the Faint, Unicorns, Lightning Bolt, or the Decemberists. What they do is so distinct from any other band that even though I sometimes get annoyed the erratic and eccentric guitar playing of Lightning Bolt, I still find nuances in their songs that pleasantly surprise me the same way Colin Meloy of the Decemberists manage to glide over me with another well written verse. But for now, I will go in search of my beloved imports. How they cost me so much money yet I still shell out the cash for them. Although if somebody does find the Zombies' Odessey and Oracle album (the one with the wonderfully psychedelic Cream-like cover with the extra 17 tracks but is not the reissued edition) for a good deal, drop me a line. Or Arashi's Arashic album. I've been trying to hunt down a copy for the past week. Scratch that, I just found a page of 100 awesome music videos to watch which will feed my hipster ego.

(Double version, double points: Flock to the father of modern folk.)

the past and pending

I was wrong. I know why the fishbowl exists. And it's not just me that's confined to it. So stay in this garden so I can watch you grow.

(The game is still on: Oh, inverted world.)

We'll dress this city in flames

I spend my days reading the internet, clicking one link to reach another that I'm beginning to lose track of the days in a week and the time. And if it weren't for my inability to tell you what day it was, I would be counting them down with near glee. I want it to be August so bad that I'm looking forward to when school starts. For August marks my getaway from home. I want to say that being home isn't all that bad but I find myself falling into that same old hateful role. Maybe I'm running away from my responsibilities, maybe I'm being incredibly selfish but I don't want to play mediator anymore or force myself to think that I'm the glue bottle for this family. Because I'm not. It's some sick motto that's become a mantra, chanted over and over in my head because I've yet to accept it. It's not my fault that things are the way they are but once here, once home, I see the catalyst for future spars. It's so redundant as well, that I'm tired of the arguments. Starving for a change, what will it take?

So I dream of August, a beautiful escape away from all this. And I can turn a deaf ear until I get that phone call complete with tears and pleas. For now, I've only blind eyes because I don't want to see him hiding his concern with unexplained demands. It's his subtle way of love, which she can't see because she wants something more concrete. In years to come, maybe she'll understand but the frustration of today blurs everything.

(Another day of the week)