Monday, November 29, 2010
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Stalker--Ron Mouadeb
You stalked me from dawn to dusk,
and rounded the earth at night.
You tried to hide behind a shield of darkness,
and watched me brilliantly from the moon instead.
You tortured me with your full body glowing,
and teased me with the faintest crescent smiles.
You put seven seas between us,
but I still set out to feel your warmth against my now frigid flesh.
I swim, with each stroke leaving me at precisely the same spot.
As you continue to dip into the sea
just beyond the horizon,
forever out of reach.
and rounded the earth at night.
You tried to hide behind a shield of darkness,
and watched me brilliantly from the moon instead.
You tortured me with your full body glowing,
and teased me with the faintest crescent smiles.
You put seven seas between us,
but I still set out to feel your warmth against my now frigid flesh.
I swim, with each stroke leaving me at precisely the same spot.
As you continue to dip into the sea
just beyond the horizon,
forever out of reach.
The Marsh--David Oropeza
When the body racks up numbers, it’s strange what routine can pacify and more strange how frightful one gets without it. There ain’t a wind that moves a dead leaf here in this marsh. Deadness can grow too. Give life to still more deadness. One forgets that easy, one thinks you’re alive when one has been long sleeping away in a hundred-foot-deep marsh. And the voices of living come about you like a cushion to deafen a blow. I have not felt a hand in my heart for sometime time; why is it when it comes, it feels cold?
Suburban Solitude--Ron Mouadeb
I felt the gravel crunch beneath the worn-out tires of my bike.
There I was, gliding across the blacktop of my made-up suburbia.
There was the cul-de-sac where I would have played hockey.
And there was the old maple tree where my bus stop would have been.
I pedaled across the railroad tracks to the silent streets where I would have bought cotton candy and baseball cards.
Where I would have wasted lazy summer afternoons, drinking pop and chasing down fly balls.
Where I would have scraped my knees and chipped a tooth.
Where I would have started fire from a magnifying glass.
Where I would have fallen in love with an older girl.
I pedaled further to the field where I would have had my first kiss,
and stopped by the dark blue bleachers where I would have had my first broken nose,
my first warm beer and my first vomit-inducing cigarette.
I flew past stop signs and red lights. I was an outlaw on these streets.
Down the hill where my high school would have been, on the steps where I would have sat, I stopped to look around.
And above, where stars would have shone, I saw deep into the night.
I spat at the would-be sparkling night sky.
I pedaled furiously up the hill, my legs burning as I pumped over the crest and back into a free fall where an October night’s light wind would have given me the feeling that, momentarily,
I was gliding over the blacktop of my made-up suburbia.
I closed my eyes and let go of the handlebars.
And with my arms spread out, the smell of fresh grass tickling my mind, and miles of blacktop for me to discover, I would have believed it too.
There I was, gliding across the blacktop of my made-up suburbia.
There was the cul-de-sac where I would have played hockey.
And there was the old maple tree where my bus stop would have been.
I pedaled across the railroad tracks to the silent streets where I would have bought cotton candy and baseball cards.
Where I would have wasted lazy summer afternoons, drinking pop and chasing down fly balls.
Where I would have scraped my knees and chipped a tooth.
Where I would have started fire from a magnifying glass.
Where I would have fallen in love with an older girl.
I pedaled further to the field where I would have had my first kiss,
and stopped by the dark blue bleachers where I would have had my first broken nose,
my first warm beer and my first vomit-inducing cigarette.
I flew past stop signs and red lights. I was an outlaw on these streets.
Down the hill where my high school would have been, on the steps where I would have sat, I stopped to look around.
And above, where stars would have shone, I saw deep into the night.
I spat at the would-be sparkling night sky.
I pedaled furiously up the hill, my legs burning as I pumped over the crest and back into a free fall where an October night’s light wind would have given me the feeling that, momentarily,
I was gliding over the blacktop of my made-up suburbia.
I closed my eyes and let go of the handlebars.
And with my arms spread out, the smell of fresh grass tickling my mind, and miles of blacktop for me to discover, I would have believed it too.
A Food Affair--Rebecca Forbes
When I look back at the evolution of how I’ve learned to cook, I think of two things: my dad and the Food Network. And, perhaps none too surprising, they are in themselves linked. My dad, after all, brought the Food Network into our house. I remember the nights when he’d put it on, usually Emeril. Those were the days when I wanted to watch anything but that.
Eventually, I grew to love the Food Network. I look back on those years now and see its true mark on my formative years. I remember the shows that have all but disappeared now (“The Best Of”) and the hosts who moved on to other ventures (Dave Lieberman and Nigella Lawson, whose absences I actually miss). I remember Rachael Ray before she was Rachael Ray!, the larger-than-life figure she is now, but as the spunky upstart with the retro broiler. Times have changed, as they are bound to. The network has adapted, even going so far as to have reality shows — though thankfully they have better, more interesting premises than other networks’ “reality” hits.
In recent years, the Food Network has even been charged in some circles with creating food “celebrities,” as if such a moniker somehow negates their work. In point of fact, yes, the Food Network did usher in the “celebrity chef” but the larger truth is that the celebrity chef is still, in fact, a chef — an educated, talented, worldly person who just happens to teach their craft on TV. In truth, the network’s greatest achievement remains how accessible they make cooking to the average American. By bringing classically trained chefs to the television screen, they made cooking less daunting and more exciting. Beyond that, Ray proved that anyone can learn to cook and cook well with her debut sensation “30 Minute Meals.” Since then, the network has searched tirelessly for others like her and gifted a few lucky ones with shows of their own. Now, the Food Network is a lovely medley of chefs, entrepreneurs, restaurateurs and “regular” people, all helping to teach every kind of modern American.
One of the greatest shows on the network, and my new favorite, is “The Best Thing I Ever Ate,” which brings together Food Network stars as well as other luminaries in the industry including chefs, restaurateurs and food writers like Frank Bruni. As the title suggests, each profiles their favorite dishes, usually corresponding to a theme. It’s a great show, not only because it brings so many of them together, but also because it spotlights restaurants all over the country (as does another great one “Diners, Drive-ins and Dives,” but that’s another story). It’s the perfect demonstration of support from one chef — from one foodie — to another. Funny, light-hearted and interesting, it’s an experience beyond a normal food show, more like watching a conversation unfold over 30 minutes. The camaraderie among the various featured chefs jumps off the screen, particularly when playful competitions erupt. What makes it truly fantastic is how it captures the authenticity and real personality of each person. To see someone talk about what they love is to see who they really are and that is so clearly illustrated on “The Best Thing I Ever Ate.” Their passion for food, both creating and eating it, is evident with every episode.
“The Best Thing I Ever Ate” — or BTIEA as I like to call it sometimes in a moment of laziness or sheer excitement to talk about it as quickly as possible (hey, it’s a long name) — is now DVR television for me. I have an ever-growing list of profiled restaurants that I must eventually go to because someone on the show mentioned this amazing something. Beyond what I hear about is who tells me about it and they, to be honest, are the best part. Alongside veterans like the perky Ray, genius Alton Brown, charming Marc Summers and witty Ted Allen, is the next generation: the delightful Sunny Anderson (literally as cheery as her name suggests), affable Duff Goldman, vivacious Claire Robinson, adventurous Chris Cosentino (he once spoke on prosciutto ice cream, leaving the Italian in me simultaneously apprehensive and intrigued) and hilarious Adam Gertler. They make the most insane dishes sound just insane enough to be completely awesome.
I’d venture to say the Food Network is at a great stage right now. Gone are the days when I would grumble at watching it. The Food Network nurtured my love of food and continues to kindle the fire. Now, I read the Dining section of The New York Times every Wednesday (after waiting in anticipation Mondays and Tuesdays). I look to Yelp and the Zagat guides as partners in food-related decisions. I read cookbooks (some by the Food Network’s own) for fun.
Guess when it comes to the remote control battles, my dad’s leading by 1.
Eventually, I grew to love the Food Network. I look back on those years now and see its true mark on my formative years. I remember the shows that have all but disappeared now (“The Best Of”) and the hosts who moved on to other ventures (Dave Lieberman and Nigella Lawson, whose absences I actually miss). I remember Rachael Ray before she was Rachael Ray!, the larger-than-life figure she is now, but as the spunky upstart with the retro broiler. Times have changed, as they are bound to. The network has adapted, even going so far as to have reality shows — though thankfully they have better, more interesting premises than other networks’ “reality” hits.
In recent years, the Food Network has even been charged in some circles with creating food “celebrities,” as if such a moniker somehow negates their work. In point of fact, yes, the Food Network did usher in the “celebrity chef” but the larger truth is that the celebrity chef is still, in fact, a chef — an educated, talented, worldly person who just happens to teach their craft on TV. In truth, the network’s greatest achievement remains how accessible they make cooking to the average American. By bringing classically trained chefs to the television screen, they made cooking less daunting and more exciting. Beyond that, Ray proved that anyone can learn to cook and cook well with her debut sensation “30 Minute Meals.” Since then, the network has searched tirelessly for others like her and gifted a few lucky ones with shows of their own. Now, the Food Network is a lovely medley of chefs, entrepreneurs, restaurateurs and “regular” people, all helping to teach every kind of modern American.
One of the greatest shows on the network, and my new favorite, is “The Best Thing I Ever Ate,” which brings together Food Network stars as well as other luminaries in the industry including chefs, restaurateurs and food writers like Frank Bruni. As the title suggests, each profiles their favorite dishes, usually corresponding to a theme. It’s a great show, not only because it brings so many of them together, but also because it spotlights restaurants all over the country (as does another great one “Diners, Drive-ins and Dives,” but that’s another story). It’s the perfect demonstration of support from one chef — from one foodie — to another. Funny, light-hearted and interesting, it’s an experience beyond a normal food show, more like watching a conversation unfold over 30 minutes. The camaraderie among the various featured chefs jumps off the screen, particularly when playful competitions erupt. What makes it truly fantastic is how it captures the authenticity and real personality of each person. To see someone talk about what they love is to see who they really are and that is so clearly illustrated on “The Best Thing I Ever Ate.” Their passion for food, both creating and eating it, is evident with every episode.
“The Best Thing I Ever Ate” — or BTIEA as I like to call it sometimes in a moment of laziness or sheer excitement to talk about it as quickly as possible (hey, it’s a long name) — is now DVR television for me. I have an ever-growing list of profiled restaurants that I must eventually go to because someone on the show mentioned this amazing something. Beyond what I hear about is who tells me about it and they, to be honest, are the best part. Alongside veterans like the perky Ray, genius Alton Brown, charming Marc Summers and witty Ted Allen, is the next generation: the delightful Sunny Anderson (literally as cheery as her name suggests), affable Duff Goldman, vivacious Claire Robinson, adventurous Chris Cosentino (he once spoke on prosciutto ice cream, leaving the Italian in me simultaneously apprehensive and intrigued) and hilarious Adam Gertler. They make the most insane dishes sound just insane enough to be completely awesome.
I’d venture to say the Food Network is at a great stage right now. Gone are the days when I would grumble at watching it. The Food Network nurtured my love of food and continues to kindle the fire. Now, I read the Dining section of The New York Times every Wednesday (after waiting in anticipation Mondays and Tuesdays). I look to Yelp and the Zagat guides as partners in food-related decisions. I read cookbooks (some by the Food Network’s own) for fun.
Guess when it comes to the remote control battles, my dad’s leading by 1.
Pink Slip--Ron Mouadeb
Lex,
It has come to my attention that you are no longer providing the service you were hired for.
What I gained from your employment is nothing compared to the irreparable losses you have cost me.
You didn’t provide the protection I needed, and as my refuge from pain, you seemed only to cause more.
For three years you blinded me to the point that I could not tell if you were ever real.
I regret to inform you that our three-year commitment will officially be terminated, effective immediately.
In another world you would have been an angel, hand delivered to me by men in white, wrapped with my name all over you.
I loved you, once.
But now I love that I won’t have to.
It has come to my attention that you are no longer providing the service you were hired for.
What I gained from your employment is nothing compared to the irreparable losses you have cost me.
You didn’t provide the protection I needed, and as my refuge from pain, you seemed only to cause more.
For three years you blinded me to the point that I could not tell if you were ever real.
I regret to inform you that our three-year commitment will officially be terminated, effective immediately.
In another world you would have been an angel, hand delivered to me by men in white, wrapped with my name all over you.
I loved you, once.
But now I love that I won’t have to.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Not My Hand--Teresa Lok

This year I went to the Chinese New Year parade and I was lucky enough to get pretty close to the front lines, so I was able to take some pretty nice pictures. The beauty of this picture is that it was accidental. I was trying to get a photo of the confetti falling down, but this little boy's hand reached out in front of my camera as I was taking it.
Tame--Lisa Fraser
away in a car
the air smells of daisies
wrapped in a silk ribbon,
dripping water down an arm.
the salty breeze comforts pores.
lifted from creamy thoughts of yearning,
the banked road hugs the shores.
the wheels rotate backward
on the ash-asphalt road.
we keep moving.
moving along.
the air smells of daisies
wrapped in a silk ribbon,
dripping water down an arm.
the salty breeze comforts pores.
lifted from creamy thoughts of yearning,
the banked road hugs the shores.
the wheels rotate backward
on the ash-asphalt road.
we keep moving.
moving along.
An Ocean of Things--Ron Mouadeb
Last night I dreamt I was buried beneath the waves.
There was comfort in the pressure
of water and sand on skin and bone.
Still, I could see upward,
and the sand in my eyes fragmented sunlight into starlight.
Night became day; day became night.
I woke up with salt-stained hair
and sand beneath my nails,
this time trapped under my sheets.
Fluorescent light begged to penetrate my eyes.
But the dream was gone and the sea, dry.
My bed was a desert, bleached and overexposed.
That morning I would have traded cotton for sand
and down feather for salt.
I'll close my eyes again and turn my head.
I can smell the ocean on my pillow
and hear the waves coming for me again.
There was comfort in the pressure
of water and sand on skin and bone.
Still, I could see upward,
and the sand in my eyes fragmented sunlight into starlight.
Night became day; day became night.
I woke up with salt-stained hair
and sand beneath my nails,
this time trapped under my sheets.
Fluorescent light begged to penetrate my eyes.
But the dream was gone and the sea, dry.
My bed was a desert, bleached and overexposed.
That morning I would have traded cotton for sand
and down feather for salt.
I'll close my eyes again and turn my head.
I can smell the ocean on my pillow
and hear the waves coming for me again.
Shooting Stars--Teresa Lok
Rondeau after the Storm--Lisa Fraser
Tame taffeta slides between us,
your arms around me, robust.
I must get around to breathing in the soap-scented skin
once lathered in tantric trance and sin, now clean. So that she won’t know.
Your laugh rumbles, softly, curls in my ear,
like August surrendering to September.
We slip, smoking out the bubbles of summer nights
filled to the brim with stars. You are not mine.
Tuesday green leaves sway outside — a curtain of beads,
dancing in our celebration of the clandestine. Creamy thoughts of yearning rise.
Quixotic clouds graze past the blue of skies, seducing
a rainbow of imbued dye to arch over us.
We riff, repeat, blow out the bass and I must get around to drinking you.
your arms around me, robust.
I must get around to breathing in the soap-scented skin
once lathered in tantric trance and sin, now clean. So that she won’t know.
Your laugh rumbles, softly, curls in my ear,
like August surrendering to September.
We slip, smoking out the bubbles of summer nights
filled to the brim with stars. You are not mine.
Tuesday green leaves sway outside — a curtain of beads,
dancing in our celebration of the clandestine. Creamy thoughts of yearning rise.
Quixotic clouds graze past the blue of skies, seducing
a rainbow of imbued dye to arch over us.
We riff, repeat, blow out the bass and I must get around to drinking you.
Apple Juice--Teresa Lok

I love collecting cool-looking bottles and jars. When I came across this one at Lamarca (in New York City), I told myself I just had to get it regardless if the apple juice inside was good or not. The apple juice was delicious. The bottle currently sits on top of my desk and it looks stunning when the sun hits it.
The Realization--Jhaneel Lockhart
I was staring absent-mindedly at my computer screen and taking long drags of my cigarette when it came to me. A minute ago, I had been on the phone with a man from the hospital, as he explained to me that my roommate had been hit by a car and was in critical condition. When I hung up, everything flashed before my eyes.
Looking back, I don't know quite how to describe our relationship. I suppose we were friends. For years, we had shared a closet-sized studio in the city and did almost everything together. We were so close that everyone thought we were sisters — or lovers. We were neither, just two best friends.
Still, I'd always had a quiet dislike for her. I hated the way she left hair in the bathroom sink, the habit she had of clinging to every male friend we knew like an abandoned puppy, and the way she managed to manipulate people into feeling sorry for her. She demanded way more time than I was ever willing to give. Yet I was always there, holding her hand and hating every second of it.
I'm sure she hated me too. Ours was the kind of friendship that lifestyle magazines run giant spreads on, with advice from psychologists and large headlines with words like TOXIC. We had met each other in college and quickly become close, each of us seeing ourselves in the other. All girls have drama, but what we had was so vicious, it would make fully armed soldiers cringe. Our daily conversations were filled with passive-aggressive remarks and thinly veiled insults aimed below the belt, but always quickly followed by sweet smiles and sugary apologies.
I was cruel, constantly taking advantage of her feeble self-esteem. She was bad with men: always unsure of herself in relationships and always willing to give too much of herself. And I capitalized on this knowledge. It was like the perfect kill, the way I would lay in wait for the first sign of vulnerability and then attack, making her confidence plummet in seconds with just the right words. Her stories were always the same — none of her relationships ever lasted and she never knew what went wrong. But as fate would have it, she was popular with guys.
She was a pretty package — straight long hair, nice face and a body that looked like it was sculpted by some sort of Michelangelo. She spent hours in the gym perfecting it, polishing a product she knew was in high demand. Her appearance was her most precious achievement in life. When we were out together, we pretended not to notice that everyone was looking at her and that the cat calls were never directed at me, while inside she smirked with triumph. Her attacks were less venomous than mine, and they usually came in the form of comments about what a sweet personality I had, as she sized up my bad hair and chubby figure, comparing everything to her own slender frame.
Things between us weren't always so contentious though. What kept us going was that most of the time, we actually got along really well and I don't think either of us could imagine life without the other.
So, it was with some consternation that I listened to the man at the hospital describe the gory details of a collision that left my friend lying battered and dying.
I thought about how lonely she must have felt, there all by herself. First, the thought came sadly, but soon my mind grew wild with excitement, as I wondered what would happen if I wasn't there the moment she opened her eyes. It would be the one time when I wasn't stopping my world to make sure everything was right in hers. For once, just maybe, she didn't have to be the center of the universe.
As I reveled evilly in the thought of her spending the night alone, I sat down at my desk and checked my email. Then I checked the other one. I was disappointed to see that both inboxes were empty. Looking for something to do to prolong my newfound sense of peace, I clicked open Solitaire and started playing.
For awhile I got lost in the motions of the game, but soon my emotions came bubbling to the surface and it occurred to me that even if I wanted to, I couldn't stay away. I couldn't stand not being the first face she saw when she woke up. I had a pathological need to cater to her and make sure she was alright.
And I realized that in all our fights and in all my pouting, it had always been my decision to give her my attention. She had never really demanded it. And my face burned with the recollection that she had never approached me pouring out her soul about her less-successful romantic pursuits. Rather, it had been I who was always perpetually prodding, seeking ammunition that would make me feel better about myself, as she tossed her hair over her shoulder with that effortless grace.
Maybe what I perceived as slights on her behalf had never really been real. It seemed to me that I had been looking for an excuse to continue thinking badly of her, while all she ever did was love me.
She was my best friend. And while she was suffering in a strange, cold and probably stinking hospital room, I was playing games and thinking despicable thoughts.
It was there, sitting at that desk, that I realized I was a truly horrible person.
Looking back, I don't know quite how to describe our relationship. I suppose we were friends. For years, we had shared a closet-sized studio in the city and did almost everything together. We were so close that everyone thought we were sisters — or lovers. We were neither, just two best friends.
Still, I'd always had a quiet dislike for her. I hated the way she left hair in the bathroom sink, the habit she had of clinging to every male friend we knew like an abandoned puppy, and the way she managed to manipulate people into feeling sorry for her. She demanded way more time than I was ever willing to give. Yet I was always there, holding her hand and hating every second of it.
I'm sure she hated me too. Ours was the kind of friendship that lifestyle magazines run giant spreads on, with advice from psychologists and large headlines with words like TOXIC. We had met each other in college and quickly become close, each of us seeing ourselves in the other. All girls have drama, but what we had was so vicious, it would make fully armed soldiers cringe. Our daily conversations were filled with passive-aggressive remarks and thinly veiled insults aimed below the belt, but always quickly followed by sweet smiles and sugary apologies.
I was cruel, constantly taking advantage of her feeble self-esteem. She was bad with men: always unsure of herself in relationships and always willing to give too much of herself. And I capitalized on this knowledge. It was like the perfect kill, the way I would lay in wait for the first sign of vulnerability and then attack, making her confidence plummet in seconds with just the right words. Her stories were always the same — none of her relationships ever lasted and she never knew what went wrong. But as fate would have it, she was popular with guys.
She was a pretty package — straight long hair, nice face and a body that looked like it was sculpted by some sort of Michelangelo. She spent hours in the gym perfecting it, polishing a product she knew was in high demand. Her appearance was her most precious achievement in life. When we were out together, we pretended not to notice that everyone was looking at her and that the cat calls were never directed at me, while inside she smirked with triumph. Her attacks were less venomous than mine, and they usually came in the form of comments about what a sweet personality I had, as she sized up my bad hair and chubby figure, comparing everything to her own slender frame.
Things between us weren't always so contentious though. What kept us going was that most of the time, we actually got along really well and I don't think either of us could imagine life without the other.
So, it was with some consternation that I listened to the man at the hospital describe the gory details of a collision that left my friend lying battered and dying.
I thought about how lonely she must have felt, there all by herself. First, the thought came sadly, but soon my mind grew wild with excitement, as I wondered what would happen if I wasn't there the moment she opened her eyes. It would be the one time when I wasn't stopping my world to make sure everything was right in hers. For once, just maybe, she didn't have to be the center of the universe.
As I reveled evilly in the thought of her spending the night alone, I sat down at my desk and checked my email. Then I checked the other one. I was disappointed to see that both inboxes were empty. Looking for something to do to prolong my newfound sense of peace, I clicked open Solitaire and started playing.
For awhile I got lost in the motions of the game, but soon my emotions came bubbling to the surface and it occurred to me that even if I wanted to, I couldn't stay away. I couldn't stand not being the first face she saw when she woke up. I had a pathological need to cater to her and make sure she was alright.
And I realized that in all our fights and in all my pouting, it had always been my decision to give her my attention. She had never really demanded it. And my face burned with the recollection that she had never approached me pouring out her soul about her less-successful romantic pursuits. Rather, it had been I who was always perpetually prodding, seeking ammunition that would make me feel better about myself, as she tossed her hair over her shoulder with that effortless grace.
Maybe what I perceived as slights on her behalf had never really been real. It seemed to me that I had been looking for an excuse to continue thinking badly of her, while all she ever did was love me.
She was my best friend. And while she was suffering in a strange, cold and probably stinking hospital room, I was playing games and thinking despicable thoughts.
It was there, sitting at that desk, that I realized I was a truly horrible person.
Forget Forgot--Ron Mouadeb
How heavy the mind
that never forgets
How soon the novelty wears off
How weary we become
How fragile the steel cage
How lonesome it may seem.
How heavy the mind
that never forgets
How often we recall
How repeatedly we dream
How quickly we lose sight
How hurtful it may seem.
How heavy the mind
that never forgets
How easily we float
How soundly we sleep
How forgiving we can be
How ridiculous it may seem.
How heavy the mind
that never forgets
when tomorrow morning comes.
that never forgets
How soon the novelty wears off
How weary we become
How fragile the steel cage
How lonesome it may seem.
How heavy the mind
that never forgets
How often we recall
How repeatedly we dream
How quickly we lose sight
How hurtful it may seem.
How heavy the mind
that never forgets
How easily we float
How soundly we sleep
How forgiving we can be
How ridiculous it may seem.
How heavy the mind
that never forgets
when tomorrow morning comes.
Tuesday--Lisa Fraser
Arbitrary and contrary
to the most ordinary
The outcast looks to the sky
for February
The leaves and branches
H
A
N
G
like august leaning into September –
lazy, long,
begging to be remembered
Like a curtain of beads
Tuesday green leaves
sway
brushing the spirit of wondrous soul
Set adrift on a journey unknown
stars, now
De -
throned,
cast light upon the rolling stone
And Tuesday O P E N S her arms to the afternoon
Memories of June rush in
The quixotic clouds grazing
past the blue of the sky
Seduces autumn to imbue his dye …
Tomorrow the clock will be reset
into this time when thoughts and wind
intertwined with the chiming of reminders
accompanying Tuesday
to the most ordinary
The outcast looks to the sky
for February
The leaves and branches
H
A
N
G
like august leaning into September –
lazy, long,
begging to be remembered
Like a curtain of beads
Tuesday green leaves
sway
brushing the spirit of wondrous soul
Set adrift on a journey unknown
stars, now
De -
throned,
cast light upon the rolling stone
And Tuesday O P E N S her arms to the afternoon
Memories of June rush in
The quixotic clouds grazing
past the blue of the sky
Seduces autumn to imbue his dye …
Tomorrow the clock will be reset
into this time when thoughts and wind
intertwined with the chiming of reminders
accompanying Tuesday
Vampire Weekend: Innovators or Innovatively Mediocre?--David Oropeza
For generations, social trends have come to play a decisive role in determining how the public
reacts to a band's music. If the media machine is selling flannel shirts, ripped jeans and scraggly hair, then obviously you have Nirvana and a thousand kids that look like they should be in Nirvana. Now grunge is over and the last few years have seen an explosion of the indie scene. Its fashion, music and mindset have all been woven into the new fabric that pervades our ads, television shows and movies. The icon of this new landscape is partly made up of a goofy sense of humor, an unassuming personality and probably thin arms — a guy who may or may not be wearing non-prescription frames.
In short, nerds are cute.
I mention this to demonstrate that Vampire Weekend has not completely deserved this huge, almost hoagie huge, fame that is fattening up the blogs and message boards. Rather, I think their — self-titled — debut album couldn't have come at a better time. Audiences were already warmed up before we stopped “giving a fuck about an Oxford comma.” Throw in the culturally foreign genre of music of Afro-pop, a drummer with enough pocket, and some water and poof, presto, pronto: an immaculate VW comes from the microwave still steaming.
I think VW debuted as musicians who were just learning how to work together but who also had enough talent to write a clean, (almost) guilt-free pop song. Ezra Koenig has a fantastic ear for melodies and the quirky lyrics that fit within them. What I think is most interesting about his vocal delivery is the rhythms he incorporates into his singing, something he has carried onto their new album Contra in tracks like "Horchata" and "White Sky." Both include the off-beat vocal rhythms that have not only produced VW’s characteristic crispness and freshness, but have also broadened the band’s appeal.
Keyboardist Rostam Batmanglij, who arranged the strings for their first album, complements Koenig's songwriting with a refined playfulness that is almost synonymous with the band’s image. Think Mozart's bastard child in 2010. The ending of "The Kids Don't Stand A Chance" is laden with strings, tremolo picking, keyboard and harpsichord. It's a great example of Batmanglij’s arranging talent. The instruments switch off on the leading melody, blending into one another and creating a surreal, almost watery sound. Pretty stuff to say the least.
Despite the strong singles, there are also fully realized duds on the debut. "Walcott," "Campus" and "Bryn" are somewhat brainless pop tunes with no substance behind them. A hummable tune fit for an elevator ride. The songs drive, drive, drive to a wimpy payoff of a junior high school eargasm of a chorus. VW's consistency in their music works both ways. What they become popular for — sparse and rhythmic quirky tunes — can also lead to draggy and uninspiring songs. You have a song like "Mansard Roof," which follows their formula perfectly, and then "Bryn," which staggers in trying to keep up with the status quo.
VW reaped the benefits of being aesthetically relevant. They also put just enough spin on their music to make it deceptively fresh and current. It wasn't by innovation but by an alteration that VW was named the forerunners of new music. Borrowing African music forms and mixing it with their wholesome indie sound for a song like “Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa” is one of the few innovations VW can actually hold.
To call VW innovators requires much more than a debut album with a couple of appropriated influences and catchy singles. It requires an honest and virile passion, something I have never felt while listening to VW. It never made a mark past the surface and, when I was done moving my head from side to side, I still felt emotionally distant from the music. Though they are a band that can make good and catchy music, I don’t think they are innovators in what they do. VW is one of those bands that captures your attention for a strong month. They are an innovatively mediocre group, one I certainly wouldn't mind listening to for a dedicated amount of time, but they didn't reinvent the wheel. Their music isn't awe-inspiring, but it doesn't have to be. In the end, they are a good contemporary band that we probably won’t remember down the line. We will romance it and call it sweet names but, in a couple of years, our love letters will be lying right next to our Pokemon cards and Yo-Yos.
reacts to a band's music. If the media machine is selling flannel shirts, ripped jeans and scraggly hair, then obviously you have Nirvana and a thousand kids that look like they should be in Nirvana. Now grunge is over and the last few years have seen an explosion of the indie scene. Its fashion, music and mindset have all been woven into the new fabric that pervades our ads, television shows and movies. The icon of this new landscape is partly made up of a goofy sense of humor, an unassuming personality and probably thin arms — a guy who may or may not be wearing non-prescription frames.
In short, nerds are cute.
I mention this to demonstrate that Vampire Weekend has not completely deserved this huge, almost hoagie huge, fame that is fattening up the blogs and message boards. Rather, I think their — self-titled — debut album couldn't have come at a better time. Audiences were already warmed up before we stopped “giving a fuck about an Oxford comma.” Throw in the culturally foreign genre of music of Afro-pop, a drummer with enough pocket, and some water and poof, presto, pronto: an immaculate VW comes from the microwave still steaming.
I think VW debuted as musicians who were just learning how to work together but who also had enough talent to write a clean, (almost) guilt-free pop song. Ezra Koenig has a fantastic ear for melodies and the quirky lyrics that fit within them. What I think is most interesting about his vocal delivery is the rhythms he incorporates into his singing, something he has carried onto their new album Contra in tracks like "Horchata" and "White Sky." Both include the off-beat vocal rhythms that have not only produced VW’s characteristic crispness and freshness, but have also broadened the band’s appeal.
Keyboardist Rostam Batmanglij, who arranged the strings for their first album, complements Koenig's songwriting with a refined playfulness that is almost synonymous with the band’s image. Think Mozart's bastard child in 2010. The ending of "The Kids Don't Stand A Chance" is laden with strings, tremolo picking, keyboard and harpsichord. It's a great example of Batmanglij’s arranging talent. The instruments switch off on the leading melody, blending into one another and creating a surreal, almost watery sound. Pretty stuff to say the least.
Despite the strong singles, there are also fully realized duds on the debut. "Walcott," "Campus" and "Bryn" are somewhat brainless pop tunes with no substance behind them. A hummable tune fit for an elevator ride. The songs drive, drive, drive to a wimpy payoff of a junior high school eargasm of a chorus. VW's consistency in their music works both ways. What they become popular for — sparse and rhythmic quirky tunes — can also lead to draggy and uninspiring songs. You have a song like "Mansard Roof," which follows their formula perfectly, and then "Bryn," which staggers in trying to keep up with the status quo.
VW reaped the benefits of being aesthetically relevant. They also put just enough spin on their music to make it deceptively fresh and current. It wasn't by innovation but by an alteration that VW was named the forerunners of new music. Borrowing African music forms and mixing it with their wholesome indie sound for a song like “Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa” is one of the few innovations VW can actually hold.
To call VW innovators requires much more than a debut album with a couple of appropriated influences and catchy singles. It requires an honest and virile passion, something I have never felt while listening to VW. It never made a mark past the surface and, when I was done moving my head from side to side, I still felt emotionally distant from the music. Though they are a band that can make good and catchy music, I don’t think they are innovators in what they do. VW is one of those bands that captures your attention for a strong month. They are an innovatively mediocre group, one I certainly wouldn't mind listening to for a dedicated amount of time, but they didn't reinvent the wheel. Their music isn't awe-inspiring, but it doesn't have to be. In the end, they are a good contemporary band that we probably won’t remember down the line. We will romance it and call it sweet names but, in a couple of years, our love letters will be lying right next to our Pokemon cards and Yo-Yos.
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