High School Guitar Smash Video

This was actually a Photoshop high school assignment over a decade ago, hence the TV No Signal (Mic check at first second), the one minute exact limit, and awkward insertion of photos.

I took this assignment to the next level though.

“Why would you smash a guitar?”

It was in my parent’s basement and seriously neglected and rusted. I got my dad’s blessing, don’t worry.

Camera: Canon GL2 . Thank RHS media dept.

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Chemicals and Errata


oh Father, I have never known
disappointment like yours.

the crows that left their feet
dented in your drawing board
dive into view as I defy my destiny.

we are reckless because we evolve;
we are mortal and motionless and instincts
for survival collide at ninety degrees:
an instant made solely of broken feathers,
broken glass, and broken blood.

—–

I’ve had this partial poem in medias res stuck in a word document for over 8 years. Like a lot of things in my life, I have no idea how to begin or finish it. So here it is. Something with the potential to come in third place at a poetry reading if only it had a frame.

This is the first time I’m depressed during the summer for no distinct, discernible reason. The variable here is the Seroquel, which is great for the panic disorder, terrible for things like paying attention or enjoying life. Oh, and the being stuck in a poverty trap, because I need to keep my income low to qualify for Medicaid.  ‘Merica.

This is a pretty emotive acoustic piano cover of Brand New’s Jesus Christ:


—-

I’m still an atheist, but I’ve always been fascinated with the cultural power of religious imagery and also as literary archetypes. The doctrines might be bullshit, but stories have staying power for a reason. And that’s the part that interests me. How do you pierce the collective consciousness with your words?

Mary Karr does it pretty damn well in this piece that was obviously about David Foster Wallace:

  I loved so my ghost might inhabit you and you ingest my belief

in your otherwise-only-probable soul. I wonder does your
     death feel like failure to everybody who ever
           loved you as if our collective cpr stopped
too soon, the defib paddles lost charge, the corpse
     punished us by never sitting up. And forgive my conviction
           that every suicide’s an asshole. There is a good reason I am not
God, for I would cruelly smite the self-smitten.

  I just wanted to say ha-ha, despite

           your best efforts you are every second
alive in a hard-gnawing way for all who breathed you deeply in,
     each set of lungs, those rosy implanted wings, pink balloons.
          We sigh you out into air and watch you rise like rain.
We are just interjections, enjambed upon the line breaks of our lives.

“You should change your blog name to ‘Clantily Sad'”

I’m still alive, sort of. Still lacking in motivation to produce any form of original content. My blog is like the stepchild in a broken home that I give inconsistent amounts of attention to and can’t decide if I like or not.

Filler post for December.

I’m running out filler material for this place actually; most of the poetry I wrote in high school does not stand the test of time. (Oh, the angst. Never quite The Pain Tree bad, but still cringe-worthy enough to never be shared.) But there was some clever enjambment in here that I still like.

Nerdy, Angry, Fuck

  • Literature / Poetry / Emotional / Free Verse

I think it’s hot when strippers cry on their master’s
degrees, when meteorologists make innuendos
when your mother pretends to be Jewish.

Sometimes I wish I had synesthesia
so I could palpate youtube’s
myriad turtle sex clips with my retinas
though I wish there was more to do
on a Friday night than watching
ugly animals fuck online.

I have a Dukakis sticker on my teenage
mutant ninja turtles lunchbox from 88′
It’s currently filled with positive
pregnancy tests, disposable cell phones
and a picture of your mother.

Love insurance premiums:  $99.99 a month!
Good student discounts. Press 1 for more options.

It’s like that time I asked why she didn’t
love me anymore and she replied
“supply side economics.”

I told her her metaphor sucked;
our relationship had too many uncertainty principles
to be graphed criss-cross on an X and Y axis,

We were more like 2 out-of-sync sine waves reaching for infinity
until the tequila ran out.

Para continuar en las lenguas románticas
oprime el número dos.

I sent a letter of complaint to her new
PO Box in MN, asking her to return my soul
for the full amount, in the payment method
in which it was received.

She doesn’t know it, but she’s still
the spaces between my fingers
when I’m clawing for sanity in my sleep
and the moment mid-clasp, when I stop.
Go limp.
Lips.

16-year-old Scandalousmuffin Smashes a Guitar

This is from The Vault of Adolescence.

(Loud emergency signal beep at the beginning.)



Randolph High School Mass Media II J-term exam. Canon GL2. Adobe Premiere Pro. 2005.

It was mostly a Photoshop assignment, but the video segment had some weird constraints if I remember correctly.  Fast motion, slow motion, a minute flat editing after the emergency beep, and different types of camera angles. So it was edited a little quickly and awkwardly. But I think mine was the best in the class given that it due during exam week.

I was a child. That’s weird to think about. I still have that pink tank top.

Thanks to RHS for having the most badass Mass Media program in New Jersey.

Also, thanks to neofelix for being my partner-in-crime.

POETRY for the Deaf — #2 Pencil Human Hands Drawing

This was the first piece I did for my first art class “Design Fundamentals” in high school.

POETRY for the Deaf

Click for full resolution

I didn’t really draw back then and still don’t. But I discovered I liked painting (acrylics) my freshman year in stage crew and decided to take an introductory art class the next year. I took several pictures of my own hand for use as reference pictures in this drawing. It’s entirely #2 pencil if I remember.

My art teacher loved it, and put it in the art show.

Then when I took it home, my Asian dad disowned me because it wasn’t technically perfect.

I had low self-esteem as a child.

ASL Alphabet Chart Here.

Cross-applying Poetry Fundamentals to Prose

I’ve been super busy this week with socializing and job searching, but I have been trying to maintain this blog on a semi-regular basis. When I’m lazy or there’s no interesting news about to comment on, I’ve decided to default to a good autobiographical life advice post.


For those of you that don’t know, I used to write poetry. I never thought it was that good–more like broken prose with clever enjambment. (I never did write a sonnet that I was fully happy with.) There were some cheap PoMo tricks, like line breaking on a word with multiple meanings, that I used very often back then and still do, to some extent, in my prose. But I haven’t written anything that was more poetry than than prose in recent years since non-fiction has consumed my soul.

I will testify that studying classic and modern poetry when I was a teenager has greatly improved my general writing skills as an adult. English profs know it well: When you start analyzing poetry on a functional level below interpretation and meaning, you start paying attention to literary elements like syntax, punctuation, and rhythm. And all writing starts to “flow” better.

Alliteration and assonance all over everything. < See what I did there with “alliteration” and “all?” There are also “v” sounds in “over” and “everything” that create a cohesive sound pattern. (Repetition of consonant sounds is called “consonance.”) These techniques and literary devices work, whether you’re consciously aware of them or not, and this is generally how people judge a work as “good”–based on these literary devices embedded in historical standards.

If you’re a writer, it’s good to be consciously aware of these literary devices (not to be confused with the larger concept of literary techniques), so you can use them to your advantage.

Check out those links that I hyperlinked above if you don’t know anything about poetic devices. If you’re a writer that wants to get better, and you haven’t already, start paying attention to the poetic devices that you already use.

Feel free to ask questions in the comments.


[Edit: Sorry, I had to manually fix the HTML since it formatted weird after I prematurely submitted.]

Riddle Me Pinks…

Baby takes another hit,
she’s passed
the point where peripheral vision
blurs into her inverted gut
and she cries about the virus of society
she’s afraid
she’s catching tonight

Baby is an oxymoron,
murphy’s law on mute–

the way she’ll waste
bootlaces in urinals
to see what shape they make
when they float
leave
bumblebee pinstripes
and chalk scrawled
half past noon,

I GOT HER PREGNANT
on the changing station

(an ephemeral epithet,
a graffiti-fied gaffe)

Oh baby,
“this is the art
of perfecting denial,”
she’ll exhale
before passing to the right
because she’s just that much
of an insidious
fuck

(her palms drip
like the festering manifestoes
of bad hair dye jobs
and thrift store sweaters)

Doctor, Doctor, don’t bother
it’s Sunday now; she’s alone in a crowd.
the children will be coming home
for Christmas and she’s
let the cat out again.
Visual piece also from my angsty teen days:
(There were large callouses on my feet in high school, so the pins didn’t hurt.)

I remember DeviantArt.com

My Photoshop skills ain’t what they used to be.

I have a bunch of stuff sitting around in my old DeviantArt account that I can use as filler posts here when I don’t feel like writing or analyzing the news.

There was a bunch of drama at DA in 2005-2006 when they went for-profit, involuntarily terminated one of the founders, and then readjusted their terms of use to have a “non-exclusive, royalty-free license to reproduce, distribute, re-format, store, prepare derivative works based on, and publicly display and perform Your Content.” They also fired and banned a bunch of gallery directors who protested.

DA also had a close-knit, talented writing community back in the day. I actually learned a lot about the technical aspects of poetry from that site. But everyone left when they realized how many shitty writers only interested +fav circle jerks were on the site.

Flickr and other sites that don’t rape your artist rights kinda makes them obsolete.

Dear SHOEbuy.com, You’re Terrible

I ordered boots from shoebuy.com nearly 2 weeks ago. A few days ago, I sent them a nice e-mail asking why they haven’t shipped them yet. No response! The original confirmation e-mail said that they would ship in “1-5 days.”

At this point, I don’t even know if they actually have them in stock. For a big site with so much advertising, you’d think they’d have better customer service.

I drew a nice picture with explosive diarrhea expressing my sentiments for this online retailer.

I’m in NJ at the moment where it’s easier to ship things and going back to Brooklyn permanently on the 11th. If they don’t tell me what’s going on by Saturday, I’m going to try to contact them again to cancel the order.

Dark Existentialist Book Written by a 4-Year-Old

I found this in my closet collecting dust. I’m guessing I was about 4 or 5 when I wrote it, because I know that by 6, I could string together complete sentences and by 8, I was reading Tolkein. Ah, early relics of childhood creativity. It reminds me of “I Am Better Than Your Kids.” 

Introducing the world premiere of:

“Jamie Wants to Play”

I’m glad dyslexia is a normal part of childhood development and I grew out of that.

It’s 11 pages, so bear with me.

We begin in medias res. Jamie is asking his dad “Why?”

Jamie really wants to play.

I think the kid’s persuasive argument was met by child abuse.

The permissive mother archetype.

Fuck the what.

Ok, what I think is happening is that he fell off the grass onto the road.

Oncoming headlights.

And boom goes the dynamite.

Self-explanatory.

That’s the end. I didn’t write any more of the story.

I don’t know if I just got lazy or distracted by candy, but it ends with Jamie laying dying in a pool of his own blood. Kind of disturbing for a 4-year-old but nonetheless demonstrates an early conceptualization of the fragility of the human body.

Moral of the story:  It doesn’t matter if you want to play today, because we’re all going to die.

The End