The Shit I Put Up With

Would you share an apartment with Kevin Federline for $50,000?

Maybe. Who's Kevin Federline?

Britney Spears's ex-husband.

Oh. Uh, sure.

Would you have sex with Jessica Biel if there was a 1 in 10 chance that her vagina would turn into a garbage disposal?

Uh, no, I don't think so.

Would you stick your penis in a glory hole if there was an equal chance that your mother, Jenna Jameson, or Greg Gumbel would be on the other side?

Who's Greg Gumbel?

Would you let an old toothless woman give you a blowjob for $50,000?

No.

Dude, think of the hummer she'd give!

Uh, no fucking way.

Would you have sex with a sheep for $200,000?

No.

Vladimir Lenin's corpse?

Eew.

A bag of croutons?

Hell yeah, I'd fuck croutons for $200 grand.

Also, I've got some stuff that I'll post after the break. A couple poems, but I left the hard copies in my dorm.

At a Loss For Words

So, Panic at the Disco's new album came out recently...was it yesterday? I really don't know. Anyway, I'm totally unsure of what to say about it. I have to admit, I kinda liked the last album, A Fever You Can't Sweat Out. It was...well, it was pretty run-of-the-mill, but I liked it anyway. They sounded like Fall Out Boy after a little more time in production. A phrase I liked was "studio filligree." But this new thing...

It's called Pretty. Odd. Which I think sums it up brilliantly. I can't think of a way to describe the change in sound... Well, of course, there's The Beatles. Because I'm pretty sure that someone...*cough* Brenden Urie *cough*... studied their Sgt. Pepper stuff and after. It's like...twee. Yeah, that's a good way. A lot like twee. And so random. They go from ELO-influenced choruses to interludes entitled "Folkin' Around." I don't think that it needs more explanation than that.

There's more of everything. More lyrical...acrobatics. More vocal harmonies. More orchestral backing. And all of it makes the album indescribably different. I think I like it, but...maybe I don't. I'm not sure. All I know is, I can't wait until a consensus is reached, because either PATD just killed the emo scene (thank God) or there's going to be some fan-base shifting.

Check this one out for yourself. It's their new single, "Nine in the Afternoon."

From the dictionary, under "idyllic"...

"Well, the boys from the south played guitar on the porch,
as we surfed in the waves trying not to get scorched
by the sun that day. Man we had fun that day.

And that night after dark, when our bellies were full
fire-flies, they came out for a private light show,
and I couldn't believe that we soon had to leave...

Sweet Madera,
I've got to get back to Madera.
You know that I'll miss my Madera.

Well we talked round the table until the dawn came
and then lay in our beds listening to the rain
on the tin roof above, whispering about love.

As our thoughts drifted off to the sounds of the night,
oh, the clouds opened wide letting in the sweet light,
and we watched the sun rise saying our last goodbyes.

To Madera,
You know that I'll miss my Madera.
I've got to get back to Madera..."

Is it wrong to want to be understood?

I think it might be.

That would explain why we are so effortlessly felled by people that love us. I mean, why do we love people? For them, or for us? I bet it's both, but mostly the latter. We love people that make us feel complete. And the truth of the matter is so hard to take:

We aren't supposed to be understood.

Take just now, for instance. I wrote a poem, a poem that I really liked a lot. I was quite proud of it. Emily read it and wanted to know what it was about. I answered truthfully--I suppose--and said her. She flew off the handle and started crying because I "thought she had unrealistic goals."

Maybe I'm selfish. Maybe I'm wrong. But that's not what I meant at all, and no matter how many times I told her, she wouldn't listen. I don't know that the poem was about her. I mean, it was sort of, but then again it really wasn't. The things I write are rarely so didactic as to be translated into a one-sentence moral. It was a poem, not Aesop's fucking Fables.

After I stuck my foot in my mouth, I sat here for the longest time, thinking of what else I could say. And then I had an epiphany, so I called her. The poem wasn't about her unrealistic goals, it was about her wandering through fantasies and grand dreams helter-skelter while I drift away from her. While she drifts away from me.

Did she listen? No, she was beyond the point of listening. Maybe she'll read this and understand. Then again, maybe she can't. Maybe that's the problem. Maybe we just can't really understand each other; maybe no one can. Which leads to a really uncomfortable question:

If love is just disappointment at not being understood, wouldn't it be better to not try? Because then you wouldn't hope for understanding. Wouldn't it be better to die alone?

A Profound Metaphor

l(a

le
af
fa
ll

s)
one
l

iness

--e.e. cummings

I heard there was a secret chord
that David played and it pleased the lord,
but you don't really care for music, do you?
Well, it goes like this, the fourth, the fifth,
the minor fall, and the major lift;
the baffled king composing Hallelujah.

Hallelujah...

Well, your faith was strong, but you needed proof.
You saw her bathing on the roof.
Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you.
She tied you to her kitchen chair,
she broke your throne and she cut your hair,
and from your lips she drew the Hallelujah.

Hallelujah...

Baby, I've been here before.
I've seen this room and I've walked this floor.
I used to live alone before I knew you
I've seen your flag on the marble arch,
but love is not a victory march.
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah.

Hallelujah...

Well, there was a time when you let me know
what's really going on below,
but now you never show that to me, do you?
But remember when i moved in you,
and the holy dove was moving too,
and every breath we drew was Hallelujah?

Well, maybe there's a God above,
but all I've ever learned from love
was how to shoot somebody who outdrew you.
It's not a cry that you hear at night.
It's not somebody who's seen the light.
It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah

Hallelujah...



P.S. So that we're clear, that's not mine.