by Michael Shields
Twenty years after its release Weezer’s self-titled debut still persists as the crowning achievement in geek-rock…..
Roughly one score ago this day (c’mon – how often do you get to appropriately use the word score!), an album was released that instantaneously changed the face of indie rock. An album whose identifiable and honest anthems, paired with the eccentric nature of the artists behind them, convinced an entire generation of rock fans that they too had hope. An album, christened by the band’s fans as simply ‘The Blue Album’, served as an introductory course for many into the genres of indie and emo rock. That album, Weezer’s self-titled debut, remains one of the most influential and important albums of the past two decades.
by: Lola Dune
An offering of poetry that cuts straight to the core….
If I was stripped bare.
Each mosaic veined layer peeled away,
I’m terrified by what would remain.
My past haunts me every day,
a looming shadow following me from the time I wake.
Would the self-induced scars
and battle wounds of my youth
leave me a prisoner?
A broken body too young to justify the wear.
They say it’s not impossible for rebirth
but I am nobody’s fool.
The damage seeps through faded bandages
holding back something too toxic
to spawn anything pure.
Posted on April 7, 2014
by: Chris Thompson
An advanced screening of “Two Swords,” Game of Thrones first episode of the fourth season, provides a glimpse into what is shaping up to be a truly epic season…
“If you have a cell phone, laptop, tablet or camera you must surrender them to security before entering the venue!” A husky security guard clad in black and a woolen cap emblazoned with the letters GoT across its front, shouts loudly to the crowd. “There are no exceptions! Barclay’s will not tolerate unauthorized photography or recording of tonight’s event.” Immediately after this exclamation a wave of chatter breaks out amongst the crowd surrounding me. “No cellphones, wow!” a youth exclaims to my left. “Gonna be an analog experience tonight babe. Can you handle it?” a tattooed hipster says to his equally tattooed girlfriend to my right. As I scan the eager faces of the multitudes queuing about me, I try and tap into that vein of childhood excitement reserved for the birthdays and Christmases of my youth. I close my eyes and try to feel the buzz. To merge with the collective exhilaration pervading the participants of tonights event. To my excitement, I find it envelops me with ease. This is going to be a great night I think.
by Christopher Rockwell
Why the media coverage of Malaysian Flight 370 has me feeling exasperated with the the 24 hour news cycle, and with myself…..
Initially, my head was in the right place. When news came down of the loss of an airliner with over two hundred people aboard I immediately thought of their families. I thought of their pain, and confusion, and their futile endeavor to grasp onto hope, even in the face of certain tragedy. I then thought of the passengers themselves. I shivered with uneasiness imagining the unfathomable terror engulfing their final moments. I hoped it was quick, and that it was easier than my anxieties presume it to be. And I took a moment in silence to bid them farewell, reminding myself how lucky I am for every breath I am granted.
And then suddenly, everything changed.
Posted on April 3, 2014
by: Michael Shields
A new book whisks us behind the curtain of a fascinating era in basketball, a period simply known as Showtime…..
I remember it like yesterday. I was late. Well as I saw it, Mom was late, I had been ready for hours. This was Game Day after all. I had my jacket on, hat, scarf even, and was waiting patiently by the front door as my mother fished around for her keys, sniffed out her purse and otherwise just carried on without a care in the world. The only way to express my objections over our tardiness, and my mother’s lack of concern, was by flaunting a steady wave of fidgetiness. I squirmed and slithered, and certainly complained, on the way to the car, in the passenger seat, and en route to our destination. We were on our way to a family’s home whose three sons I was very close with. An Indonesian family where all three boys had those race car style beds, a source of devastating jealousy for me for years and years to come. I was set up for a sleepover, but all I had on my mind was The Game!
by: Alice Kaltman
Worlds collide, as the heavens unleash their fury upon the unsuspecting…..
The kids were already getting on Kristin’s nerves and they’d only been in the car for five minutes.
“Mommeeee,” whined Larissa, “Dash is kicking me.”
“Am not, you stupid.”
“MOMMEEE! Dash called me stupid.”
A rustling in the backseat. An audible inhale. An ear piercing wail.
“She bit me,” cried Dash. “Mom, look,” a scrawny arm speared forward obstructing Kristin’s view out the snow-speckled windshield.
by: James Delacroix
An author ponders the age old question – why write?
Words are flowing out like endless rain into a paper cup, they slither wildly as they slip away across the universe. – The Beatles
In our increasingly futuristic world where concepts, ideas, and entertainment are omnipresent and constantly battling for our attention – why write? With the ability to worship at the omnipotent oracle of the Internet and have all of our questions answered, and the ability to become silent voyeurs into the hearts, minds and souls of the world – why write? With everyday objects becoming digitized, sanitized, and saved for posterity – why write? In a world with an attention span fading out of the blue and into the black – why write?
Formulating an idea and committing it to paper or screen is a little piece of one’s being freed and released into the wide open realm of the conscious world. That thought may be little more than a flickering line on a computer screen or fresh ink on paper, but from those humble beginnings a little part of your being is released. Free to either fly or crash and sink beneath the murky waters of obscurity, where only the bravest divers go in search of pearls. Even the lost parts of one’s being as expressed through writing are of value, as even the most poorly thought out and written idea is a piece of someone.
There are countless little pieces of myself scattered throughout the world by way of notebooks, journals, the internet, and poetry anthologies. Each one of those writings is an element hurtling through open spaces and synapses, waiting to connect and form a chemical bond with a reader who in turn I can only hope will expand upon that little piece of me and add a little piece of themselves to continue the interconnectedness of the chemical chain. Writing is science; ever changing, dynamic, and it allows us all to be the voice of our own deity. I write to be one with the Universe.
by: Chris Thompson
The value of terrariums are debated in a smattering of enthusiastically disagreeable point, counterpoint…
Point: Fuck your terrarium man. I mean seriously. Just fuck you. What the hell is it supposed to be? Is that a plant? Or a moss-covered rock impersonating a plant? I can’t tell because it looks to me like you’ve created a tiny menagerie of chaos and uncertainty. A damp, suffocating, glass-enclosed ode to insanity. Like someone took a handful of lawn clippings and threw them into a bowl with some water and tumbled river stones and exclaimed “Viola’, terrarium!”
And what are those? Is that a tiny family of porcelain deer figurines? They look scared shitless. Honestly, I would be too if I was thrown into this enchanted forest of deranged greenery and told to live out my days. I can only imagine the caliber of monsters that come out at night in this ecosystem. Shivers. Wait! Seriously, is that a cactus? When the hell have you ever seen a cactus growing besides some moss? I mean, they’re from entirely different geographical regions for christ’s sake, one semi-arid to dry and the other more moisture-prone and temperate. What’s up next for you? You planning on opening up a zoo where lions of the Serengeti sleep with cute little lambs? Where jackrabbits and red-tailed hawks have playtime hour in the sun?
by: Douglas Grant
Centuries have passed, yet the greatest creative minds still borrow from The Master…..
Jax Teller (Sons of Anarchy) as Hamlet
Like the prince who is heir to the throne of Denmark, Jackson Teller is next in line for the presidency of his beloved motorcycle club, SAMCRO. But a man Jax loves like an Uncle has not only taken what rightfully belongs to him, but has also married his widowed mother. The circumstances of Jax’s father’s death are mysterious, but his passing has been ruled an accident. Like the serpent that allegedly stung Hamlet’s father, a motorcycle crash is what the Sons believe was the cause of John Teller’s death. But John’s ghost, in the form of a recovered journal, speaks to Jax from beyond the grave, fingering his long time friend and former partner, Clay Morrow, as his murderer. And paralleling Claudius, who was the king’s brother, Clay has indeed committed the ultimate act of betrayal in order to attain the crown, in this case a gavel. Jax—when confronted with the truth about his father’s death—suffers from the same tragic flaw that Hamlet does: indecision regarding how to take revenge. Like the play, a lot of people on Sons of Anarchy have to die before the hero receives justice.
by: Michael Shields
New York City is certainly bountiful in its cultural offerings, but every once in a while an exhibition comes along that simply cannot be missed…
There are roughly ninety museums throughout the five boroughs of New York City. More than sixty in Manhattan alone. The word ‘roughly’, or phrases such as ‘in the ballpark of’ must be employed when discussing the actual total, as the approximate count is difficult to tabulate. With so many long-established, new museums being devised and erected constantly (including “pop ups,” recurring annual exhibits, and hole-in-the-wall gems), and not to mention closures – it’s literally impossible to keep track. And who cares really. Simply put, there is an abundance of cultural richness within Gotham’s realm.
This being the case, the deck outrageously stacked, it is easy for intriguing exhibitions to slip by undetected. So allow me to steer you in the direction of an exhibit that is near and dear to my heart. One that calls attention to a long-standing relationship between two distinct, yet often analogous, art forms: Music and Literature…….