Guitaaaaa!

Check out some of my guitar playin' here:

http://www.myspace.com/melanrock

I composed the music, played the rhythm guitar, lead guitar, and bass guitar, and there are lyrics, but I haven't got a fantastic voice right now so I haven't laid down any vocals yet.

Right now, there's only one song on there, because it's the only one that's really polished. I will be adding some more, soon, because I have several tracks laid down, but are still rough. I'm hoping to spruce the page up, as well, and start networking. Any musicians out there, by the by? I'd love to network and jam.

Short Story from 308: The Local Drugstore

All right, short story time! Not that anyone reads these. They're mostly for my own entertainment, but really...if you have the time, please do read my stories and leave me comments, critiques, anything. I really would love input on my writing and I haven't gotten much around here.

Except, this isn't really a story you should be critiquing. The exercise here is called Plot Potential. You are to write five "mini" stories, to lay down the foundation of a larger story. Here's three mini stories. Check, check, check it out. :)

"The Local Drugstore"

Ava wasn’t used to the wad of toilet paper bunched between her legs. She stood in aisle four, in the feminine products section, across from the vaginal lube and XXL condoms. Her ten-year-old eyes glazed over the abundant stacks of maxi pads, tampons, panty liners, diapers, and napkins. She pinched one of the tightly bound plastic packages with her fingers, poking at the ribs of lined pads. Which to choose?

“Daddy,” she said timidly. “I need help.”

Her tone flounced through her father’s ears, like a whistle to a soldier, signaling the call to action. Dave had been standing off to the side and Ava noticed his hands in his pockets were disguising a nervous shake. He sputtered out guttural mumbles and picked up a small package of super maxi pads.

“Um, well baby,” he said, his voice quavering. “It depends on how heavy your flow is. And…yeah.” She watched his eyes scan over the hundreds of possibilities, trying to find the solution, as though the right package would suddenly illuminate like a carnival prize. She turned her gaze back to the boxes. The names of the packages on the top shelves were hardly visible. She shifted her weight to the tips of her toes and pushed off with her calves to read their descriptions.

“Are you sure Mommy didn’t have some left over at home?” Ava asked.

Mommy hadn’t had her period for several years.

“No baby,” he said. “Sorry.”

Ava eased off her toes and planted her feet firmly to the vinyl floor. She blew back a strand of dark brown hair with a quick gust from her lips, then tucked it behind her small tanned ear. She looked to her father. Her almond eyes twinkled back at him and glistened with a heavy teardrop. Dave opened his arms and let Ava collide into him, and the few tears in her eyes dotted his jean jacket, darkening the spots in a polka dot pattern.

It would’ve been easier with Mommy.

“Here,” he said, once he let her go. He quickly scanned the aisle again and chose a variety pack of maxi pads from Always. “This one has light, medium, and heavy in case you aren’t sure.”

Ava took it and hugged it close to her body. “Thank you, Daddy.”

They started walking towards the cash register when Ava stopped them. She clutched Dave’s arm with a gentle squeeze. “I want to visit Mommy after this. Can we?”

“We went yesterday, hon,” he said, scratching the scruff on his beard. He hadn’t shaved in weeks. There was no need to shave anymore.

Ava nodded. “Okay. Then tomorrow? I’ll pick out the flowers for her and then we can decorate the grass…”

Dave’s throat tightened. Ava saw his face and the red tinge that shone through the gruff on his cheeks. She then felt the toilet paper wad bunched in her crotch, dampening with an unwelcome sticky warmness. Though she felt it uncomfortable, she no longer cared if it leaked and stained her pants. It wasn’t time to go home. Mommy wasn’t home.

***

Mr. Bishop came in with a stainless steel cane, hunching over it gingerly, with careful footsteps. He made his way to the back of the store in five minutes. He smoothed his soft white hair down with a black handkerchief. He came to the pharmacy window and he smiled at the young pharmacy girl. A golden brown ponytail hung high up in the air.

“Hey Linda,” he said to her. “Is my prescription ready?”

“Let me check, Mr. Bishop. Just a sec.” She whirled around and looked at the A-D files, searching for the white paper bag full of medicine. When she found B, Bishop, she plucked it from its place and brought it back to the counter. It was the usual, the familiar package of meds for his ulcers. He had a second bag. She blinked several times to make sure and Mr. Bishop curled his lips into a devilish smirk. Viagra.

Mr. Bishop let out gusts of belly laughs. He wheezed the air in and out of his lungs rapidly. “Yep. I owe Mrs. Bishop a treat, especially since my hip’s not so bum anymore.”

“Well, just be careful,” Linda said, laughing along. She handed him the bags after he paid for them.

He lingered for a moment, then leaned on his cane to gear up for the painstaking walk.

***

Zack walked into the store while whistling a humble tune to himself. He was casual, cool, and collected. Keeping anticipation bottled was difficult when the cork was loosened.

He remembered lying in bed with Emily, just moments earlier. He had stripped off her T-shirt and her boot-cut carpenter jeans, leaving her in a turquoise bra and panties. He knelt beside her on the bed and laid his hand on her belly. She held his head in her hands and pulled him towards her to kiss him hungrily on the lips. His hand started to migrate, reaching in beneath the thin panties and played with the crispy bristles of her pubic hair. He ran his fingers through them, parting them into five aisles. Emily jerked his hand away when he started to dig farther down. She twisted her index finger lifted and right. No condom, no nookie.

Zack stood in aisle four, facing the condoms. The hoards of latex laid out in front of him were like a museum of keys that led towards a treasure trove hidden away in a far off village. He chose the ribbed and lubricated, specifically designed for her pleasure, apparently. He walked off and as he left the aisle, he spotted a young Asian girl with inquisitive almond eyes, followed by a man in a jean jacket. She looks so scared.

Before leaving with the condoms, Zack spotted the ice cream bar by the cash registers. He sat down next to a pungent man, the only seat available at the time. He asked for a pint of chocolate malted crunch, Emily’s favorite, and the bearded man clapped him on the back with a celebratory cheer.

“Congratulations! Never heard o’ that flavor before in my life!”

Zack flipped his thumb up swiftly and smiled at the stranger. Something was pulling him, bonding him to the seat of his chair. Though the urges in his body wanted him to return to Emily’s soft embrace, he stayed in the store, sitting on the stool and let the world go by in nimble flashes.

Web CT 10/23: Why Books?

Prof. asked us today in ENGL 312, opening our discussion on Ray Bradbury's novel Fahrenheit 451, “why books?” Why burn the books? If we go back about two centuries in our history, remember that during slavery, slaves were kept illiterate to keep them ignorant, because literacy = power. The power to read gives one the power to attain knowledge. Burning books, as is the case in the dystopic world of Fahrenheit 451 is a way to keep people ignorant and free of thought.

I’ve always loved to read. As a young child, it helped me to foster a very keen and vivid imagination. I questioned everything around me, because books, specifically works of literature take you to a world that is beyond your own. Captain Beatty, a character in the novel, says “Books say nothing! Nothing that you can teach or believe. They’re about nonexistent people, figments of imagination, if they’re fiction” (Bradbury 62). As an aspiring writer, that line stopped me dead in my tracks. A life without imagination? That’s no life to lead.

The novel examines this same line of thinking. For example, there are no porches because people sit out on porches to think. This “big brother” figure, the government, whoever does not want people to sit and think, to brood, or to ponder. It’s all a scheme to keep people in their place. That smells of totalitarianism. What a sad, sad world.

Tina Fey = Maverick

If you missed Sarah Palin's appearance on SNL last night, well I bring a clip!

I loved the "cordial" glances Tina and Sarah made when passing. :P

Self-explanatory. :)

Doggone it, you betcha!

Sarah Palin will be on SNL tomorrow night. It'll be a maverick night, I am sure. Perfect fodder for a night of good jokes.

In the meantime, this will satisfy your craving, hehe.

WebCT: Mass Production

Walter Benjamin, "The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction"
"The simultaneous contemplation of paintings by a large public, such as developed in the nineteenth century, is an early symptom of the crisis of painting, a crisis which was by no means occasioned exclusively by photography but rather in a relatively independent manner by the appeal of art works to the masses."

Adorno, Theodor and Horkheimer, Max "The Culture Industry: Enlightenment as Mass Deception"
"The assembly-line character of the culture industry, the synethetic, planned method of turning out its products...the easy yet catchy, the skillful yet simple; the object is to overpower the customer, who is conceived as absent-minded or resistant."

Bradbury, Ray, Fahrenheit 451
"The world was roomy. But then the world got full of eyes and elbows and mouths. Double, triple, quadruple population. Films and radios, magazines, books leveled down to a sort of pastepudding norm, do you follow me?"

Interesting discussion this week, concerning the Benjamin, Adorno, and Ray Bradbury’s quotes. Essentially, I do think that the quality of art, which encompasses the visual and performing, or actually anything really, is going down in standards due to mass production. Yes, I’m on that side of the fence.

My reasoning is because I’ve watched a lot of documentaries on the Discovery Channel of how items are stamped out by the millions by machines. Clothes, food, musical instruments, what have you. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen the same T-shirt on a person because they sell dozens of the same shirt at a particular store. Or what about food made in factories, like packaged or processed foods, where a human hand has never touched a single aspect of the cooking? I guess you can say I’m much more partial to products where a lot of care and attention has been paid to each individual item.

I realize that today’s big factory machines are programmed to ensure high quality standards and maintain consistency. And that most companies would lose money if things were manufactured without the machines, because of time and labor. But then it starts to become a cookie cutter. Wouldn’t we get bored of it after a while? Or are we already bored of it? The mass production that we have in America is a huge contributor to making us such a dominant country. The simple laws of supply and demand have made our lives a little simpler and have made everything more accessible to all people.

However, in David Harvey’s interview, which I thoroughly enjoyed for his magnificent insight into America’s future, he spoke of America’s dominance in production will eventually waver and no longer be the dominant. I just think if we keep simplifying everything, making everything cookie cutter, things lose their uniqueness.

(I recommend watching the last 20 minutes of this video).

We’re not currently in danger of losing our own individual identities and uniqueness, like the people in gray jumpsuits of Orwell's 1984, but I do think that it is a form of streamlining into something more uniform. Besides, cookie cutters are a necessary evil. So that when we do have something come out, a movie, for example, that is brilliant, it stands out among all the others. That’s what makes something special.

Chaos Again!

We all stood by our emails last night, to check the campus status for tomorrow. At 5:00 a.m., we were alerted that CSUN would be open for normal operation.

So it seemed fine this morning, but I couldn't help the eerie ominous feeling. Right after I switched from the 5 North to the 118 Freeway this morning, I saw flames licking the mountains to the right. It was a tremendous sight.

The smoke off the Reseda exit was stifling. Orange and brown covered my vision. Really, was it safe to go to school? I wanted to turn back, but I wanted my education. Seriously.

When I arrived to campus, the air was clear and I smelled no smoke. It seemed fine. But no one was at school today. I had about 10 students in my 9:30 class and the professor seemed reluctant to teach that day. She didn't. We just sat and workshopped stories.

Then Prof. Wexler's class, my 12:30, was cancelled. I actually bumped into him and it was a funny sight. The sight of a fleeing teacher and student, running away from chaos. The smoke came back. The fire had spread to Granada Hills and was in full force on campus. The wind wasn't helping. It picked up the smoke I had seen earlier that day and settled it right into the center of school. It was a terrible smoking dust storm.

I think it's an absolutely heinous for campus to be open today. It is so dangerous out there and the smoke is really debilitating. I really wished that they had just left campus closed today. It's a danger to the students' health and because dammit, I live far. I feel so cheated when I don't get to take my classes. It feels like a waste of my time and a waste gas.

On another note, let's continue to be vigilant and show our care and compassion for the evacuees and victims of the fires, which has now spread to Granada Hills. :(

There Now, Doesn't That Look Much Better?

I decided to spruce up the blog a bit. With classes cancelled today, I had a bit of extra time (which I did not have this weekend!)

So goodbye, golden vomit page!


The color scheme of the new page suits me better, anyway. Somber colors are so much more soothing. :P

WebCT post for 10/9

Didn't get a chance to put this on WebCT.

American Psycho and A Clockwork Orange

I saw a connection between the two films we have watched in class: more recently A Clockwork Orange and American Psycho. I saw them both as an allegory, a “what-if,” when people become disillusioned with society and find some sort of outlet to act upon their estrangement. The similarities between these two films are striking. Both Alex from Clockwork and Patrick Bateman from American Psycho have a taste for something finer than what they already have. I think that they were both searching and searching for something but they just didn’t know what it was. They were both fed up with everyone around them and acted out. Homicide and rape, complete disregard for human life. The films were chilling and put me in a state of unease. It made me fear the future because we already live in a society where many people are quite disillusioned with the government, economy, standards of living, and etc. It’s unsettling what the disorganized mess can do to affect others.



What I find interesting about A Clockwork Orange (and possibly American Psycho, as well) is that the movie and its characters are now fad or trendy. It’s the “cool thing” to like Clockwork and to even look and dress like Alex. In fact, there is one particular rock band that comes to mind and they are very popular. They are called Panic At The Disco and their look earlier in their career quite resembled the gang of Clockwork.







My point is that films like these have such tremendous cultural impact that I fear they will lose their novelty and people may become desensitized to the true meaning behind the films. That screams dystopic to me!


(Now they’re ripping off Beatles and the Sgt. Pepper era, but I won’t get too far into that).

Feel free to combat me on this issue. And I am not ripping on Panic! I actually enjoy their music and their look. I'd dress like them were I a dude. And gay. :D

Draft for 408: Opulence

This week's exercise focuses on dreams and the imaginary--and their plausibility in the real world. Basically, it's about dreams grounded in reality: like Harry Potter. A boy believe he's normal, but he's actually a wizard. Or a little girl learns she can talk to her hamster, but no one else can. Fun stuff, isn't it?

"Opulence"

It was the drones that sent me over the edge with their talk of liberal smack; how to save the country one abortion at a time, let the gays marry, legalize pot, and fuck your mother. And every day, they would sit behind their dark cherry wood desks, puffing on a pipe or a fine, hand-crafted cigar while I sat opposite them in a less comfortable, pleather-covered office chair, clutching onto a briefcase. I often left sweat marks on the briefcase, but it didn’t matter because I didn’t keep anything in there except my resume. All for show.

So I slipped one of the bastards my business card: Gleason, Joseph. Stanford University 2001, UCLA Law 2005. They always asked me if it took me four years at law school. It didn’t. I took a year off. Wasn’t that the smart thing to do? Most gave me the wink and the nod, but others just coughed. It killed me. I wanted to know exactly what they were thinking, at that precise moment, at that precise interview. Every one I felt went swimmingly, but they always ended with an arm reaching across the table for a handshake and a rehearsed speech:

“This looks good, Mr. Gleason. However, I’m afraid we won’t be able to offer you a position at our firm this quarter.”

Then I would find out some Yale yuppie got the job instead. Pricks.

~~
I always drove the same route home, Santa Monica Blvd all the way, then north on Saltair. I shot up seven floors on a shaky elevator and when the doors opened, I always covered my face with a handkerchief. Someone was always cooking some piece of shit like dog or whatever. I opened the door to the condo and was met with the odor of burned sage. My fiancée appeared in her Haight-Ashbury throwbacks. I kissed her on the lips, which were always caked with that cheap, cherry-flavored, Chapstick.

“How was work today, lovely?” she asked, dancing around to the sounds of Cream echoing from the iPod deck. I plunked down onto the couch that we always covered with thin cotton sheets. Unless we had company, they remained covered. I wanted a white leather sectional, but she wanted something environmentally friendly. So we settled on synthetic.

“I filed papers. Like I always do,” I replied, leaning back into the couch. I started to undo the tight Windsor knot on my tie when she came over to me and straddled me, clenching her thighs tightly to support her weight. She untied the Windsor the rest of the way.

“When are they gonna make you a partner?” she asked, whining the last few syllables.

“When you start eating foie gras. Now wouldja get off me, Deb?”

She rolled left onto the couch, pulling the sheets off and turning it disarray. I sighed vehemently.

“You’re no fun anymore, Joe,” she said. She clicked her fingernails against one another. I couldn’t stand the sound, the irritating clicks banged against my ear drum. Click. Click. Then she started talking and rambling. About her girlfriends at the yoga place. The douche bags at work. The CD she bought on 3rd Street. Ramble. Ramble, she went on.

“God damn it, Deb. Don’t call me Joe! It’s Joseph. I’m a lawyer.”
~~
We ate dinner in relative silence and I pushed around the edamame on my plate. I loved Deb for trying, but the grilled soy steak was nothing compared to a porterhouse. It was a noble effort on her part, too, when she poured chianti into wine glasses for the both of us. I rubbed her thigh tenderly under the table.

“Sorry for earlier,” I said, cooing at her. When I spoke, tears dribbled from her eyes and fell onto her plate. “Aw Deb, don’t cry. The edamame tastes good. Doesn’t need any more salt.”

Her eyes narrowed and her forehead wrinkled into an unruly pattern. She forked the edamame beans and then took a bite of warm potato salad. She added extra green onions. They were her favorite.

After making love to her in her favorite position, her on top and giving her ass a few playful pinches, we lay side by side together heaving and panting. I was lucky. She didn’t like to snuggle too much after. Minutes passed. I was thinking about work. I pushed paper. I put paper in steel cabinets. I brewed the best damn cup of Maxwell House. Then a snake bit me.

“Deb!” I said, turning around to face her. She was beginning to drift away from me, but the quick thrust of her name from my lips peeled her eyes open. I took both of her hands into mine and kissed the finger tips. “I’ve figured out how to be fun again.”

~~
Deb wore the only business attire she’d ever owned. She looked beautiful, not that she wasn’t, but in that conservative way I liked. The plan was simple. At 10 a.m., I stepped out of the office for a cup of coffee. She came in with her best high school drama skills, acted as a fake partner at the firm. She planted the bomb in the ladies’ bathroom. We met by the coffee machine and she gave me the thumbs up. I smirked happily and took her hand in mine. We walked out of the office, briskly but discretely. I felt dandy with that cup of coffee in my hand, my steaming alibi.

We were well out of harm’s way when I heard the crash and bang, then the flames flew up into the sky, puffing like a devilish marshmallow. Deb and I grinned and her lips curled into an evil snarl.

“This feels good, Joe. We sure gave Bonnie and Clyde a run for their money. And now I’m starving. I feel like a steak.”

“Steak!” I cried out. “It’s 10 in the morning, hon.”

She held my hands and did a playful jig. We weren’t far from Ruth’s Chris Steakhouse. I’d been there on lunch appointments, but there was never an occasion to go with Deb. If we ever ate out, it was vegan.

The maître d’ warned us that there was no steak service at lunch. I took him aside, like he was my best friend. I slipped him a fifty and told him to bring us a porterhouse and a bottle of chianti.

“Sir,” he said curtly. “Would you like to eat steak or just look at it?”

I sighed. “Damn it, man.” I gave him thirty more and he kept his stupid poker face.

“Porterhouse rare and chianti. Foie gras on the house,” he murmured and stepped away casually for the kitchen.

The porterhouse arrived and we divided it between the two of us. It was deep red and the juice that poured from the meat was still red. It was a glorious sight to watch her slice open the meat with such relish. As we chewed, the succulent rare flesh wriggled in our mouths.

Chaos in the City

Here's another good dystopic observation. Campus was closed today, due to the fires in Porter Ranch. I am wishing for everyone's safety out there, by the way!

Well I noticed that there was something eerie in the air, and I don't mean the smoke and ash floating around. Everyone had a solemn look, and walked like zombies. Weather-beaten and exhausted, it was just another manic Monday, right?

I noticed things were extra fishy when my broccoli cheese soup from Subway just didn't taste right. Then there seemed to be plenty of parking in the parking structures. This was very odd behavior, indeed!

Then hallways were empty. At 1:45, the hallways of Jerome Richfield are never empty.

I went to my professor's office and she said that the entire campus was closed. No classes today.

No classes?! You mean I drove all that way, worked my ass off this whole weekend to get everything done by Monday, and...classes are cancelled?

So I fled! I fled campus and people were driving worse than normal. Intersections were blocked. Ambulances and fire trucks blasted through the lanes, weaving in and out of the way. I got on the freeway. And here was something that I had never seen before.

Traffic was backed up horribly on the 118 West. I literally saw cars pull over to the right and drive in reverse to the next exit, Balboa Blvd. It was like synchronized driving; all the cars in one line at the same speed backing up to Balboa Blvd. It was surely a sight to see!

This was chaos. This was dystopia in action. This is what happens to people in these bizarre moments that throw off your day. It's lunacy, I say. Sheer lunacy!

One-Page Reflection for Planet of the Apes Presentation

I contributed to the group the scenes from Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. I pointed out that the story in this particular book/film of the series is related to our talk of eugenics and Planet of the Apes because here is an instance in a fictional world that discriminates against a person based solely on what they are born with. Certain wizards and witches want to kill off the ones who were born from normal people and there is an air of superiority over the pureblood wizards and witches over them. It’s a genetic cleansing. The same thing happens in Planet of the Apes when they realize that Ulysse (Taylor in the original film) is an intelligent being—but he is a human, not an ape. They are unwilling to accept this fact and disregard his intelligence as nothing more than excellent imitation. How ironic, though, because in the novel, we learn that apes are excellent imitators, as well.

I also tried to figure out an answer for why Planet of the Apes is dystopic; and that is for the very same reason stated above. (I wasn’t able to share this in the presentation, because of time constraints.) It’s unfair to discriminate against someone who is intellectually and physically qualified to do a task. When we start trying to figure out who is the best, smartest, or strongest then it leaves no room for variety. For example, take Ethan Hawke’s character in Gattaca. He wants to go to space, but biological tests determined when he was an infant relay him to working janitor shifts and cleaning “spaces.” We will not have variety, because if we are all six foot, blonde, and blue-eyed, there would be nothing special to differentiate one individual from another. We would all be cookie cutter.

WebCT post: 10/02: Planet of the Apes

I enjoyed Planet of the Apes. It might be because I have an overactive imagination, but when I read a story that I enjoy, I like to immerse myself fully into that world. It’s how I get a feel for the story, the setting, the surroundings, the characters, the action, and the plot. I saw the ape society described in the novel and it was actually frightening to me. I didn’t want to see a world where humans are low-class heathens, whose intelligence is undermined. I didn’t want a world where someone was discriminated against because of blood, genetics, or species, as we saw in the Heston film, Gattaca, and even the snippet from Harry Potter. :P I think, had the apes lived harmoniously with the humans and accepted them as intellectual equals, then I wouldn’t be so hung up about it. Then again, we wouldn’t have much of a story, would we? Even so, the fact that I was so immersed and so horrified at the close-mindedness of the apes, I think that’s a good thing because it shows just how affecting the novel is.

It may play into my own insecurities because I somehow don’t want to believe that humanity is fragile—but we are. Here is an allegory for what we can become if we crumble and fall apart as a society. There could be an uprising during vulnerable times. Maybe not by apes, per se, but by anything: dictatorships, anarchy, what have you.