Weetziebat's Journals

I Wish Repeat Was More Than a Button

Iâ�™ve been listening to â�œEyesâ� by Rogue Wave for a good hour now. It reminds me of 1 am train rides to Grand Central. How during those brief thirty minutes the motion of the blurring landscape drowns my manic thoughts. How you canâ�™t tell the difference between city lights and shooting stars through the dirty windows. How inexplicably everything will turn out okay. That you will meet a boy with crinkly eyes who will kiss you at the terminal. Songs are stronger then smell in that sense. Step carefully over the gap when boarding or exiting the train. Mind the heart.

The Touch Me Feeling

Last night I had the honor of seeing Mirah + The Blow at SLC. It was fabulous, other than the fact that Mirah spent her entire set bitching about the mics, which sounded fine. The Blow was one of the best live performances I've seen in years. I love intimate venues, even if those in attendance are Bard and Sarah Lawrence students decked out in AA and thrift finds trying to out-hip eachother.

I have such a crush on Khaela Maricich. She was wearing a see-through white blouse with a black bra and everyone was sharing her sweat (the fan had to be turned off so we could hear properly). 70+ kids shoved as close as they could to watch her adorable dance moves and we were all thrashing about. Or at least the kids in the front were, which would be me and my bat-shit crazy friends.

Plus Liz Isenberg peed on stage in a trash can. Or at least I think it was her. I could be completely wrong about this though. All I know is that some ridiculous hipster girl with an awkward, self-styled hair cut pulled a plastic pee reservoir out of a holster, stuck it up her cooter, and pretended to piss like a boy.

I personally think all sceney-boppers should take a break from their feverish fanfics and try expanding their music pallet (amongst other things... there's more literature out there than just The Perks of Being a Wallflower or Chuck Palahniuk, FYI). Check out Joanna Newsom. Granted, although she's a sweet harpist, I can only deal with her etheral whining for a few songs. Indie really should be taken in small doses.

"The love that I crave is a polar bear to gore me. Then, I'd know the force with which she adored me. The love of my dreams is the stuff of my nightmares- when I wake up in screams that's how I know that I really care."

Listening To: Come On Petunia by the Blow

P.S. For more on The Blow & Khaela, check out http://www.myspace.com/theblowus
P.P.S. Is Thnks Fr Th Mmrs about that one time Pete got a B in Hepatitis?

From NYC with Love

While carousing about the city this weekend, I ended up in Chelsea (after seeing Stan Lee @ NY Comic Con) with Pabst Blue Ribbon drinking pseudo-intellectuals. Gallery hopping with hipsters turned out to be surprisingly fun.

I first went to the Anton Kern Gallery (532 W 20th St) to see Mark Grotjahnâ�™s Blue Paintings. I first fell in love with him @ the 2004 Carnegie International. Thatâ�™s also where my obsession with Chiho Aoshima and other Japanese pop-surrealist painters (i.e. Audrey Kawasaki) started. Anyways, Markâ�™s work was very emotional as always. I really favored the blue over his vibrant reds and greens at the International. He always works in complimentary monochromatic palettes, and in this case, the orange-red under-color created a beautiful optical effect through radiating geometric energies. I give him a gold star, even though I am often bored by pieces of this genre (Rothko is an exception).

We then skidaddled over to the Tony Shafrazi Gallery (544 W 26th St) so I could see David LaChapelleâ�™s Awakened exhibition. This was the first time I had seen his work in non-print form, thus it was very exciting. The first room of the gallery provided a beautiful transition to the other works within the exhibit, both literally and figuratively. The flooded chapel scene and submerged altar boy were both preludes to the following rooms. Additionally, there were photos of immersed Lourve-esque galleries, which I personally thought helped thematically emphasize the Romantic/Neo-Classical nature of other pieces.

The Romantic movement was an entirely aesthetic experience as it confronted the transcendentality of nature (and yes, I made that word up). Misunderstood heroes were featured within such paintings, as are in Davidâ�™s work (note his iconic transsexual muse, Amanda Lepore who appears in numerous of his photographs). However, the misunderstood heroes in this exhibition were not exclusively nightlife queens, but often suburbanites in frumpy clothes floating through water. I absolutely adored this concept. Of course, this is all speculation, seeing as there was no artist statment present.

My favorite piece was a giant multi-framed image of numerous models writhing with horror at the collapse of The Forum in Caesarâ�™s Palace. Upon first glance, I immediately thought of Gericaultâ�™s Raft of the Medusa, based on the shipwreck of the French frigate La Meduse. Itâ�™s brimming with delirium and despondency, as was Mr. LaChapelleâ�™s piece. I remember reading somewhere that Gericault used friends as models, such as Eugene Delacroix. Iâ�™m assuming many of the models within this photograph were close friends to David LaChapelle. Classically nude, the figures mourn over the destruction of consumerist culture with the collapse of the plastic Vegas pediment as the end of society. Itâ�™s the best inside joke ever.

Francis Baconâ�™s (as in the painter) personal belongings (newspaper clips and things of that nature) were also on display. This made me exceedingly happy as well seeing as the bat-shit crazy ones are the best. Did you know he used to eat paint? Heâ�™s up there on my list, along with Van Gogh.

My hope is that after reading this scintillating/boring/fabulous/poorly written journal entry (that is, if anyone reads this), kids will start getting into museums. Literature. Lost arts. Iâ�™m nineteen and find this fascinating. There has to be others out there who find this far more appealing than online stalking.

Listening to: Slow Down by The Academy Is (in honor of David - "Hollywood Hills and Suburban Thrills")

Wizards and Witches

My computer is very much broken, thus I am posting this most glorious of entries on the Rear 16 computer in the library. I've been iChat and Puzzle Pirates deprived for over a month now and it's absolutely horrid. However, I'm ridiculously productive now that I don't spend excessive hours electronically window shopping. Way to go, me! Still, rather than translating Seneca or reading up on Heidegger I am updating a blog that no one bothers to read..

Valentine's Day is a week away, and instead of being bitter, I think I'm going to make hand-drawn cards with dolphins violently love-making and caption it "I actually like the look of your face when we're doing it." This is tentative.

Recent deviations:
Monday â�“ using my various wiles, managed to see a live taping of the Late Night Show with David Letterman. Which is absolutely ridiculous because 1) I donâ�™t own a TV, nor do I have any desire to and 2) on the off chance that I do watch TV, it is exclusively the Lifetime Movie channel at the Busisâ�™ residence. Furthermore, I have no interest in competitive sports unless it is international football and, sadly, Daveâ�™s repertoire consisted solely of Super Bowl references. Iâ�™ma not lie- I went for Fall Out Boy. Which was fabulous because everyone in the audience was 40+ years of age and had never heard of them, so I was the only person rocking out (in my seat). I think everyone, including the band, probably resented me then.

Tuesday â�“ should have gone to Heatherette show @ Bryant Park, but alas, had nothing to wear. This may notbe surprising to some seeing as my outfits exclusively consist of granny sweaters and boyâ�™s under-shirts. Instead, I opted for a most boring evening watching black and white British films with Carson.

Wednesday â�“ badgered for reading comic books by myself at lunch. I canâ�™t help that Allen Moore is the shit or that demi-gods, superheroes, vampires, and zombies will always be a weak spot for me. Recently, Iâ�™ve been thinking of writing my first comic. It will be based on a girl whose hero-alias is Miss Lonelyhearts. She gets her powers from drinking the tears of emo boys.

Now Iâ�™m doing what I do best, which is avoiding academics. I want a boy who brings me thimbles and will be as close to me as a shadow, even if I have to sew myself to him with a needle and thread.

â�œYou were just a boy on a bed in a room, like a kaleidoscope is a tube full of bits of broken glass. But the way I saw you was pieces refracting the light, shifting into an infinite universe of flowers and rainbows and insects and planets, magical dividing cells, pictures no one else knew.â� â�“ Francesca Lia Block

^ Where are you?

Listening to: Hum Hallelujah by Fall Out Boy

Forever Young

"The life of every man is a diary in which he means to write one story, and writes another; and his humblest hour is when he compares the volume as it is with what he vowed to make it."
- J.M. Barrie, The Little Minister

Do you know why swallows build in the eaves of houses? It is to listen to the stories. These days, the internet is a window to infinite nurseries with thousands of tales at the click of a mouse. I am unsure if I am Pan hovering in front of a world that can only be glimpsed but never grasped as I press my nose too close to a plastic box of words, or instead Wendy, with promises from pretty pixels that make the second star tot he right seem not so far away.

Once upon a time I was young(er) and practiced flying in elevators, holding my breath and lifting my feet off the ground during the initial rise and fall in hopes that when he came for me, I wouldn't even need pixie dust or happy thoughts to make it to Neverland. Many birthday candles and baby teeth later, I began to worry that I had wasted my wishes on all the things they told me not to believe in.

I want to live like Thoreau, but in a Swiss-Family Robinson treehouse in Kensington Gardens rather than a little cabin in the New England woods. Come with me?

Listening to: Last Train to Cool by Nation of Ulysses