Game Changer & Make Some Noise
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Aqua Utopia｜海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
Noah Kahan
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"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
Color Me Curious
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2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
izzy's playlists!
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One Nice Bug Per Day
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Vote! At: Micheltorena Elementary School 1511 Micheltorena St. Los Angeles, CA 90026 Bring a picture ID & 1 of he following: Social Security Car Utility Bill Property Tax Bill Document Proving Occupancy Check Stub Buisness Card
Party at my house tomorrow. 💯donuts. #krispykreme #slnc
Party at my house tomorrow. 💯donuts. #krispykreme #slnc
My neighbor made these. Thank you so much Shauna!
My neighbor made these for me.
I have flyers!!!
does your baby go Wah Wah?http://vimeo.com/20902369
Yes
7,300 days, or 20 years
It's been 20 years.
Today I have my first parent-teacher conference, and I am sure they are going to rave about my amazing daughter. I have no doubt about it. They already do with regularity. She's fun and easy she is to get along with. She really brightens up the world, and has given me so much perspective on life.
20 years ago today, when I was 15 years old, my best friend died suddenly and in the strangest of ways. He went into cardiac arrest in his mom's arms. I think the paramedics revived him briefly but I don't think he ever regained consciousness. If I am not mistaken his last word was "mom." She told me this story through the most intense tears I had ever seen just days later. The extreme pain and confusion I felt personally at the time was greater than any I had ever felt before, but hers was worse than I could understand. When she said "I know you were his best friend," her voice was cracking even though she was already crying. This was the first time that that thought of he and I being best friends had occurred to me. It was a natural friendship and we really just always got along.
His death changed me permanently in ways that I used to think made me deeper. That's literally what I thought, that his death had deepened me as a person. For a long period of time after his death my thoughts were only about him. Not just everyday, but maybe every minute. I did things and saw people and went out but I was usually thinking about Sean, trying to fathom that he was gone forever, or trying to imagine where he was physically. These thoughts went on so ceaselessly that it seemed like part of me became planted in another dimension, and all my decision making and even my well being came from that other side. I could feel things before they happened and I knew I could get as out of control as I wanted and that somehow I would be protected. There was a special kind of magical feeling that I had in all of my thinking and all of my behavior. And this never really went away.
The thing that is striking to me on this day in particular, 2/3/14, is how long it has been. How far removed I am from being 15. Sean and I would get together when I cam home from boarding school and we would hang out a lot. We'd go to the mall and try to find girls. We'd hang out at my house with the group of friends that we had, and we would talk. We would generally talk about girls. He did not believe me that I had had sex. He was really interested in snowboarding, something I had the privilege of doing everyday in boarding school, and he was really interested in playing bass. My last memories of him were from Christmas break 1993. First I remember we would go on long bike rides, and one day I had All Apologies stuck in my head, just the guitar part, and I though that I had come up with it. I was singing it and singing it and kind of bragging, and he couldn't place where it was from. When we were on the bike path at the beach he finally said "last song of Nirvana." It was the last song on that album which was still new. Maybe that happened in the summer. One thing that did happen in the winter was we went to see Nirvana at the Forum. And I remember New Years Eve a few nights later. We were just walking around our neighborhood. I broke a friends window, he may have pushed me into it.
My very last memory of seeing him alive was the morning I left to go back to school. We had been drinking the night before. There were four of us there but only he and I were drinking. I remember he had taken a beer out of my fridge and started drinking it. He was fucking with me to see if I would get mad and worried about my family finding out. I didn't care. I had already begun my drinking career about a year prior. I don't really remember anything we talked about that night. I do kind of remember the sound of his voice. He had very cool inflections. He had very graceful hands. He was very funny. He could kick my ass, but for some reason I felt like he mostly let me lead in the hierarchy of our group. I don't know why. But that morning I left all four of us were sleeping in my room. I had to get up early to get on a plane. I gave everyone 5. He was on the top bunk and I gave him 5 last. It was like a handshake-high 5. And he said "later dude." He was amazing. I walked out of the room and as I shut the door I heard a voice inside my head say "and that was the last time I saw my friend alive."
I talked to him maybe a couple more times on the phone. The last time I remember talking to him was around the Northridge Earthquake. His apartment had been hit hard and he really tried to convey to me how intense it was. The night I found out he died, 20 years ago today, I heard the phone ring in my dorm. It was late at night. After lights out. The phone rang and rang. As soon as I heard it ringing I knew he was dead. I don't know why I knew that. I knew it was another friend of ours calling. I acted surprised when my dorm parent came in to get me. I acted surprised when my friend told me over the phone. I acted strange for a long time.
The thing that compelled me to write something about this is how different my life is today. How different it is from how I thought it would be. I'm thinking about how much more life I have had than him. Todays date seems futuristic in a lot of ways. I think about what he and I would think of my life today. I know that we couldn't really fathom it. I couldn't explain to us what it's like to look at my wife in her eyes and the sense of completeness that she can bring to me. I couldn't explain to us what it's like to hold my daughter and make her laugh and to hear her laugh. We wouldn't understand and I don't know how interested we would be in it. But one thing that I do understand better is how his parents felt when he was gone. I can only imagine it. It the most terrifying part of my day when that thought creeps in.
Soon after he died my mom and I were driving. It was a summer day, I think. Someone had given me a bunch of pictures of Sean and I was going through them in the car. One of the pictures was from the 5th grade talent show. He was lip singing a song. My mom asked "what song was he he singing?"
I said, "this one." and I turned on the radio and it was playing. On the radio. It was Patience. That was the song he was singing in the picture.
I wonder if we would have grown apart. The odds are. We definitely would have kept in touch, although I don't know who I would be today if he hadn't died. I am certain that he death greatly effected the trajectory of my life. The depth of my coolness. He became something so profound to me. He became my link to the other side. He became the guide that brought my consciousness to another dimension, and I have though about him every single day since the day he died, 7,300 days ago.
"I don’t know why everyone thinks the high part and the low part of the brow are the only good parts," he says. "When did the middle get to be the bad brow? It’s like, ‘Oh, that’s so bourgeois!’ Let me put this in perspective: we don’t really like miserable poverty, and we don’t really like gigantic, asshole-ish 1% creephood. I think we’re actually for the middle class. So make sure the middle class actually has some interesting stuff to think about."
James Schamus on the disappearance of quality middlebrow. A world where there is nothing in between Transformers and Upstream Color gets closer every day. (via richardrushfield)
"If she did division and multiplication, she was over an IQ of 75. She was not mentally retarded. ... It could be she had an IQ of 90 in a family where everyone was 130, so it looked like retardation, but she did not fall into IQ 75 and below, which is the definition of mental retardation. ... There is no way I can picture her at less than a 90 IQ, but in that family, 90 would be considered retarded."
Dr. Bertram S. Brown, on Rosemary Kennedy
BOOK REPORT: JEWBALL BY NEAL POLLACK
The legendary Neal Pollack has had one of the most unique careers in modern letters; after bursting like a meteor into the humorist sky with the McSweeney’s published, Neal Pollack Anthology of American Literature, which remains in my mind the funniest book of the past decade or so. The past decade has taken him to places we of the 90’s could have never imagined - to Yoga and to dad-writing for starters. This latest opus however, takes us into yet another fantastical world beyond our imagination; the world of Jewish basketball leagues of the 1930’s.
I have heard from my father the tales of the days when Jews were actually tough and feared, with mobsters of their own. But little is said of the time when my people were actually better than average athletes. Neal Pollack has the thrilling tale of how the Jews invented basketball while fighting American Nazis in a completely enjoyable, thrilling thriller in the classic hardboiled style. I don’t actually care at all about basketball, but the scenes on the court had me on the edge of my seat nonetheless. So if you do care anything about basketball, you probably need to read this immediate. Extremely fun book now available on Amazon. You can thank me later.
Thus, while always attentive to the particular qualities of individuals, on the many occasions where you have nothing to guide you but knowledge of those mean differences, use statistical common sense: (10a) Avoid concentrations of blacks not all known to you personally. (10b) Stay out of heavily black neighborhoods. (10c) If planning a trip to a beach or amusement park at some date, find out whether it is likely to be swamped with blacks on that date (neglect of that one got me the closest I have ever gotten to death by gunshot). (10d) Do not attend events likely to draw a lot of blacks. (10e) If you are at some public event at which the number of blacks suddenly swells, leave as quickly as possible. (10f) Do not settle in a district or municipality run by black politicians. (10g) Before voting for a black politician, scrutinize his/her character much more carefully than you would a white. (10h) Do not act the Good Samaritan to blacks in apparent distress, e.g., on the highway. (10i) If accosted by a strange black in the street, smile and say something polite but keep moving.
John Derbyshire, April 5, 2012... Two Thousand Frigging Twelve. This is his advice to white and asian kids on how to approach black people, in the wake of the Trayvon Martin murder.
Piano Sonata No.2, 3rd movement.
Here is the translated contents of this recording: A. Rubinstein: What a wonderful thing [the phonograph]. J. Block: Finally. E. Lawrowskaja: A disgusting...how he dares slyly to name me. W. Safonov : (Sings a scale incorrectly). P. Tchaikovsky: This trill could be better. E. Lawrowskaja: (sings). P. Tchaikovsky: Block is good, but Edison is even better. E. Lawrowskaja: (sings) A-o, a-o. W. Safonow: (In German) Peter Jurgenson in Moskau. P. Tchaikovsky: Who just spoke? It seems to have been Safonow. (Whistles
There is a great Man living in this Country – a composer. He has solved the problem how to preserve one's self-esteem and to learn. He responds to negligence by contempt. He is not forced to accept praise or blame. His name is Ives. -Arnold Schoenberg regarding Charles Ives in a note found posthumously.
Jessie Wilcox Smith
Mother and Child
1908
