I used to love eating cold cereal. I used to love Cocoa Krispies, Count Chocula, Trix, and especially Lucky Charms. Fiber was never a thought when I drowned my bowl in cereal and milk and dug in, enjoying the sugar rush. It was all so magically delicious until the ride in to school.
Homeroom. I was either late, running to the bathroom or stuck behind a desk, clutching the small, wooden structure. Sometimes, after the bell rung, I would escape back into the bathroom, trying to relieve those harsh, stomach pains.
Old Hollywood comes alive in the voice of Julie Esposito as she reinterprets a few of the film industry’s lesser-known gems. “I am too young to be old Hollywood,” she says, “but I guess I have always had an old soul.” The songs Esposito features in her 2007 self-produced album, Unsung Hollywood, include the whimsical and the romantic, some from as far back as the 1920s and 1930s. Indeed, an album standout, “Little Jazz Bird,” was written in 1923 and omitted from the 1947 film Lady Be Good. This track in particular embodies the benevolent cabaret-style of Prohibition era speakeasies and jazz clubs with lively horns, deep piano, and Esposito’s slightly sardonic tone.
One of the newest tracks Esposito croons called “What Can You Lose?” comes from Dick Tracy, a 1990 film crafted in the style of a 1930s detective drama.
Beating its way into your heart with its jazzy drums, and grungy guitar and vocals, Stereo Off’s first single “Bullet Time” is just simply awesome. With synth backing, reminding you of the eighties — without being too overused — this song is electric and captivating, much like the common romantic situation that the band explains inspired it: “the song is about lovers— that feeling when you get to an impasse, and instead, you both slow down and are drawn back together.”
Dear, Patch. Hello, Peter. Mork, Jack, Good Will Hunting. No more Good Mornings! We have reached What Dreams May Come, an echo now in the Dead Poets Society, but we are The Fisher King. We don’t need no Toys to set The Bird Cage free. Live, Love, and Laugh as we fade to black, remembering The Final Cut.
“You’re dating a slut,” I giggled against warm lips, swaying disconnected in the dance. Mind in another world I sat back, hands shaking. Voice interrupted by breath. Savoring this touch. I scold myself for being such a nymph, sitting in the rain, leaf decorated and gasping with the throbbing veins. Rushed and silenced thoughts, clutching tight and never stopping, singing to you, mirroring your hand’s euphoria. Together like this. Maybe this glory is imagined, but I do not pause to dwell, do not let it rise up. Instead, I swell with you and perhaps you are helium I keep inhaling and my feet might not be reminded of gravity of the sensation of tickling grass again. Instead this could be my only emotion. Sweet, full exodus and jovial ritual before twilight on wet mountain tops beneath trees, dew-covered like our bodies. Heaven held in each other’s gaze.
We create our own gods. Licked nectar off lips, heads thrown back, coupling, reaching, pushing in time.
A soft breeze rustled across deep green grass, perfectly cut to match its square interior. Sun settled down over small, white houses with glass screen doors propped wide open. Shadows fell over newspapers now lifted up, last relics of a world gone quiet, but the road whispered of life to come. But none never did. “Good-morning, neighbor.” “Good-morning, neighbor,” he replied as he walked to his house. “Just another day of paradise,” and the door slammed shut behind him. Sunlight streamed into the small kitchen. His wife, Lily was busy cooking breakfast. She always made scrambled eggs and bacon, his favorite, and she hummed as she cooked.
“I thought I was losing my capacity to be shocked — but events in Missouri over just the last couple of hours have crossed a frightening line, one that makes me pray that this assault on fundamental American values is just the aberration of one rudderless Heartland community, and not the first symptoms of nation gone mad with high-tech weaponry to keep its own citizens in line.”—Journalist Will Bunch The …continue…
Berlin-based trance-pop group Das Flüff are gearing up for the release of their two latest singles, “One Cent Plus Postage” and “Shut the F*** Up,” on July 28th. Reminiscent of 1990s dark rock in atmosphere and the simultaneous experimental alternative movement in the roughness of their electro sounds, the trio’s deep, primal direction is wholly original. With direct lyrics that are untraditionally structured, frontwoman Dawn Lintern sings with her Madonna-esque voice in “One Cent Plus Postage” of how the group’s earlier album, Meditation and Violence, selling on eBay in the United States for only one cent.
Pain and sorrow are the sweet rains flowing across the film of our lives. We dive deep through trust and into the heart of betrayal, twisting and turning along the strings of lies and illusion. Passion carries us across, and we hold to heart, afraid to break. But it’s the pieces of tragedy that tell the real stories, stories that we cannot turn away from; can we watch them again and again? Or as the screen fades to black, do we remain held within memory, forever touched by the film of their lives? It’s a simple turn of the page that can be ignored. We don’t want to hear about it. We don’t want to see it. We don’t want to know, but it still happened. One story always echoes across the news. A life was lost. Tragedy struck.
“Of all tyrannies, a tyranny sincerely exercised for the good of its victim may be the most oppressive. It may be better to live under robber barons than under omnipotent moral busybodies. The robber baron’s cruelty may sometimes sleep, his cupidity may at some point be satiated, but those who torment us for our own good will torment us without end for they do so with the approval of their …continue…