concert review

as with most saturday nights, i spent this one at a new-agey nu-metal concert. i was alone, save for my leather jacket and raybans, and, of course, my deep-seated emotional insecurities.

it was an early gig, starting at around 4 pm and ending right now (i'm a journalist. i like to stay recent, so recent that the things i'm writing about are literally right in the present. the concert is still happening. maybe it hasn't started yet. maybe i'm in the middle of it, maybe we're all in the middle of a great galactic concert, ending with the stars and starting with where our feet touch the ground). the opening set was some indie band from north carolina with a bad mumford impression and clothes that were so ripped they reminded me of hulk hogan.

then it was time for the show. it was an unimpressive mariachi band complete with spanish guitars and poached yodelers, and even a few puppies in the back (any self-respecting band should have a few. they're a necessity to the modern music world). i quite liked the backing vocals and the underlying bass line. very upper-east side bluegrass.

the party ended with a special guest. it was george lopez, but he didn't know it yet. all in all, a great performance. 5/5 would eat there again!

wow!

wow! look at all of the comments pouring in! some of them unsolicited attempts to win my affections! i can hardly reply to all of them!

apology vibes

i now realize my last post was kind of HYPOCRITICAL.

though i tried to be as unbiased as possible in my critique of shia labeouf (not really, i didn't actually try at all, just bear with me), i was noticeably kind of disapproving of his behavior, because, really, who plagiarizes and calls it art?

me.

well, not the calling it art thing, but the plagiarizing thing, anyway (i hear you gasping! oh my god! i'm not a perfect person! well, you know that. also, you don't read my blog. there's 36 pageviews and they're all from me).

look at the name of this blog. now look at ezra koenig's mid-2000's blog. there're some alarming similarities, excluding how much this pretentious college-age student (not so much anymore, because people get older, so he's probably not in college anymore)'s blog is inherently better than mine, but LOOK! all this talk about vibes. i'm not very vibey. i am radiating bad vibes from my guilt.

sorry about that.

shia labeouf

art is weird. let's talk about it.

recently, there's been a strange series of events i've been following with a lot of interest (and also some worry, because i want everyone to be okay, and it seems that is NOT the case, definitely), which is the cause of that title you're looking at up there. the one that says 'shia labeouf'.

shia labeouf is doing what he claims to be art, and he is not okay. if, of course, you're using my definition of okay in the first place, which i mean to be, well,

• not tweeting a repeated message of the same five words, i.e. 

• not placing a paper bag over his head at a movie premiere, with the same aforementioned message written on it (did he write that? because i'm imagining him coloring in nice, whimsical block letters on the front of a paper bag, groaning when the sharpie crosses that ridgey bit where the bag folds into itself, closing his eyes and sinking his head into his hands gently, as tears start leaking out of his eyes, and he repeats the very thing he is writing under his breath: i am not famous anymore. i am not famous anymore. i am not famous anymore. i am not famous anymore.)

anyway. 

here is a picture of him at the movie premiere (looking sharp, shia!):

but wait, you say, where is this even coming from? did he just snap, or what?

well, i say, as with most stories, there is a backstory. the backstory for shia labeouf's downfall (haha, his name sounds like something you use in the shower) is this (wait a second, though, i can't stop thinking about the shower thing. he probably smells like coconut and regret): basically, shia labeouf, having delved in acting, decided that he was going to otherwise explore his artistic talents and release a short film to the internet (Howard Cantour.com), and then people realized it showed alarming similarities to a comic by Dan Clowes.

pla·gia·rism

 noun \ˈplā-jə-ˌri-zəm also -jē-ə-\

: the act of using another person's words or ideas without giving credit to that person : the act of plagiarizing something

i copy&pasted that directly from merriamwebster dot com. i'm sure you appreciate the irony.

then, in a downward spiral of more "homages" to works shia found suitable for his own use, shia kind of stopped being noticed (as is with most weird news stories), and is, to make things brief, not famous anymore.

here's the twist: he says all that plagiarism was art. which is, you know, contradictory to what he previously said, back when he was a man of only one plagiarism:

"In my excitement and naiveté as an amateur filmmaker, I got lost in the creative process and neglected to follow proper accreditation", and "I deeply regret the manner in which these events have unfolded and want @danielclowes to know that I have a great respect for his work." Clowes responded by saying "The first I ever heard of the film was this morning when someone sent me a link. I've never spoken to or met Mr. LaBeouf ... I actually can't imagine what was going through his mind."

this was, also, ironically, lifted straight from the pages of wikipedia into my own blog. except for the grammar mistakes i had to correct, because i'm kind of anal. but.

my point is: art is weird. shia labeouf says he is making art, says that copyright laws are too steel-ridden and should be looser, says that art is the imitation of flattery. he is genuinely very sad, or genuinely a very good actor, but let me leave you with something else to read (click the word 'read', the links aren't very noticeable) because i'm still not sure what i'm writing about.

something i thought was interesting

hi, i'm back, its me, cool blogger. this post is for caroline, who hates world history. i read this great novel that gave me a lot of background on how much life sucked in 1806, and so on and so on.

see, caroline:

1806 was a bad time for a lot of people. like, england was doing this thing where they were sailing around the world and throwing darts at random masses of land. (like those balloon-dart contraptions at county fairs used to scam people of their money, except a lot less fun and a lot more not fun)

("look here! gr8 land. lots of sheep, some native ppl. shuld b able 2 get rid of asap!"

"gr8 job, settlr. wat shuld we do w/ all this land?"

"so much land. rmember tose ppl we dont kno wat 2 do w/? lets send them here!"

"gr8. will do asap. just have to marry my cousin 1st! lol")

so england sent all irish/not irish criminals (this included people that were past the brink of starvation and decided to, i don't know, maybe take a piece of bread) to this huge, sheep-infested mass of land where there were a lot of native people (the original australians! oi, what the f***, england) that they killed (as promised, they did it asap as soon as possible). they replaced these native people with irish/not irish criminals, some of which on the way (in large, stinky ships) pretended to lose their minds, because mental hospitals were a gr8 alternative to what was in store, i.e. work until their flesh melted off their bones.

the 1800s were not a groovy time.

so all these people were sent to australia. a large number of them went straight to this place called castle hill, where they did lots of grueling work: i.e. farming, building barracks, etc. etc. many of them died. some of them, the ones still alive (haha! of course, its always the alive ones, isn't it), started a rebellion! long story short, there were many failed attempts, and finally, there was the high point of their lives: they overtook farms, got some great beer on the way, hoarded pitchforks... fun stuff. they had this guy take a lantern to the top of some hill to signal all the other irish/not irish rebels to continue with the rebellion. it was great. maybe the 1806 life was pretty sweet!!

it wasn't. the message never got through (haha, should've tried texting instead of lanterns, right, should've thought of that). they rushed, with farm weapons and alcohol rushing through their veins (imagine that exhilaration! imagine how they could feel stars in their fingertips and the smell of ireland on their skin), to the top of castle hill, where they met the english troops. they felt like they were dancing on air, really, it was that nice, to have something to look forward to for once.

there weren't many of them, as the message-spreading never reached the greater rebellion, and so it was a pathetic surrender to some general with a wide smile and bad teeth. they were lined up. straws were picked, you, yes, you, every third person step forward. put the rope around their collarbone just so, tighten it - yes, just like that. it was like a game, like some sick, sadistic game where the winners got to - yes, you got it - dance on air.

well, at least they got to do it one last time. before they, y'know, died

cool blogger alert (that's me)

thank you for tuning in!

hi, i'm genim, i'm an age i wouldn't like floating around on the internet, and i go to [sic] high school. i grew up in virginia, which is ironically where i still live now (irony! ha, look at this, mrs. tassan). i'm very scared of graduating from high school, because then i'll be stepping into the real world, where you have to buy things and talk to people and stuff.

i run a terrible blog, which is (ironically!) what you're looking at right now. the vibes i'm getting are not so much sick as really bad. my goal is to share all the sick vibes in my life with you.

i like rock music and comic books.