That's Me, Alright

Shayla: Oh, I love Taylor Swift.
Kris: I like Taylor Swift far to much for a self-respecting twenty-four year old who doesn't like country.
Shayla: I love country music.  You don't like country?
Kris: Nope.
Shayla: What do you like to listen to, then?
Kris:  Ummm, I listen to a lot of different stuff.  Mostly like....
Shayla (interrupting): Hip hop?
Kris: Errr, no, more like....  Wait.  Hip hop?   Do I strike you as someone who listens to hip hop?
Shayla: Yeah.  Or, you know, something you can groove out to.

Apparently I come across as a pretty groovy person.

Fought and Forgot

I listen to Eminem, sometimes.  My headphones on, the volume up, my angst and anger cringing in the face of pop's greatest claim.  But that's not why.

I listen for the blonde crew cut.  For the baggy jeaned white wife beater of a culture not my own.  For the thrill of memories I'll never have except scrawled in this poem.  And with you.

For those times we parked and fought or didn't fight and I forgot.  For the words that say you better then I ever could.  For the ones that are actually good.  For Stan.  Haunting obsession and dysfunction.

Do you listen to Dido, thinking of me?

For regretting your past, for you.  My present, with you.  A future without.  Not dreaming I'd end up with  some commercialized beats on a mix disc of songs we could both appreciate.  For Cleaning Out the Closet.  Our one common conquer of communication.  For the times that disagreement and you lips on mine were a confused passion.  A plethora of emotion, of action.  And of painfully knowing I could never like Eminem.

Because he reminds me of you.

'Cause That's How We Roll

(C-Money)

Guess what I did?

You didn't guess.

That's okay.  You wouldn't anyway.  I entered a singing contest.

It better be fun.  I managed to convince a couple friends to join me.  One of them has the voice of that's as rich and strong as hot honey.  Hearing her sing puts me to sleep.  I wish I had a recording I could let you hear.

Which means I'm not going to win, but I'll have a good time.  That's o.k.  Who enters competitions with an intent to win, anyway?  I just love music, and my voice has always been my strongest instrument.  I sing without realizing it.

So now I'm hitting up Youtube Karaoke to see what I'm actually capable of.

That's all I wanted to say and only  'cause I think it's cool.  Sorry :)

She Holds an AK47

I've been at a music festive here in the NW, and it was five days of amazing.  I have something to say.  But, here.  First of all have some music.


Now.  I'm wearing dog tags.  They say simply

Name: Yex Seung
Gender: Female
Age: 8 Years
Status: Active
*Burma*

It's a representation of an active soldier in the country with a larger concentration of child soldiers then any other country in the world (over 75,000).  I'm sorry to admit I wasn't aware to the extent of the tragedy.  I'm wearing her tags.  She is raped, fired at, and taught to hold an AK47.  At eight years old.

I don't want to scare you away and I don't want to freak you out.  I know there's a tendency to avoid anything depressing, sad or hard.  I don't want that, but I believe in awareness and honesty.  Truth is, this is a pretty broken world sometimes.  We do have reasons to celebrate, but a responsibility to bear.  I'm a part of the human race, and I need to ask myself what that means.

I'm not trying to guilt you, either.  What I do want is for you to visit projectak47.com.  Or I want you to search a change you believe in.  Maybe you'll reach into your heritage, or your past.  Maybe you have to deal with yourself first.  Just don't hide.  I've researched this one enough to believe in it.

You can get dog tags of your own.  But I don't want you to start there.  Read about a project.  Get Involved any way you can.  Learn.

Yes, I believe this is a positive cause.  However, what I'm also asking for is that you find a way to support somebody somewhere somehow.  Find something you believe in.  You're creative, smart and hopefully caring.  Believe it.  And tell me what you find.  I want to learn about that too.

When Skater Boys Strip

(Source: Afireoutsideme on Deviant Art)

Pretend it's June in North Ontario.  The sun is weak, the town is tiny and the area is stunningly beautiful.  It's also St. Jean Baptiste which means the Quebecers in my little group want to get wasted* and declare their sovereignty.

Now, I'm not all Vivre Quebec, but I enjoyed hanging out with the biggest Libre believer of them all.  Thom was a guitarist of the tenth degree.  A ponderer with a French-guy afro.  Funny, deep, and a little bit lost.  Being as it was Quebec's national holiday he got all introspective and wanted to wander off to the beach with his guitar.  I was bored on our free block and decided to go along.  Mostly, I confess, I wanted to sit looking over Lake Superior and listening to Thom's acoustic guitar.

As we got closer to the beach a cop car pulled up and informed us that a bear had just been reported on the beach.  There's another thing about this town.  It wasn't unusual to see black bears crossing the street in the middle of town.  With a dejected Thom I turned and meandered down towards main, stopping at their little skate park.

Laying on the curved concrete Thom played and I listened.

Groups of fourteen year-old boys can be a little obnoxious.  Especially when it's a birthday party and they're on the way to the corner store to try scam cigarettes.  They spotted us like prey on a field mouse.

"Dude, you're amazing.  Man, play us something."
"What do you want?"
"Play us some Slipknot!  Know any Metallica?  Dude, Slash!  Who's she?"
"Kris.  She sings."  I shot Thom my "way to try switch the heat" look.
"Dude!  Play us something and she can sing."

Kids don't shut-up easily.  Thom cued the opening bars of Hotel California, about the only song that we both knew he could play and I could sing through.  Amid just-breaking voices and experimental swearing he glanced at me.  Kind of a "just do it, I dare you."

As I started on dark desert highways and cool wind in my hair the miraculous happened.  The group shut-up.  They stood against the graffiti and stared.  When the guitar died they were all, "Man, that was amazing.  Amazing!  Beautiful!  Really."  That's right.  We got a fourteen year old male to use "beautiful" as description.

Then the birthday kid dropped twenty bucks in Thom's case.  Twenty-bucks!  We were on a youth volunteer program, so that was a night out at the Legion (yes, the Legion was the happening night life).  It was his birthday money, but he wouldn't take it back.

They headed off to the convenience store.  We returned to our non-heavy metal under the night sky, but it wasn't too long before they were back.

"Dude!  You were amazing!  But we're out of money, Man.  Here.  Have a rock."
"No way, Man.  They're too good for a rock!  Here, have my shirt.  No, seriously, take it!"
I was laughing.  Thom was like, "C'mon guys!  You can't go home without a shirt.  No, it's cool."
"No really.  Take my shirt.  Take my shoes."

"Here!  I'll give you my pants!"

To our chagrin a barely teen dropped his pants.  Right there on the skate park of a little northern town.

"Want my boxers, too?  I'll give 'em to you!"

Thom was freaking out a little.  I couldn't stop laughing.  We managed to get the kids to (mostly) keep their boxers on.  Eventually it was us who had to leave them running around the ramps partially dressed.

"I was scared," Thom confessed.  "Man, like, maybe we get in trouble for little kids strip in front of us!"

It was perfect.  My first and only St. Jean Baptist.  But regardless it'd probably be my favourite.

*Yes, I see the irony as the holiday is (apparently) named after a saint.

What's Your Happy Song?

So in Mexico, as in any third world country, you can buy bootlegs off any street corner.  They'll have crackly speakers set up blaring Ranchero, cheap American hits and general noise surrounded by displays of dollar c.d.s in plastic sheaths.  The difference between Mexico and most other countries where I've indulged my criminal side is that the Mexican vendors have a fondness for creating their own mix c.d.s.  You can buy albums called "Coca Cola Cowboy Americano."  The cover art will be a milk cow and Laura Croft Tomb Raider on a psychedelic purple background.  Got the picture?

My sister brought one of these mixes home for me once.  This one is "Exitos TAZAMANICOS 2007" and has a very mild cover with Taz ripping something to shreds.  The play list is, as always, very hit and miss.  However, there was one song that promptly jumped out at me as my happy song.

How, exactly, is a happy song defined?  Basically if it is impossible to be crabby well the song is on, it's a win.  It won't be it the same for everyone.  The first friend I knew with a happy song would proudly blast Celine Dion and declare how it made her cheerful.  I didn't find it had the same effect for me, but to each their own.

Now, this one is awesome, though.  Listen to it!  I'm sorry, but how can that not pick up your day?  It's Yofo by Molotov.  Honestly, I have no idea what sort of nonsense they're on about.  I've also never listened to anything else by them.  But I love whistling along with this one.

Tell me your personal happy song.  I will do my best to look it up.

Bloggerstock: What is Your Theme Song?

It's Bloggerstock time once again.  This time we opened the madness to the general blogging public, and are proud to have had such a great turn out!  Visit our site to sign up for the next one.  You know it looks like fun!

Today I'm posting over at Michael's excellent blog, React/Impact.  Come, visit, read!  Follow the ring and discover music that I, along with others, love.  I am hosting a post from Amogh over at Cloned Warrior.  His amusing blog hails from one of my favourite cities in the world.  Read his bio at the bottom.  Without further ado, I give you Bloggerstock!

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Hmmm.... The moment I saw this topic I started imagining firecrackers going off along with loud rock music in my head.  I could see myself wearing tight pants, making a grand entrance as if I was going to fight in a BIG SHOW!

However, this topic made me think hard, 'coz I'm no professional wrestler. Though it is true that life is like a wrestling match where you have to defend when the tide is against you, and attack when you feel the time is right. But this post is neither about wrestling, nor about life and its complexities.

Ok so let’s get to the post before I forget what we are talking about. Frankly speaking, I don't have a theme song.  Though I wanted one after getting to know the topic on bloggerstock. But then my life is way too colorful to have just one theme song. There is this one song by Hoobastank, “the reason,“ which was a smash hit in 2004 and close to my heart.

Lyrics:

i'm not a perfect person. there are many things i wish i didn't do
but i continue learning. i never meant to do those things to you.
and so i have to say before i go, that i just want you to know

i've found a reason for me, to change who i used to be
a reason to start over new, and the reason is you

i'm sorry that i hurt, its something i must live with everyday
and all the pain i put you through, i wish that i could take it all away
and be the one who catches all your tears, thats why i need you to hear

i'm not a perfect person, i never meant to do those things to you
and so i have to say before i go that i just want you to know

i've found a reason for me, to change who i used to be
a reason to start over new, and the reason is you
i've found a reason to show a side of me you didnt know
a reason for all that i do, and the reason is you

The first time I heard this song on MTV I thought that they had written it exclusively for me. When I was in school in my 7^th grade, I talked bad about a girl.  Somehow she came to know about it and then a  mess happened.  When a mess happens it happenee happens. She cried for, like, a whole week (don’t know why girls are so emotional). Everybody came to know about it. One of my math teachers said, “friendship is like a wooden fence, if there is a hole due to rot you can plug it and paint it over but the scar is always there to be seen.”  Those words still ring in my ears. I felt absolutely gutted and asked for her forgiveness. She never spoke. Don’t know whether she forgave me or not. I'm happy that I learnt my lesson when I was young. Promised myself that I would never ever make others cry. Thankfully I’ve kept that promise.

OMG. I'm getting emotional.  Shit! I’ll never get a girl if I'm like this! 

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Amogh resides in Varanassi, and is an ordinary person between extraordinary people.  He has his own bubble, but is here to meet new people.  His blog is new, so feel free to visit!  Especially if you enjoy either humour, personal, issues or soccer as topics.  And who isn't covered somewhere in there?  

http://clonedwarrior.co.cc/ 

My Parents Were Rockers

My parents were rockers, once upon a time.  I can open wrinkled seventies photo albums and find grainy yellow photos.  My Dad with long full blonde hair.  My Mom in her boyfriend's plaid shirts.  Their young love and vintage guitars.

Before I took my first breath I was attending band practice.  Kicking hard and frequently as they cranked their amps and powered out hits that would never make it.  Recorded on retro equipment they bought with construction and waitress wages.  I was a cassette era baby.  Missing the brief 8 track days and the single copy of the Steve Miller Band they played in my Dad's hippi van.

The first recording of my life was my first time home.  My Mom looks young, tired, happy.  I am red, wrinkled and cranky.  My Dad reflectively plays his acoustic guitar on our old eggplant coloured couch.  His little sister makes snide comments about how she's surprised he didn't bring his guitar into the hospital.

This is the world I entered.  K-Rock on the radio, piano stencils on the wall.  They changed as they got older, my parents did.  They started listening to Wes King and Kim Hill through speakers they'd wired up around the house.  But they'd already left a mark.  I remembered Janis Joplin being tossed out the window during a fight on the highway.  I remembered asking why Elton John thought rolling like thunder under the covers should be called the blues.  I didn't know the names, but I knew that Billy Joel was a piano man, and that my Dad had played my Mom down the aisle singing that if the sun refused to shine, he'd still be loving her.

They instilled a love, a need, a craving.  My Mom put me in piano lessons, but it wasn't for me.  Well my home schooled friends strove to reach grade eight theory I saved for albums by DCTalk and Audio Adrenaline to play on the boombox my sister and I got for Christmas.

My little brother takes his cue from us, now.  He develops his own taste for Linkin Park and Grits.  Cranking rap and playing pool with his gangly buddies in a room with piano stencils on the wall.  My Mom calls Seventh Day Slumber screamo and listens to Jennifer Knapp and Norah Jones.

My Dad plays guitar.  The continuing and unvaried sound thread of my life.  His fingers stir the strings creating the sound of security regardless of what he's playing.