Whatever, The President’s Dead

Don’t arrest me. The president’s not dead nor do I wish him to be. Arrest Will Sheff, the lead singer of Okkervil River and the author of their new single, “The President’s Dead.”

The song seems overtly political, but it isn’t really. There’s no indication that the president who is dead is Bush—it could be any wealthy, white male—but he’s dead, and that kind of changes the day. If anything, the song is indictment of the media; Sheff calls them vultures who spin and slant the news.

But really the song is about the everyday. Sheff wakes up to his girlfriend, is about to have a breakfast of eggs and bacon and feels content with his life when news of the president’s death disrupts everything. The assignation is a nuisance in a way; he had planned to enjoy the morning, not react to a political assignation. If we get the culture deserve, then a political song that criticizes the media, endorses the Atkins diet and defends apathy is about right.

Should I Repeat Elementary School?

It doesn’t matter how much I read or how much I write. No matter what I do, I can’t stop making simple, stupid grammatical blunders.

The last two mass emails I sent out each had errors placed prominently in the subject:

Celebrate Brooklyn–Housewarming Addition
Breaking–Inconvenience Evening Deemed To Inconvenient

I know when to use “with” with compare, what recusant means, and I’ve even read the

[youtube=http://youtube.com/watch?v=kGAmnjZYxdU] You’ve Done it Again, Herman

this video makes me wish I were in a long distance relationship.

Herman Dune

Raronauer Reviews ...

If you grew up in New Rochelle, New York on Broadview Ave., in the house number 159 during the last 20 years, you would be excused for thinking that there was a glut of French films with Spanish subtitles to be seen in New York. But in fact there are very few films that play in America, even Manhattan, that don’t incorporate English in someway. However, my dad often refuses to see “French films with Spanish subtitles” when my mom asks him to see a movie in Manhattan with her.

On Sunday, however, my mom and I approached that asymptote of foreignness when we saw The Science of Sleep. The subtitles were in English, but the actors spoke in French, Spanish and English. Usually I enjoy seeing movies in different languages. When the actor says, “pourquoi” and the subtitles read “why,” I feel like I’ve learned something. With the movie shifting from English to French to Spanish, my language skills didn’t improve and it was hard to get lost in the film.

Though the trailer is enticing, and A.O. Scott approved, this movie is not good. As Michael Kors would say, “It’s a one note.” Objects re-imagined in cardboard and cellophane is interesting for about five minutes; unfortunately this movie is 106 minutes long.

Adding to the problems, I kept falling asleep during the movie, and when I woke up, I couldn’t tell if the movie was in a dream sequence or reality. Much like the lead character Stephane, I had trouble distinguishing my dreams from reality. Unlike him, my reality isn’t a crappy movie.

The Greatest Mystery of All

There’s a lot in this world I don’t understand. Why men shave their chests, the popularity of Coldplay and who exactly reads Details magazine.

But one thing I definitely don’t understand is Grey’s Anatomy, the hit ABC TV show. If you have seen a phone booth, bus or magazine in the past month, you know Thursdays mean Smile. I don’t watch the show, so my confusion is limited to the title.

The name is clearly a pun on Gray’s Anatomy, the 1858 anatomy book written by Henry Gray. But why not go all the way and name the show Gray’s Anatomy instead of Grey’s Anatomy? On the show the title is taken from the lead character, Meredith, who spells her last name like the tea. But since Meredith is a fictional character, why couldn’t she have spelled her name like Americans spell the color? I know there were meetings about this decision, and I’d like to hear ABC’s reasoning.

These Times Demand a Brawl

I don’t know if you’ve heard, but these times demand the Times. See, it’s clever: These posts demand the Post doesn’t work as well.

But I can’t help thinking that the advertising agents at the Times are either trying to create rivalries amongst its reporters or are socially retarded. Don’t you think that Adam Nagourney was pissed that Linda Greenhouse got a shout out in the campaign over him, and that Jon Parales realizes he was snubbed? I mean, I love Kelefa Sanneh and A.O. Scott as much as the next guy, I’m just saying, These Times Demand the Times isn’t a campaign for office morale.

In good news in my life news: It’s a small world wide web. I responded to a Craigslist ad for an apartment and the renter was my friend Nicola. Come October 1, I’ll have an apartment and a roommate I like. Insert the proper emoticon here.

Think About It ...

Americans are boring because we don’t have universal health care. There are a lot of things I’d like to be doing right now: traveling, running marathons, writing novels, but none of those occupations provide health care. Doing your own thing means finding your own insurance, which is crazy expensive. The need for health care forces us either to take a 9 to 5 job or work 40 hours a week at Starbucks. And that’s why Europeans, with their free health care, are so much more interesting than Americans.

Note: this theory does not explain the universal dullness and healthcare system found in Canada.

Hell of a Town

In the suburbs, when you see a dog on the street, the dog says hello. People say New Yorkers are rude, but I think that only applies to the dogs. New York dogs are unfriendly; they don’t say hi to anyone. In NYC, the dogs see too many people to greet anyone. They’ve got places to go.

OMG, UR W/IMG? We’re BFF

Like others in the impossible pursuit of perfection, I’ve been watching a lot of tennis lately. I feel pretty, and yes, I’m excited for my match today.

Through out the tournament, I’ve been hoping Roger Federer would win his third US Open title and ninth grand slam. Rooting for Federer is like rooting for the sun to rise. My wishes came true last night, when Federer beat Roddick in four sets and this morning, when the sun did in fact rise.

But one thing: This Tiger Woods friendship is totally absurd. As the Times’s pointed out, IMG manages both athletes. They’ve never met, but suddenly Tiger Woods is hugging Federer’s long-term gf, Mirka Vavrinec and Dick Enberg’s first question to Federer after winning his ninth grand slam is about a golfer? Whack. The whole thing is photo-op for a management company, but

What'll It Be?

It’s the day after Labor Day, which for almost my entire life meant a new school year. Any student will agree that the day after the first Monday of September is much bigger than January 1, Rosh Hashanah and Chinese New Year combined. It’s the start of a new life, a new year and nine months worth of required reading.

This is my second post Labor Day day without picking out a special outfit and it still feels weird. From 5 to 21, this day was the beginning of something new. After a long weekend and no summer break, I’m just returning to my life.

I didn’t like school: I didn’t like being told what to learn, where to go and not really doing anything productive. Now I’m in the real world. I can learn what I want and go wherever I want. I can do anything—write a book, move to Europe, run a marathon. That’s a lot of freedom, sometimes too much. In high school I took Sequential III so I could take Pre-Cal so I could take Calc so I could get into college, and you can imagine how I got to Seq III. Now, I get up and go to work so I can … well I don’t know. Nothing I’ve done today will help me write a book, move to Europe or run a marathon. I can do anything I want and I don’t know what to do. Existential crisis withstanding, I enjoyed the long weekend. Hey New Rochelle!

An American Tragedy

I just read in Rolling Stone that Sean Lennon and his long-term GF broke-up. I can’t believe US Weekly missed the scoop. He explores issues stemming from the relationship’s demise in his upcoming album, Friendly Fire

I haven’t thought about Sean Lennon since seeing a Week-In-Rock segment on him eight years ago. But after reading a 300-word piece that will probably lead to innumerable sessions with an UES shrink, I felt really bad for him. John Lennon was murdered when Sean was only five, an age where his dad was probably still his hero. And John Lennon was a hero to people who are old enough to know better. His whole life, Sean Lennon has heard how great his dad was. And now that he’s an adult, all he hears is how he doesn’t measure up. Philip Roth, are you reading? This could be the next American Pastoral.

Another recent American tragedy:
Brighton from the Nanny is now doing a Domino’s