Right now it's kind of lonely staying home. I skipped school again for more of a legitimate reason than the first couple of times - sick as a goddamn motherfucker. I think this is the second flu that I have caught this year; does that mean something seriously wrong is going on? Well, goddamn. My nose was so fucking clogged two nights ago that I almost suffocated in my sleep. In that case, my body is fucking acting ass-backwards when it comes to defense mechanisms - they're not supposed to block out germs yet kill you in the process. Fucking firecrotch.
Meanwhile, I'm just sitting here eating a box of chocolates that Zara gave me for Christmas. Finally, finally(!), somebody got the message. It always seemed that the pussy motherfuckers who like to eat healthy got chocolate for every dumb holiday of the year except me. But this time, I prevailed - a nice big box of Russell Stover's, man.
I don't know how I'm getting a C in Astronomy class. Now that is what I call sad.
Christina N. @ 1:11 PM
Thursday, December 14
Holy shit, don't you hate it when you wake up from a nap and suddenly you feel like you're so fucking lost? 90% of my naps are like that. I wake up and I'm either confused as all fucking hell as to where I am, what time of the day it is, or if I had missed anything important; or I am in a murderous fucking rage and flip out in just the drop of a hat; or both combined. Oh and of course, every time one takes a very deep slumber, they also have to either shit or piss or both really badly afterwards too. Fuck naps, man. It's the feeling while you're asleep that fucking rules. I guess if I like that feeling the most out of everything else, I might as well be fucking dead.
I'm sorry kids, I need to slow down on the use of the F word. As you could tell, I have just recently woken up from a nap. My second one today. One hour in AP History while we watched this lackluster film about King George III of England and how he supposedly went berserk at some point during his reign. Apparently I missed the part when he goes crazy. As a matter of fact, I missed everything. My head and my arm were sprawled out all over my desk and it was quite obvious that I was out cold. I think the substitute teacher was uncomfortably taking notice of that. Hey dude, I can't help it if I don't like a movie.
Second time was after coming home from school, watching about two hours of yet another re-run of Season 2 of America's Next Top Model until the sandman decided to pay me another visit. I was sort of hoping to get another sick dream, man. I had one about last week that I got into this sweetass fistfight where the other chick punched me in the jaw and I bit and got a grip of the skin on the back of her hand with my teeth and ripped the momentum out her [actually good] attempt at knocking my face off. Fight dreams fucking rule, I highly recommend them.
I think that was the same night where I had the most insane nosebleed known the man. So, I was applying acne cream on my nasty face while standing over the sink in front of the mirror in the bathroom. (We have the typical makeup of a typical bathroom.) Until all of a sudden, what seemed like a little tiny man knome gatekeeper who lives somewhere up my nose lifted the little tiny wall and let gushing out what looked like the equivalent of the Colorado River flow out of my nose like a goddamn faucet, smooth and fluid as hell. It was so bad that I seriously could not contain the splattering and splashing of blood all over the faucet, backsplash and sides of the sink. Man, it was fucking insane, I tell you.
I had to call my mom from standing in the position of trying to squeeze my nose shut to contain the ever-so-violent onflow, but blood still kept leaking out no matter how hard I squeezed. She brought two handfuls of tissues almost an inch thick, both of which blood seeped through each fucking sheet later on. This whole fiasco was so bad that it was like being fucking possessed or something for about five minutes. God, it fucking ruled. I was so proud of myself that I had to take pictures of the mess. Laugh if you will, but I guarantee you that you will never out-nosebleed me. Except if you break it into 58 pieces or something, but mine was all 100% natural. Naturally fucked up, if you may.
Christina N. @ 11:03 PM
Wednesday, December 13
I woke up on a bad note this morning. Apparently, I went to bed at 2:00 in the morning the night before and was too delirious to set my alarm correctly and set it on 6:55PM instead of AM, so I overslept for 20 minutes. For some reason, my mom was being a fucking shmuck and didn't even bother to wake me up even after my sister was done with her morning routine and left for school. She just fucking left me to almost being late for school.
Motherfucker, I didn't go to school yesterday because I didn't feel like doing a fucking paper. Do you really think that I'd skip again for no fucking reason? Especially if it took me all fucking day to finally write the paper and am ready to hand it in so that I won't fucking fail? Whatevs. I'd tell her to go eat shit but she makes me food and sews up the holes in my pants. Other than that, being around her is like being in a turrential downpour of insults and self-mutilation because she thinks that I am dangerous. Now who could have ever thought of that?
Come on, my life consists of nothing but schooling and working. In between the midst of all that crap scouring the Net for used CDs and satirizing this messy world that I live in. Does she really think otherwise? I don't even want to say what she thinks I am. What would totally scare the living shit out of her is that I've already made somewhat of a dumbshit plan to move out. If I get into a decent school and attain somewhat of a stable income, I'll be out of New Jersey by the time I'm at least 20 years old, hopefully. That's what I'm aiming for, but judging on my current habit of being a lazy motherfucker, I really don't know.
Since I only had about five hours of sleep last night and woke up to a late start to the day, I therefore was very pissy and pressured to study for a test first thing in the morning that I had completely forgotten about. So after getting breakfast (because food will always be my #1 priority), I went and found my classroom and sat on the floor against the lockers to study for a good fifteen minutes or so a-fucking-lone. Then very much to my dismay and anger, this fat kid who has somewhat of a liking towards me walks up to me and tries to start up a goddamn conversation even if I did sternly say to him from the beginning: "I didn't study." I never looked up at him from my papers at all, not even for a second. My brows just arched more and more rigid as I got more and more pissed off. He wouldn't leave me alone and kept pestering me if we had any homework in our english class and spoke up stupid shit that he thinks is humorous and entertaining therefore worthy of me putting all my shit aside to speak to him, even if I did distinctly say that I really needed to study.
So I think he sort of then got the message and stops blabbering. But he doesn't go away. He is still standing by me, in the same fucking spot as he first made himself comfortable when wanting to bother me, and waits there, waiting for the bell to ring. Dude, get a fucking life. If you're going to impress me, grow some balls instead of fat cells, kapeesh?
It is completely unfair that the ugly and awkward dudes always go after me. There's a spanish guy at work who liked me right from the first minute he saw me on his first day of work at Banana Republic. Surprise? Horny spanish guys and black guys just loooove the asians. I don't fall for that shit like the rest of the ho's of my kind do. Fucking firecrotch, man.
Christina N. @ 5:48 PM
Friday, December 8
God, I was a fucking retard at work tonight. Let's just say that I got as much sleep as a mother of twelve last night and drained the entire ocean of my vast and bountiful brain mass on one AP history test first thing in the fucking morning. I couldn't handle being cashier; the buttons and functions in the computer just wouldn't register in my mind. Had I been fully aware of my surroundings, I would've been fucking embarassed as hell. But I'm too tired as of now or then to have any emotion, really. The only emotion that permanently, therefore naturally embedded into my mind is narcisicism, however you spell it. One of my co-workers was telling me about herself fucking one of the teachers in her school and as a person who loves to hear of fucked up twisted things, I couldn't remember every other sentence that she said. So basically everything that she told me didn't make sense, up until she had to sum it up all over again to another co-worker who wanted in on the conversation. Actually, it wasn't really much of a fantabuloso conversation because I was incapable of providing any input. Talk about incompetence, Christina.
Tomorrow I have to go to the dreaded mall again to finish my Christmas shopping. I think this time my mom is just going to drop me off and I'll be doing my shit alone. Pretty often I prefer to shop alone, because it's more efficient and I don't have to be dragged around by my friend's or friends' pathetic pit stops at stores such as Hot Topic. Hot Topic are fucking party poopers if I ever see a Mr. Bungle t-shirt in their goddamn shithole. I know everyone has a shithole, but when you are a shithole, I think you've got a serious problem going on.
Also, I'm a fucking militant speedwalker. I walk as fast as a fucking maniac and when whomever I'm with is a slow fucktard, I would very much like to pull an Axl Rose; because according to my preference, there is absolutely no point in wasting time and plus, it gets fucking boring as hell looking at the same shit all the time because you're moving so slowly - it's a lot like driving. When you drive you want to drive fast, right? Because it's fucking boring and dull, and you want to get to wherever you're going as soon as possible. That's how I like to walk. The purpose of transportation is to get from one place to another. You ain't going to get anywhere by being a goddamn snail or 90-year-old Depend-wearing motherfucker. My mom used to say that I looked like a soldier when I walked. And then I fixed it because I'm not a fucking fascist.
People who just don't get shit done just bother me. You serve no fucking point on this earth. For example, when you're working with a person or persons on a project or task in school or work. You're supposed to work together to get this task done. You work your ass off and you do your portion with the utmost proficiency. Then, when you check on the other person's progress, they're just lagging around like a fucking dumbshit, possibly looking for other people to chat and small talk with. They are in complete denial of doing anything. Shut the fuck up and stop wasting my fucking time. More importantly, they're wasting their own time. Usually these people are of the "stupid" variety.
Alyssa gave me a ride home from school today and believe me, it was such a blessing. Not only was I unwilling to walk in 20-degree weather, but I walk on the main road from which my school's commuters drive and enter/exit into/from the senior parking lot. Motherfuckers like to go 50MPH on a 25MPH road - the one where I walk home at. My fear of walking home has gotten dramatically worse because of an occurance that happened earlier this week. And no, I did not lose a limb yet. Because if I did, I'd be typing this shit on a diamond-encrusted computer.
So, what happened earlier this week was in the morning when my mom and I were backing out of the driveway to take me to school. There's a young girl in a midsize white vehicle loudly and speeding down towards us from up our street. She sees us and starts swerving left and right, trying to decide which way on how to dodge us. Meanwhile, my mom takes it cool and continues getting onto the right side of the road and gently stops the car so that the maniac girl could pass us safely. Instead, the fucking twat drives onto our side of the street, drives onto my neighbor's yard (on my right, and I was sitting passenger), her car is literally just a foot away from my window and passes us going 50MPH. Out of impulse, I turn around in my seat and look at the back of the bitch's head in her white car as she proceeds speeding down the street. When I turn back around, my mother is still sitting in her seat behind the wheel, speechless at how close the car was from causing a head-on collision. I look back and forth at her and the now empty road, not getting a response for what felt like two whole minutes. She just sat there in complete shock and probably tremendous anger that didn't show as much as the shock did. But yet, neither of us said a goddamn word. She stepped on the gas and smoothly drove me to school in silence.
I could have died that day. But for some reason I wasn't reacting with the typical cursing and flipping out as I typically would. I was infuriated somewhere down inside, murderously. If I had ever gotten a better look at the girl and found her in school (she really looked like a student at my school, I mean keep in mind what time this was in the day and how close I live to my school; she probably was on a rush to go to Dunkin' Donuts or something before the bell rang) or gotten down her license plate number, I think I would've seriously just approached her and decked her front fucking teeth out. And then start screaming curses and eternal damnations at her as she cried held her bloody mouth in pain on the floor. Stupid bitch and any other wreckless and dumbfuck driver out there deserves that kind of a treatment, and perhaps much, much more. They are so fucking stupid that I can't even say anymore. I pretty much draw up a blank at this point.
I am not so much afraid of death as much as I am afraid of being maimed for the rest of my life and carrying the enormous weight of anger and pain for about seventy more years. Even if I did get critically injured and my family sues the girl and her family for hundreds of thousands or even a million dollars and whatnot and rendered me set for life, it still would not fully repair what I would have had lost. Actually, while looking at the big picture, it wouldn't change a thing. There's still at least three million more terrible drivers out there.
Christina N. @ 11:23 PM
Monday, December 4
What can I say? I have nothing to say.
This is an album review that I stayed up until 2:30 in the morning last Thursday (starting from 11:00 at night) that I had to write for pop music class, which was due over a week ago. No one really cares, but it's here just for the sake of archival purposes. It's also one of the biggest loads of bullshit that I have ever written in my life; next to the Holy Bible. Although, I think it was bullshit that was very well done. Bill Clinton knows how to do that very well.
MR. BUNGLE
California
TRACKS
1. Sweet Charity
2. None of Them Knew They Were Robots
3. Retrovertigo
4. The Air-Conditioned Nightmare
5. Ars Moriendi
6. Pink Cigarette
7. Golem II: The Bionic Vapour Boy
8. The Holy Filament
9. Vanity Fair
10. Goodbye Sober Day
BAND MEMBERS
Trevor Dunn: bass
Danny Heifetz: percussion
Clinton “Bar” McKinnon: tenor sax, clarinet, keyboards
Mike Patton: vocals
Trey Spruance: guitar, keyboards
PRODUCER
Mr. Bungle
GUEST MUSICIANS
Bill Banovetz - English horn
Sam Bass - cello
Ben Barnes - violin, viola
Henri Ducharme - accordian
Timb Harris - trumpet
Marika Hughes - cello
Eyvind Kang - violin, viola
Carla Kihlstedt - violin, viola
Michael Peloquin - harmonica
David Phillips - pedal steel guitar
Larry Ragent - French horn
Jay Stebley - cymbalom
Aaron Seeman - piano on 6
William Winant - timpani, mallets, tam tam, bass drum
Have your ears ever heard so many different noises at one time? Have you ever found yourself out in the forest, some several hundred miles away from civilization and then just listened to all of the different animals and mysterious beings crackling about in the middle of the night? Mr. Bungle’s California (1999, Warner Bros) is packed with just as many different types of sounds and distortions and numerous other “things” that could just possibly make some sort of a noise. Their equipment/sound/guest musician/anything else list is so diverse and varied, that it is virtually impossible to pinpoint their exact musical genre; which leads me to simply say that they are an experimental band (emphasize on the “mental” portion of the word, if you please) whilst on some sources they are just plainly categorized as “various.” The band itself consists of only five members (Trevor Dunn on bass, Danny Heifetz on percussion, Clinton McKinnon on tenor sax, keyboards and clarinet, the all-too-eccentric Mike Patton on vocals, and Trey Spruance on guitar and keyboards) and a guest musician list whose length is the equivalent of the Olson Twins’ Christmas wish list. The list of [practically] hundreds of different instruments and sounds (including video game sounds, snippets of Frank Sinatra songs and even middle eastern sounds/music) stretches even longer. This band’s literally amazing ability to be able to incorporate so many different genres, sounds, and people into their work is like working with an opus of the population of a small country. Due to Mike Patton’s genius and brilliant experimental nature and mind, along with the band’s insatiable support, talent, and wits, California is generally given a rating of 4.5 stars out of 5.
To many, California is considered as Mr. Bungle’s most “approachable” and “normal” album; and to think that the instrument/sound list is perhaps one of the longest (if not, the longest) that I have ever known. It is the change to satirizing 1950s and 1960s pop music, imitating bubbly vocals and beachy tunes, while also incorporating their famous technique of incorporating at least ten more genres into one song. Key tracks such as “The Air-Conditioned Nightmare,” “Ars Moriendi” and “Pink Cigarette” stand out significantly due to the intense originality and boldness in their nature, both lyrically and instrumentally. All songs on this album are compiled together in a roller coaster-like manner, starting out from mild to wickedly insane, to soft and mellow, back up to ferocity – this stretching and twisting of the human psyche ends with an absolutely pounding song, “Goodbye Sober Day,” (not to mention that each song itself goes up and down, back and forth just as much) and leaves the listener exhausted, yet refreshed – maybe even perhaps to commit an act just as intrepid as the album itself.
This record was so diverse – so tantalizing, so shifting in all ways possible, that I myself consider it to be quite beautiful. Just to imagine Mr. Bungle in the studio – Mike Patton emitting his ingenious Frank Zappa/Beethoven-like composer mind to his bandmates and on paper, and then in music form; and what could possibly be going through this band’s mind as they compiled and thought up of which instruments and sounds to incorporate into their music – is just absolutely mind-boggling to me. Measuring up to the rest of Mr. Bungle’s rather small catalog (sadly), it is one of their best. Not as many different genres had ever been used as much in their previous records, yet this one is done just as magnificently. A prime example of this incredible variation of styles and sounds is “Ars Moriendi.” In just 4 minutes and 10 seconds, we go through so many different moods and actions, it is as if one is flashing through a state of undomesticated insanity - like zapping through a time warp or some kind of time/space continuum or being thrown down the side of a mountain that is 27 miles long and hitting every sharp branch, rock and alpaca – the ups and downs, the joy and the mellow; it is just completely overwhelming to everybody who listens to this song.
To be honest, I have no idea what 80% of the lyrics on this album mean. Each line is a different visual than the next and prior. Alas, each visual is sharp and very well described with Patton’s excellent songwriting capability. In songs such as “None of Them Knew They Were Robots,” several verses are strikingly powerful:
From history
The flood of counterfeits released
The black cloud
Reductionism and the beast
Automatons gather all the pieces
So the world may be increased
In simulation jubilation
For the deceased...
Yet, some songs are lighter, but still are just as deviant and are making fun of the cheesiness of classic movies and music genres. For example, “Pink Cigarette” gives us the visual of an old-fashioned ‘50s film noir romance, but the style in which the vocals are sung and the instruments are performed gives it a mockingly humorous taste. The guest musicians were just absolutely critical in this album’s case, in order to achieve such a diverse sound. “The Holy Filament” is actually quite a beautiful song, for it is soothing with the slow melodies and the overlooking piano. It ends as if the listener is drifting away to an eternal, yet peaceful, sleep. Consequently, just one track irks me quite a bit. “Vanity Fair” and its almost nonsensical and immature sound are unnecessary to this almost flawless record.
California is recommended for the true and devout appreciator of oddities and unique hearing sensations. It is a utopia for those who just love to swallow up “weird.” Yet, it has its fair share of more “approachable” songs for the stubborn folks. The appropriate age group that would most likely be akin to this type of music would be older and more mature teens, those who are in their twenties, thirties, and possibly even their forties – just basically to any of the open-minded who truly admire good musicianship and wit. However, to the untrained and sealed-shut mind, this album may get a “WTF?” reaction or a complete shun because none of the sounds and genres may not seem to blend together perfectly at first listen. Overall, anybody who is basically sharp with a good sense of humor and appreciation for all things unique and eclectic would drool over Mr. Bungle.
Christina N. @ 12:31 AM
Friday, December 1
Why the fuck are Catholic colleges reaching out to me?????
Christina N. @ 11:06 PM
