A Short Love Story in Stop Motion

A SHORT LOVE STORY IN STOP MOTION from Carlos Lascano on Vimeo.


This is a short-film by Carlos Lascano that found via slashfilms.com. It's one of the most stunning short films I've ever seen. Through his masterful combination of stop motion and digital animation Mr. Lascano evokes the powerful nostalgia of a childhood love. There's something about stop motion that makes me think of childhood. Remember Gumby? Or Wallace and Gromit? Those weird shorts in Sesame Street with talking oranges? Who doesn't watch Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer at christmas? Carlos' technique is more reminiscent of Tim Burton. The way that the children and characters are formed border on the gothic-esque work that is seen in "A Nightmare Before Christmas." It's Carlos' use of lighting and illustration that keep you from the dark places that Burton takes you . The end result feels more like the classic illustrations of "When We Were Very Young," or "Winnie the Pooh" coming to life before your eyes.


Sigur Ros also helps his cause. Listen to those first three notes. Didn't you play something like that as a child, sitting at a piano bench for the first time, with your infant fingertips gracing the ivory keys one note a time, your feet dangling in the air? More instruments enter and you are carried away to that limitless place that you haven't been to since you were so small.
This film picks you up from your every-day, hour-by-hour life and carries you to a place that you forgot even existed.
Let's all give a hip-hip hooray for Carlos Lascano.

An Article for Whoa Bro Awesome

This is an article I wrote for a magazine that my friend Josh Flynn is starting up. Feature Story on Dave Segedy's band Whoa Bro Awesome


The first time that I really had an interaction with Dave Segedy, we were both in This Story, and driving back from a show in Chicago. Dave was the comedic entertainment of the car. Some time around one in the morning he broke the exhausted silence from the back seat. “Hey Justin, do you have the ‘Doo doo doo’ song? You know, that one and it’s like…you know…’doo doo doo’?’ Justin, who played marimba and xylophone, was driving that night. He laughed and found a mix he had. We listened to Mariah Carey’s “You Will Always Be My Baby”, or what we now know as “the Doo Doo Doo Song” half a dozen times that night.
It’s hard to believe that was two and a half years ago. Recently Dave found himself driving back to Indiana again. This time he was in the driver’s seat. "I think the reason this tour went so well is because I had no expectations going into it." His voice is often light-hearted, but he was very matter of fact now, "I expected to lose a lot of money, and I didn't expect a lot of people to come to shows."
The skepticism is that of a seasoned performer who is best known as the drummer of Arrah and the Ferns. For the past few weeks Dave has been on tour with his solo effort, Whoa Bro Awesome, a minimalist experimental band whose focal point is Dave’s drumming. On this tour he brought a long a good friend and co-worker from SC to play the keys and guitar.
This tour was different for Dave. Rather than be limited behind his drums, he was behind it all. He booked all of the shows. He drove to most of them. He spent his own money and sold his own music.
Despite all of these accomplishments, some things never change. Dave still doesn't hold himself like a front man. His tall lanky frame and quiet disposition blend him into the woodwork at his shows. But when he grabs his sticks and gets behind his drums, he shines.
"At first I can tell people are like, 'whoa, is he really doing this?' and then as the songs continue and they catch on, they see that I'm really trying to write good songs and they're like, 'yeah, this is cool."
The music of Whoa Bro Awesome is different from what Dave has played before. He started off as a very aggressive drummer when he joined the original line-up of Muncie’s This Story. At the time the anti-folk band was an amalgamation of 10-12 high school musicians playing everything from a violin to a xylophone. All of the melodies in the air made it impossible to drum aggressively. Dave had to adapt.
By the time he broke the ranks of This Story along with Arrah Fisher and Carl Stovner to form Arrah and the Ferns, Dave had transformed. The once heavy-handed drummer was now a minimalist jazz percussionist. He began to navigate his way between his snare, cymbals, bass, and toms as precisely as a cartographer. He was becoming quite the fan of experimentation.
It came as a surprise to everyone when Dave decided to no longer play with the Ferns. The band had just finished recording their second full album, and had come off of the road with one of their most successful tours.
The decision to break rank with the Ferns is still an adjustment he feels was necessary. Friends that he had known from previous tours didn’t really bring the disbandment up in conversation. “Most of the people I stayed with either are good enough friends with us or have paid enough attention that they know what happened.” Dave is avid to vocalize his support of both Carl and Arrah’s solo efforts, Council Idaho and The Woodlands. “I was part of Woodlands when it first started, and I really liked what they were coming up with. I really enjoy what I’ve seen of their performances. And I really like Council’s stuff. Honestly, I wish the best for both of them. I really hope that they stick with it.”
The feeling of coming off of a successful tour entirely of his own making is a sensation that he wouldn’t trade for the world. When he set up the shows he couldn’t have cared less who he played with as long as he was playing. The result often had him sandwiched between hardcore acts and emo bands, hardly an environment encouraging of Whoa Bro Awesome’s music.
For the rest of the summer he will be interning at Secretly Canadian in Bloomington, an experience that is allowing him to see a different of the industry that makes up so much of his life. Dave plans on hitting the road again eventually, although he will make some adjustments in how he goes about booking everything.
“Honestly, I just want people to hear the songs,” he says, “and most of the time people are really encouraging. It seemed to go pretty well. I’ve met a lot of great people.” Dave’s performances have become more than an experiment in rhythm, they are celebrations of sound. The overall effect is as hypnotizing as being able to watch Gustav Klimt work magic on a canvas.

A Rehaul and a Soundtrack

So I've decided to do an overhaul of this blog and turn it into something thematic.
From here on out this will truly be about my "Misadventures." To keep life light-hearted and jovial, I'm going to embark on strange adventures and then write about it.

The first of these is a personal vendetta of mine.
I'm of the opinion that Wes Anderson has exquisite taste in music. The soundtracks to his movies never cease to amaze.
Making the perfect mixes for people I admire is a habit and hobby of mine. Also, synching music with movies, tv shows, and advertisements is a goal.
So, I have spent the past few weeks compiling a mix that I think Wes Anderson would like. The title of this cd is "The Soundtrack to Your Next Movie." Copies will be sent to Wes Anderson, Jason Schwartzman, and Mark Mothersbaugh. Hopefully the addresses are findable.

I would like to start off by saying that all of these songs were obtained legally, and if you don't believe me I have I-tunes receipts.

So, first of all, how does one put together a mix tailored for Wes Anderson? Listen to his old soundtracks.
I have gathered that he is a fan of lo-fi, yet high quality tunes. He is a fan of the eccentric. And he always dabbles with some more classical pieces. Foreign language use is a bonus. Classic rock and roll (Bowie, the Kinks, The Stones, etc.)
This is what I've got:

"Le Temps De L'amour"- April March
I'm proud of this start. It gets your attention. It says 'hey, I might be at the beach, but I mean business,' and then comes in her lo-fi voice all french singing. You may be familiar with her song, "Chick Habit" featured in both "But I'm a Cheerleader" and "Deathproof."
I was looking for something a little more conflicted than that song. Plus, it's overused. "Le Temps de L'amour" sounds like a 60's beach tune, but it's also very confrontational, and her voice is haunting. By starting off with this song, there is an opportunity for conflict.

"Courez Courez" Hermas Zopoula
Asthmatic Kitty's newly signed french-speaking African musician is a gem. Wes Anderson would love him. He sings light-hearted tunes of faith and love, and is the perfect hybrid of Seu George and Mark Mothersbaugh's child-chorus.

"Tram #7 to Heaven" Jens Lekman
Jens Lekman is one of my favorite musicians. He sounds like what the sun cutting through the leaves of early summer looks like. The only director who captures that kind of light is Wes Anderson. I don't know why he hasn't used one of Jen's tunes before.
I chose this song because it's lo-fi as well as heartbreaking and thought-provoking. Some character could have a tough situation haunting him, and then this song can cue, and everyone in the audience can sympathize.

"Get off of my Cloud" The Rolling Stones

"Que sont devenue les Fleurs" Dalida
Behold! the french Nico! Her low alto is haunting and gorgeous and fleeting. And it brings back in that beachy french feel from "Les Temps de L'Amour". Voila! a theme. Not only am I giving him a mix, I'm giving him a setting for his film! What a lucky dude.

"Lakme, flower duet"
Every Wes Anderson flick has some classical piece. Opera isn't used enough, and this song is beautiful. That's all.

"Paris, Je t'aime"
The best fusion of accordian, jazz guitar, jazz drums, and glockenspiel to ever grace the ears. Carries the french theme, and is super goofy. This song is to the new movie as "Let me tell you about my boat" is to Life Aquatic.

"Christiansen" France Gall
Le Francais continue!

"Moonlight Mile" The Rolling Stones

"Love is Blue" Paul Mauriat and His Orchestra
I bet Paul Mauriat and Mark Mothersbaugh are friends. Or at least it sounds like it. A lot like it. Maybe when Mr. Mothersbaugh receives this mix, it will spark his interest, he will find Mr. Mauriat and then they can become pals.

"Aria" Balanesque Quartet
Our plot! I almost forgot. We need another classical piece that is more haunting and conflicted to cue at the climax of the film, whatever it may be! Well here it is. The balance of violins carrying different complimentary and contradictory melodies toys with your heart strings. Stunning.

"I'm Free" The Rolling Stones
This song says, "this plot is coming to a close, but isn't done yet."

"Daylight" The Kinks
and roll slow motion shot and cue the credits.

So that's the soundtrack. To be continued.
Next update: preparation to send the soundtrack, letters to the recipients, and the send-off.

The smell of cardboard does not scare me. The sound of packing tape being peeled off the roll stirs nothing in me.
Unlike many young women at the age of 21 relocating is nothing new to me. I've moved well over a dozen times now. It's as natural as shaking a foot that has fallen asleep, and then walking it off. Sure, it stings at first, but soon enough it all feels well again, and you're no longer limping.

The adjustment into adulthood that I find daunting.

We all hear about the "real world" our entire lives. Warnings of a sort. "That's life kid" "Just wait til you get to the real world." "C'est la vie" But there are things that aren't mentioned.

They make us take classes in college for art history, the classics, english, math, the sciences...nobody tells you specifically what to wear to an interview with a more informal company. One that you have to balance looking hip and professional for. No one tells you how to manage the stress of graduating college, moving across the country, saying goodbye to your family and friends and creating a new life from scratch.

But can things like that really be taught? When do we have to start trusting ourselves? Starting from nothing? Wear what makes you comfortable, rather than worrying about what judgements will be cast upon you? At what point do I get to be judged off of more than just a piece of paper?

Spring Cleaning

Today I am reclaiming my apartment. I've lived here for two years, and since then, I have never thoroughly cleaned through any of my stuff.
In my own defense, the life of a college junior and senior is quite hectic. My life was dominated by classwork, my jobs, being in the band, writing, homework, extra curricular activities, my boyfriend, normal everyday college things. All of that life and living experience has collected within the four walls of my room over the past two years, and it got to a point this semester where it was overwhelming. Overflowing with books, papers, drawings, post-its, and clothing. My floor became my storage space. I started avoiding my apartment and practically living with my boyfriend because I had dominated my own space so much that there was no room for me anymore.
But now college is over, and on my day off it's time for me to face the mess that was my life, and figure out what it is time to let go of.
I started with my box of letters, and my bedside table. I reorganized every letter that any friend has ever written me from my sophmore year of high school forward. It starts with a newspaper article about my performance at a talent show, the paper is worn and yellow with age. There are postcards from Oregon from a friend who I don't talk to anymore, the corners of the postcards are bent. The self-adhesive is wearing off of the stamps. Looking through that box is like studying my shadow.
Now I'm almost done. I have four bags of clothes to bring to Goodwill later. For the first time I will be asking for a receipt, because next year marks the first time I have to think about tax breaks. I have eight full spindles of mix cd's. There is a pile of dirty laundry that comes up to my knees. Behind my apartment complex, the trash bin contains five full trash bags with almost every paper and notebook from my college career in them. I have a stack of books to bring to a co-op down the street, and a box of cd's to donate to the local record store.
Somehow, after going through all of these things, and discarding most of it, I feel more like myself than I have in years.
It's funny what we learn about ourselves when we take ourselves out of context.

Hemmingway Mock story

A short story I wrote for my Hemingway class.


A Strong Summer Wind

With patient hands he nailed the two pages of loose-leaf paper onto his wall. He stepped back and watched the loose ends of the pages flutter. The bottoms of them looked like struggling bird wings. He went to his desk in the right corner of the room and moved his chair to the middle of the room. When he sat, the back of the chair creaked underneath his weight. He looked up at the letters on his wall. For three years she had written him once a week. The letters were always two pages long. The two pages weighed about 1.5 ounces, just enough to be covered by a 60-cent international stamp. One hundred and fifty-six weeks later, his walls were filled. The first of the letters was hung in the top left corner of the wall adjacent to his door. He stood up, carrying the chair with him, and crossed the room. He placed the chair underneath the first letters. He walked back across the room to his desk, where he kept his glass and a bottle of whisky. He poured some into the glass and walked back to his chair. When he sat down the legs of the chair shifted. He made a mental note to tighten them later that evening. He studied her faded handwriting against the aged ivory page.

Peter,
It’s odd not speaking to you, but you’ve left me here without many options. Couldn’t you have chosen somewhere closer? Rinaldi and Nick claim that Wyomingt is just as much of a wilderness as your African plains.
My father always told me to make the most of what I have.
At least this is an opportunity to practice my penmanship.
Today I must go to the market and pick up some things. I’ll either go directly after sealing this or later in the evening. I dread the grocery when it’s busy on Sundays, so I’ll probably go later. Until then, I’ll settle for The Times’ crossword.
My apologies if this letter is atrociously boring.
I suppose I’ll get better with practice, as with everything.
Be patient with me Peter, you’ve left me with a rather large adjustment.
Yours,
Norma
He laughed and took a drink. He stood to pour another, pausing to read the letter above the desk. There was a small pink note that stood out from the rest. It was the only letter in two years that was shorter than two pages.
Peter,
New York is really very glorious in the summer. You’re a fool for leaving it behind. Yours, Norma
His calloused hand reached into his linen shirt pocket. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it with his Zippo. She had sent it to him for Christmas the year prior. The engraving on the side said “Don’t keep me waiting forever Peter.”
He put down his drink on the desk and went outside. The fall wind pulsed on his face and he walked into it gladly. It was hotter inside his shack than it was under the sun. Peter liked the yellow grass of the Serengeti. In two weeks he would be back in New York with her. He continued to walk. He had come here to study the wild-life, the Patas Monkeys, Common Genets, and the big five. To hunt, gather, and study the way man should live. Peter noticed that where he was walking the ground was trampled. The foliage around him was eaten down to the branches. Impalas had been nearby, a good-sized herd of them. He kept walking, following their tracks.
A bush moved in the distance and a male impala exited from the shrubbery. He was lean and wise. His flank muscles tensed under his auburn coat, ready to bolt in an instant. Peter loved to watch impalas run. Once he had startled a herd of females, and they had pranced like hundreds of rubber-balls bouncing on the pavement. He wished Norma could have seen that. Maybe then she would understand why he had chosen to come here.
Peter held eye contact with the male Impala. It stood as still as it would have stuffed in a museum. The male was herding the women to keep them in his territory. It was almost May. Mating season was coming soon. This impala would have beautiful offspring.
Peter stared into its marble-black eyes and leaned his right-foot forward. A twig cracked under his hunting boot. The sound was the trigger the impala was waiting for. It bounded off into the Serengeti Plain and left Peter standing. The wind picked up, there would be a storm. It was time to go back.
He thought about Norma. He thought about the way her auburn hair shined in the New York summer sun. He thought about her lipstick on her martini glass. He thought about the way her lips braced her cigarettes. The wind was picking up. Peter could see the on-coming storm in the distance. He picked up his pace. He could never go fast enough.
By the time he reached his house it had already begun raining. He opened his door. The letters were strewn across the floor. He took off his shoes that were now dark brown from the rain, and crossed the room to pick up his desk chair. His curtain waved like a handkerchief in a gloved hand out of a train window. He picked up a letter from the floor and sat down in the chair. His head was very heavy in his hands.

Some old flash fictions I feel I should share

A Deep Breath


Death smelled wet and panicked. It made slapping sounds on the linoleum floor of my kitchen—the echoes of millions of knuckles cracking in simultaneous tension and release. The glass remnants of a fish bowl created a mosaic around McGee, my Chinese fighting goldfish. I dove and cupped him in my hands. His small vertebrae twisted in panic. I sprinted into the kitchen, crying, whispering Hail Mary’s.
My hands felt dry against McGee’s amber scales. I could see his pulse threading, losing momentum. The air I breathed was choking him. His mouth gaped, but there were no words. We looked at each other. The golden rims around his pupils burned urgent in the morning light. His eyes shifted focus.
I fumbled with the kitchen cabinet to get to a bowl. He slapped his fins against my palm. I maneuvered the cabinet door open with my elbow. His gills opened and closed like a waning heart valve.
His eyes were fixing on the ceiling. The cabinet opened, a flood of Tupperware drowned my feet. With my pinky and ring fingers contorted like scissors I grabbed a Pyrex measuring cup. McGee remained cupped in my hands like a prayer. He gasped less and less. At the sink, the morning light reflected on his scales in an orange the shade of warning. The water from my faucet wouldn’t run fast enough. McGee tumbled into the water, weaving through it like a feather falling. Spinning with the current he rose slowly, his body arched and he surfaced, limp at the top of the bowl.



- .- .-.. -.- .. -. --. / .. -. / -.-. --- -.. .
(Talking in Code)



Two summers ago my boyfriend taught me how to play cribbage. We sat adjacent to one another in cracked plastic lawn chairs, his grandmother’s old wooden board between us. We would have been out at the bars like any other normal twenty-something’s, but we were both unemployed and broke that summer, we lived like grannies. He taught me how to play using rhyme schemes: Fifteen-two the rest won’t do, fifteen-four, there ain’t no more, fifteen-two I guess I’m screwed, fifteensix the rest is nixed, and so on. He told me that it was mathematically impossible to get a hand that had nineteen points. One time my hand didn’t have any points so I told him it had nineteen. Nineteen became code for zero. We spoke in code a lot of the time. He told me he loved me when he bought me my own toothbrush for his house. That night I told him I loved him by tapping it in Morse code between his shoulder blades when he was sleeping. .. / .-.. --- ...- . / -.-- --- ..-. My Uncle is the fastest living Morse Code typist in the world. He can type seventy words in a minute. The fastest anyone has ever typed in Morse Code is 75.2 words per minute, and that record was set in 1939. I guess people’s fingers just can’t move that fast anymore. Later that summer I drove south to Charlotte to visit my family. Mom was pleased that I had learned to play cribbage. Your grandmother taught me how to count by playing cribbage, she told me. We went to Hobby Lobby and walked through the aisles of silk peonies, scrap-book stickers, and grandma-scented potpourri towards the game section of the store. We found a board of our own and purchased it for less than five dollars. Playing with Mom wasn’t as fun because she didn’t know the rhymes and was much better than me. She had strategy. By the time that I got back to his apartment in Greensboro a week later I was much improved. I also had tons of new rhymes. Mom’s first language was French, and it’s a lot easier to rhyme in French than English because of the way verbs are conjugated. Anyway, he freaked out a little the next time we played and I said things like fifteen-two-et le repos est pour vous, or fifteen-two-ne peut pas croire vos yeux, or fifteen four-blesse mon couer. He wouldn’t say that he was mad, but I knew he was because of the way his mouth dissipated to a squiggly line and the way he cracked his knuckles every few minutes. The next day he came home from his summer class with a French-to-English dictionary from the library. By the end of the summer he was almost as good at French as me, and we would practice speaking it during our evening walks. Sometimes walking down the empty sidewalks and speaking French was more intimate than being naked together in his bedroom. We would cross Aberdeen Terrace hand-in-hand, without looking both ways. Sometimes we would dance in the middle of the street and sing Edith Piaf songs to each other with great vibrato just because we could.

430 in the morning

I'm about to go to work.
Thank you to everyone who came to our last show, it was really appreciated and we hope that we made it worth your while.





And so went the coolest thing I've ever done in my life.

six word life

My friend Sarah sent me this article the other day, and then read some stuff out loud to the Writer's Community.
So these are my attempts at a six word life:

Wandering around, eventually I'll find my way

Talking and Walking around in circles it seems

Dad humor: my love of puns

Still looking for my chinese family

I take my fortune cookies seriously

My horoscope said today was a seven

It's not you, its the mustache

Razzle Dazzle Rose

Sitting in Newg's apartment, with some strawberry bruscetta and bitch beers (smirnoff?) in my stomach, and I am glad.
First of all, sitting next to me is my newly purchased first edition of "For Whom the Bell Tolls." Engraved on top of the brown canvas cover is Ernest Hemingway's signature. Published by Scribner's in 1940...it cost me seven dollars and fifty cents.
seven dollars
fifty cents.
That's a lot to be excited for.
I also bot "La Peste" by Camus, which cost me less than a dollar and is completely in french. I figure I'll use it to brush up on my foreign language skills and then send it to Tony.
Reading about the plague is always inspiring, right? That will really motivate me to go to Europe.
...
Speaking of! I'm getting my ticket for Paris. I leave on May 27th, and then return on June 30th.
another thing to be glad for.
that and life is good.


I hope that this post gives you all plenty of cavities, as it is so nauseatingly sweet.