"You just can't do anything right, can you?"

HOLY COW is a phrase that came to mind on this one. Debra Dickerson let it all out when she wrote "Who Shot Johnny". Throughout the peace there were some points that were so intense that I forgot to breathe.
I might be dramaticizing a bit, but she seriously gets her point across.
The shift segment is genius.

SEGMENT 1:
She just tells the story of her nephew being shot. The bitterness is alluded to, and she establishes her intellegence in the beginning, which is strategic. She is proud to be a Harvard Graduate, and she's not ashamed of being admitted through affirmative action.
The picture that she paints of Johnny is interesting also. She talks about him through contrast. She takes stereotypes and rebutes them. And plays on his strenghts, how he was never unconcious after being shot in the back, and how he never complains.
"Being black, male, and shot, he must apparently be involved with gangs or drugs. Probably both."
Law and Order doesn't help with this stereotype. Infact alot of TV shows that deal with crime don't. We draw conclusions based on our realm of knowledge, and alot of the kids that I know have never been shot. I've never even seen a gun outside of a bb gun, and even those scare me. But when I think of someone being shot at random, I automatically assume that there must be something bigger going on. I'm not going to lie, I would assume that something else had to have caused it, because who in their rational mind would shoot an innocent guy for jumping up and down and waving?
And she makes such a strong point, when she continues to rip apart the stereotype because of how much they disrepute her culture.
"We rarely wonder about or discuss the brother who shot him because we already know everything about him....he snatched my widowed mother's purse as she waited in predawn darkness for the bus to work and then broke into our house while she soldered on an assembly line....he kept us from sitting on our own front porch after dark and laid the foundation for our periodic bouts of self hating anger and raial embarrassment. He made our neighborhood a ghetto. He is the poster fool behind the maddening community knowledge that ther are still some black mothers who raise their daughters but merely love their sons."
WHOA.
That, my friends is a crescendo. Its effective because it is genuine, and it has been stifled for years, and her nephew getting shot was the final straw for Dickerson.
The shift to second person in the last few sentences is clutch. It leaves the reader feeling partially responsible for not voicing out against it as well, and it is directed at the shooter, and for everyone else who has made her feel this way over the course of her life and will continue to.

life

So. First things first.
I have a new computer, after a tremendously large cup of coffee attacked my last one. I'm trying to think of a name for this one.
But since my old computer died a ridiculously unexpected death, after some troubles earlier this summer, my entire music library was pretty much wiped. I'm in recuperation. I mourned my music library.
you have to understand, music is my life. And will be for a great while. There's a song for every occasion.
Sad: how about some feist? or some debussy? maybe even a little devendra?
Happy: What's going on cardigans? kings of convenience? lemon jelly? sufjan stevens?
melancholy: feist, good to see you. What's up tom waits, hanging out with rainer maria today?

So if you have enough free time to be reading this, feel free to make a contribution to my music library. Believe me, it would be appreciatted.

I came to the realization last night that I've successfully immersed myself in my music, school, and work. And hanging out with my friends. But that's pretty much what my life consists of.
I have no room for complaint.
Week to week I pretty much have life conquered:
Monday: class all day, harp lessons, work
Tuesday: laundry in the morning, class, work, bandpractice, workout
Wednesday: class all day, sometimes work, workout,LOST
Thursday: class in the morning, work, other band practice, Grey's Anatomy, workout
Friday: class, work, show
Saturday: work, show
Sunday: work, day to myself, sometimes church in indy

life is good. stable.
The thing about this is, as monotonous as that might appear, no day is the same. I've worked at the cup for over a year now, and not a single shift I have ever worked has been the same. And we have a really good crew now, and really good customers, so there's always something new. It keeps you on your toes. It's the same with shows. The ones this weekend could have been better, but it happens. It was still fun. And we're in the midst of writing new stuff. So, that's never a bad thing. And I love all of my classes.
and lord knows Lost and Grey's Anatomy are incredibly high quality.

yes.
more later, now class.

I went to Indianapolis yesterday.

Sarah and I went down to monument for circle and these were some of the results.

P.S: I played a show with my band last night in the Student Center ballroom, and it was amazing. Honestly, the best show we've ever played. It was fantastic. It felt great. No, it felt amazing.

Rewritten Paragraph

The ORIGINAL:
It took me forty awhile before I got there, and the apartment was a wreck.
There were beer cans all over the place. It was like a trash can. There were
cigarette butts spilling out of the ashtray and ashes were spread all over the
floor. From the living room, I went into the kitchen. There were more beer
cans. I wondered where my father was. His checkbook was open, but there were
only deposit/withdrawal slips. What had happened? I turned off the TV. I
looked around, at my father’s life.

My Version:
When I finally got to the apartment, I came to the harsh realization that it wasn't an apartment at all, it was a trash heap. The living room was decorated with countless beer cans, either empty or half-full, and full of cigarette butts. The smell of the place was putrid, but I slowly made my way into the kitchen, only to find more. The TV hummed with the background, probably left on for the sake of not feeling so alone than for entertainment. It was in here that I found his checkbook, his check-less check book, bearing only deposit and withdrawl slips. I couldn't help but wonder what had happened to make him live this way? Was this really my father's life?