Remember how I'm famous?
Remember how I'm obnoxious?
Yes, dear reader, my levels of attention seeking and obnoxiousness have reached even greater heights . . . and it's on tape.
Joy. Rapture.
Actually, you need to check out this music video, filmed and edited by Will Thomas (who I secretly have a crush on, but don't tell anyone), for Drew Danberry's song "Memorial Day".
Yes, I'm in it (see above about the obnoxiousness).
Yes, I think that summer life should actually look and feel as posh as that shoot was (see above about the attention seeking).
Yes, the video rocks my little girl socks (see above about my lingering crush on Will).
You can check out the Youtube version here:
OR go to this website and see it in HD (It's completely worth the trip. Do say you will.):
Memorial Day
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Cross Star Flag Bunny Ears
Why am I as vague as I am:
"Like most Artists visual or literary, there is an underlined fear of being too honest or straight forward with my work. It is like people will know you’re full of sh*t if you say what is really going on in your head. So you explain these things in the dimmest way possible, if you explain at all. Of course this has the benefit of allowing people to read into it how they like and see what they want... which is more important than any silly message you might think is important on a whim."
- Adrian Comeau
(read this interview, you'll fall in love maybe 3 times: i am other people)
I have been getting really lost these past few weeks, months, years . . . I wind in and out of this little maze that decorates the backyard of my life, getting into scrapes, climbing trees in flats, kissing boys I probably shouldn't be kissing, really not committing to anything other than my passion for running my brains out and covert operations involving chocolate and reading in bed, and refusing time and time again to that strict labeling into a genre. Being confronted about my desire to remain anonymous more than once has taken quite a toll and I think it's time I start addressing this need/want/nervous tick.
I really can't pin-point the exact moment I decided to keep all my secrets to myself, and only leak out crumbs of information about my myself, just that one piece of toast at a time. I think it was a mixture of teenage rebellion, infatuation with a boy who was really time-machine, and the fact that the cold hard facts are more boring then the temptation (the wink, the slight sneeze at the scent) of a secret (I like my S's in a row).
I enjoy not spilling my guts about my life almost as much as I enjoy keeping your secrets to myself as well. My veins are running thin with silly, shallow, underpinings of my, and other people's lives . . . with the more than occasional gob of the dark matter that makes up those secrets which are told with locks on the doors or a hand over the eyes. Those are the scarier secrets, these are the foodstuffs which are more hard to digest. Quite frankly, those secrets are the ones that shape the way I understand people. A gross amorphous cookie cutter, I do say. But that is exactly exactly EXACTLY what it is.
I remember a great long essay I wrote about being grounded, committing to life, and having a foot in the door. It was clear. It was concise. I wrote it with a clear head. I'm now having a hard time figuring out how I wrote like that and the answer is: anger. Yes, my friends, I was angry, and probably just angry at all the boys I was in love with at the time (I wrote this a while ago . .. you know post-teenage angst . . .), but that is besides the point, indeed. I was angry enough to be clean cut in my dialog about the world; I completely directed my focus STRAIGHT FORWARDLY. Guessing from my apparent need to find some sort of clarity, that is what I need to do: get mad. Get even. Get Irish. Maybe that little fire and spit will kick drive me into some sort of gear so that I can kick-start myself on my little way.
Where I need to get going to . . . now that is the 450 dollar question (why I picked 450 dollars is another secret . . . most old habits die hard).
"Like most Artists visual or literary, there is an underlined fear of being too honest or straight forward with my work. It is like people will know you’re full of sh*t if you say what is really going on in your head. So you explain these things in the dimmest way possible, if you explain at all. Of course this has the benefit of allowing people to read into it how they like and see what they want... which is more important than any silly message you might think is important on a whim."
- Adrian Comeau
(read this interview, you'll fall in love maybe 3 times: i am other people)
I have been getting really lost these past few weeks, months, years . . . I wind in and out of this little maze that decorates the backyard of my life, getting into scrapes, climbing trees in flats, kissing boys I probably shouldn't be kissing, really not committing to anything other than my passion for running my brains out and covert operations involving chocolate and reading in bed, and refusing time and time again to that strict labeling into a genre. Being confronted about my desire to remain anonymous more than once has taken quite a toll and I think it's time I start addressing this need/want/nervous tick.
I really can't pin-point the exact moment I decided to keep all my secrets to myself, and only leak out crumbs of information about my myself, just that one piece of toast at a time. I think it was a mixture of teenage rebellion, infatuation with a boy who was really time-machine, and the fact that the cold hard facts are more boring then the temptation (the wink, the slight sneeze at the scent) of a secret (I like my S's in a row).
I enjoy not spilling my guts about my life almost as much as I enjoy keeping your secrets to myself as well. My veins are running thin with silly, shallow, underpinings of my, and other people's lives . . . with the more than occasional gob of the dark matter that makes up those secrets which are told with locks on the doors or a hand over the eyes. Those are the scarier secrets, these are the foodstuffs which are more hard to digest. Quite frankly, those secrets are the ones that shape the way I understand people. A gross amorphous cookie cutter, I do say. But that is exactly exactly EXACTLY what it is.
I remember a great long essay I wrote about being grounded, committing to life, and having a foot in the door. It was clear. It was concise. I wrote it with a clear head. I'm now having a hard time figuring out how I wrote like that and the answer is: anger. Yes, my friends, I was angry, and probably just angry at all the boys I was in love with at the time (I wrote this a while ago . .. you know post-teenage angst . . .), but that is besides the point, indeed. I was angry enough to be clean cut in my dialog about the world; I completely directed my focus STRAIGHT FORWARDLY. Guessing from my apparent need to find some sort of clarity, that is what I need to do: get mad. Get even. Get Irish. Maybe that little fire and spit will kick drive me into some sort of gear so that I can kick-start myself on my little way.
Where I need to get going to . . . now that is the 450 dollar question (why I picked 450 dollars is another secret . . . most old habits die hard).
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Bad News from Spain
My fellow Claire fans,
I have bad news from the Claire front. It seems that in the past few weeks since I wrote last, some changes have happened in “Los Ninos Animales”. Apparently, Ruel has left the band. Claire writes that it came from out of the blue. Ruel had been struggling for several months with an addiction to Pop Rocks (as we all know a prevalent problem in the Spanish Jazz Circuit) and has left to seek treatment. Ruel came to Agusto in the night and confessed his problem. The conversation was tearful and lasted late into the night, but together the two musicians decided it was time for Ruel to seek help. Claire asks that we all remember Ruel in our prayers and ask for his speedy recovery.
For now, the band is looking for a new drummer, and Claire tells me that Fredrico, Agusto and her are going to stay at Agusto’s cousin’s house in Barcelona. Claire seemed sad but said she knew that with faith and determination the band would make it through this trial.
She wishes everyone the best and thinks of all her friends in the United States often.
-JN
News from San Sabastian!
My fellow Claire devotees,
I have just read the most wonderful news from Spain, where Claire has recently moved to pursue a life long fascination with Jazz piano. Apparently, Claire has taken to her new instrument like a fish to water and has joined a Jazz quartet named “quatro ninos animales”, which I’m told means “the four baby animals”. She has fallen in love with a saxophonist named Agusto whom she tells me is either named after the first roman emperor Octavian or Saint Augustine. She writes,
“ Whether Roman Emperor or Saint, he has both the virtues of a true Christian and a noble conqueror. He has both blessed my life with his virtue and tamed my barbarian heart!" (We wont tell her that both men are actually one in the same, Octavian later changed his name to Caesar Augustus upon becoming prinseps in his early 20’s.)
It seem that the young lovers have been booked in several prime spots in the famous San Sabastians Jazz festival! She writes,
“Ruel, Fredrico, Agusto and I have quickly become a fixture in San Sabastians and are booked to open up for some of the biggest Jazz combos in the City! It is so exhilarating! My dreams are unfolding before my eyes!”
Claire ended her letter by saying that she wishes all her fans the best and thanks them all for their prayers and support.”
It sure sounds like Claire is doing great! Stay tuned for further editions of Claire Watch ’08. See you soon!
-JN
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
What comes from a conversation about late 70's sci-fi/fantasy pop art:
My Dearest Readers,
I regret to inform you that our dear Claire has moved on. Against all odds, against the advice of countless financial advisors, spiritual counselors and astrologers, she has relocated to a gypsy camp just north of San Sabastians, Spain. I'm afraid that only a few months ago she expressed an interest in Jazz piano and has relocated in order pursue this new spiritual path. The goodbyes were tearful, but in the end, all her closest friends agreed that perhaps the change was for the best. I, Jonathan Norberg, have volunteered to help ease the transition for all her loyal devotees. While I can't compete with her finesse for witty banter or tender advice, I do have one thing I can offer her readers which she cannot... an acute interest in late 70's sci-fi/fantasy pop art. While Claire is pursuing her own dreams, I have been given the opportunity to pursue my own. Claire has lent me the use of this blog so that I can chronicle my interest. I think that this project will be incredibly enjoyable to all involved.
Sincerely,
Jonathan Myles Norberg
Happy B.
I hate nicknacks. Just sayin'.
But I lovelovelove the flyers Jon Jon made for my (and Phil's) birthday party (See . . . NOT a nicknack). I'm clearly obsessed.
Check it.
. . . more to come . . .
P.S. All I want for my birthday, other than the most cuddly of lions, is a secret . . . well secrets. Give me your secrets for my birthday.
Thank you, Pat Benetar for teaching us to survive on the streets.
(I wrote this last winter (Tuesday, January 22) while I was stashed away in some secret closet on my friend's lap top, wayyyy to late at night. Just prefacing the overall mood f the setting.)
I've been experiencing deja vu for about three days now. I can't seem to shake it. It's like you've saturated into my bones and dyed my muscles blue.
Red vs. Blue. The battle of the century.
I've been experiencing deja vu for about three days now. I can't seem to shake it. It's like you've saturated into my bones and dyed my muscles blue.
Red vs. Blue. The battle of the century.
I'm not talking about college sports.
It's the battle of inner/outer. The ballet? The labbet? The talleb?
I'm at the first sleepover I've had in months and hate every moment that I've been here.
"I couldn't stand the way he said his words."
Crawl around in my skin for a while. See if we need to tailor the fit.
I know a boy who likes girls. In the plural form. I'd shake his hand and pat him on the back if I wasn't so busy looking into publishing him on the internet.
"Sometimes I want to throw up all of my organs in order to fit myself back inside. Do you ever get that way or is this just me."
-Claire to Andy, Friday Night
Someone went hog-wild with the feather duster. And the rock salt.
Your sheet will never stay down if you continue to roll that way. Settle down.
Checkers has become the national game of choice at my house. Next door . . . they really like scrabble.
"Pay attention to me." -Me to the wall Monday night.
". . . sometimes I wish it was that easy. We just have to keep living each day one after the other . . ." - Squire Hadley
It's the battle of inner/outer. The ballet? The labbet? The talleb?
I'm at the first sleepover I've had in months and hate every moment that I've been here.
"I couldn't stand the way he said his words."
Crawl around in my skin for a while. See if we need to tailor the fit.
I know a boy who likes girls. In the plural form. I'd shake his hand and pat him on the back if I wasn't so busy looking into publishing him on the internet.
"Sometimes I want to throw up all of my organs in order to fit myself back inside. Do you ever get that way or is this just me."
-Claire to Andy, Friday Night
Someone went hog-wild with the feather duster. And the rock salt.
Your sheet will never stay down if you continue to roll that way. Settle down.
Checkers has become the national game of choice at my house. Next door . . . they really like scrabble.
"Pay attention to me." -Me to the wall Monday night.
". . . sometimes I wish it was that easy. We just have to keep living each day one after the other . . ." - Squire Hadley
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Deep Breaths
I know . . . I know . . .
You all were wondering what I'd look like in a wedding dress . . . underwater.
Well, wonder no longer, breathe easy, and wipe that anxious sweat off your brow.
Now that you've been appeased, go patronize
"Jesse Draper Photography"
and love it to pieces like I love it to pieces.
You all were wondering what I'd look like in a wedding dress . . . underwater.
Well, wonder no longer, breathe easy, and wipe that anxious sweat off your brow.
Now that you've been appeased, go patronize
"Jesse Draper Photography"
and love it to pieces like I love it to pieces.
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