Gender: Male
Status: Single
Age: 26
Sign: Pisces
City: Jersey City
State: New Jersey
Country: US
Signup Date: 9/18/2004
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Friday, July 31, 2009
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Hey folks,
I totally need a new roommate for Sept 1 because Rob's moving out. Our apartment is awesome, with hardwood floors, huge windows, and high ceilings. The room is also cool as hell. $750 a month, RIGHT ACROSS THE STREET from the Grove St. PATH station. It's awesome, and you'll love it. Message me if you're interested or if you know someone who is.
Justin
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Sunday, May 31, 2009
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This is another poem written for the Spoken Word Almanac Project. Please come see our teaser show at the Nuyorican Poets Cafe on June 27th at 7 PM!
SWAP 09: Sotomayor Comments on Race, Gender Troubling, Republicans Say
http://www.bloomberg.com/apps/news?pid=20601103&sid=aFOuat5AKFg4&refer=us
“A
wise Latina woman with the richness of her experiences would more often
than not reach a better conclusion than a white male who hasn’t lived
that life.” – Sonia Sotomayor
“I hope she will apologize. The
conclusion that all the hardship she has gone through makes her better
than me is inappropriate.” – Lindsay Graham, Senator, South Carolina,
Republican.
Actually, Senator Graham, that’s exactly what it means. You’re an educated man so maybe a metaphor will work better at conveying the truth to you.
If you grab a piece of pig iron and try to fight with it it’ll shatter as soon as it strikes anything. It’s an unfit implement for anything but smelting. This is an incomplete metal, unforgeable, as useless as a Yalie who gleefully accepts his Gentleman’s C between lines of coke.
But if you heat pig iron until it becomes liquid metal in an arc furnace you’ll burn off its impurities until it becomes steel. Give that steel time to solidify and put it on the forge. It’ll glow red hot like gutter blood, like police sirens, like the exit door sign in the Bronxdale housing projects.
Put that steel on an anvil and hammer it flat, fold it, hammer it flat, fold it, hammer it flat, fold it, hammer it flat like the rising of slaves, immigrant persistence, and the change that terrifies you so, and that metal will be able to absorb shocks and still keep its edge.
Grind that edge with abrasives until it’s sharp enough to slash through lies, dogma, and your racist tradition and what you have there is a sword.
So yes, Mr. Senator, I do believe that hardship can hone the character of a woman.
And Your Honor? We aren’t pig iron either. We will be watching, (brown skin battered, eyes still open) waiting to see if the Ivy League laurels around your head have constricted your brain enough to make you forget us. (Oscar Grant, Sean Bell) We are nothing if not patient. We have waited centuries on stolen land, railroads, street corners, cramped rooms, and jail cells.
If you need a reminder of who we are, you can find us in sweat-soaked brow, fear-lowered face, and burden-curled back.
And Your Honor?
Pressed to this anvil, we have learned how to keep our edges, too.
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Monday, April 27, 2009
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This is the first love poem I've written in a long time. In the tradition of most of my love poems, it is written for no one, or maybe just someone I haven't met yet.
Want
Knowing hunger makes the juicy burst of tooth-ruptured fruit all the sweeter, so this want makes this vision of you all the more acute.
I want to touch your skin, forget the science of dermis, epidermis, follicle, muscle, nerve and remember it like the last line of a poem, the camera's angle, the sunrise after torrid summer night.
I'm still learning how to deny consequence, the uncertain rhythm of my flawed heart, and listen to the steady thrum of need.
I want to memorize you like a favorite quote - rediscover you in doubtful times, hang onto you when night clusters sinister in darkened corners, learn from you through the years - carry you with me, ever present in mind, yet weightless.
I want to hang onto you like a dream of peace so fragile that only the softest hands could carry you, hold you like blood, perfect pressure permeating me rushing through veins never far from my heart.
These are things that cannot be said across the furious clamor of the train car during rush hour, when life is a soft focus blur and the only sharp object is you.
They cannot be shouted from passing cabs to sidewalks when the streetlights catch you like a halo.
I want to whisper these words into your ear as sleep takes you so sibilant syllables follow you into dreams and linger there, awaiting some future date to spring from memory, like a world you never knew but always wanted to live inside.
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Wednesday, April 22, 2009
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SWAP 09: Pinned Down, a Sprint to Escape Taliban Zone by C.J. Chivers NYT 4/19/09   For a moment, you were a boy again. Precariously balanced on a four by four laid across a rushing river, afraid to get your shoes wet, but too adventurous to leave well enough alone, you crossed over before crossing over and I wonder if, in that moment, you thought of home. They say that every boy dreams of flying - that this nocturnal fantasy is a reflection of our longing to be lifted, as our parents did once. Your explosive wings carried you into a distant tree where you hid, secluded from the eyes of your brothers. Your ghost built a tree house there, A Babel Tower where you learned the language of "please," then reached up towards a Father you never knew hoping to be lifted once again.
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Friday, February 13, 2009
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So quick, your fingers rose up to strangle us in our bed. Your hands around my neck closed slowly as I slept - no one to hear these cries, my lover's tear-streaked lips already gagged by your good friends in the church.
With a pull of a lever, you proved yourself a Gestapo, justice's holy hangman, dressed in crosses - little Hitlers, all smiles and donation plates, extended hands with fingers still warm with Matthew Shepard's blood. Jesus, he weeps for you and you mistake his tears for a benediction.
But when mouths still bloody from referendum-shaped beatings scream your name and others descend (split lips, cracked ribs, still unbroken) you cower in your temples and rectories. You cry out "Privacy!" and "Democracy!" That Big Brother stare loses all of its charm when it's directed at you.
How quickly privacy changes definition when you wish to own it.
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Friday, February 13, 2009
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Inspired by: SWAP 09: Queens Driver Unknowingly Drags a Body Nearly 20 Miles Al Baker NYT 2/12/09
Corona
Our city grabbed you by the chest, probed for your heart, tucked you in her undercarriage, and insisted on showing you around, so desperate she was for you to fall in love with her.
Two boroughs, LIE, Grand Central Parkway Van Wyck, Ocean, the Belt - New York's arteries, tarred like a 40 year old smoker's lungs. You were impressed all the way down to the bone.
She had her way with you and she plays rough. They found you in Corona, the Queen's crown. Another suitor diadem in a tiara full of this city's broken lovers.
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Wednesday, February 04, 2009
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From the NYT 2/4/09 "U.S. Plans $500,000 Cap on Executive Pay in Bailouts" “That is pretty draconian — $500,000 is not a lot of money, particularly if there is no bonus,” said James F. Reda, founder and managing director of James F. Reda & Associates, a compensation consulting firm. “And you know these companies that are in trouble are not going to pay much of an annual dividend.” Mr. Reda said only a handful of big companies pay chief executives and other senior executives $500,000 or less in total compensation. He said such limits will make it hard for the companies to recruit and keep executives, most of whom could earn more money at other firms. “It would be really tough to get people to staff” companies that are forced to impose these limits, he said. “I don’t think this will work.” Are you fucking serious? Like really fucking serious? You filthy, dirty motherfuckers. You realize that most people in America would kill for a $500,000 SALARY, never mind a $500,000 BONUS! My old man, who's worked his ass off since he was a kid, grew up in a shithole one room apartment heated in a kerosene stove in New Fucking England, went to Columbia and now works as a telecommunications engineer, takes care of my sick mom, and works his ass off for $100,000 per year. And now these silver spoon motherfuckers are freaking out about getting "only" $500,000?! This is insanity. And the fact that these people believe that they're entitled to millions of dollars in a year where millions of jobs disappeared, the entire market has collapsed, and the entire planet has been plunged into a global depression due to the collapse of the American mortgage market only furthers my belief that these sons of bitches are completely disconnected from anything even remotely resembling reality.
Fuck them. Up the revolution.
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Friday, January 30, 2009
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Wednesday, January 28, 2009
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This definition was created and voted on by Dan Savage readers who were appalled at the choice of Rick Warren as Obama's inauguration pastor.
Saddlebacking: sad•dle•back•ing ..ˈsa-dəl-ˈba-kiŋ.. vb [fr. Saddleback Church] (2009): the phenomenon of Christian teens engaging in unprotected anal sex in order to preserve their virginities After attending the Purity Ball, Heather and Bill saddlebacked all night because she’s saving herself for marriage. http://www.saddlebacking.com/
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Wednesday, January 28, 2009
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From: http://www.buffalobeast.com/134/50mostloathsome2008-full.html
20. Joe the Plumber Charges: The Che Guevara of bald, pissed off white men. In a lot of ways, Samuel Wurzelbacher really does represent the average American—basing economic opinions on unrealistic expectations of personal future success, blaming his failure to meet those expectations on minorities and old people, complaining about deadbeats getting his taxes when he isn’t actually paying his taxes, and advertising his own rudimentary historical and mathematical ignorance by warning of creeping socialism in a country whose highest income tax rate has dropped by half in thirty years. “Joe” indeed symbolizes the true American dream—to become undeservedly rich and famous through a dizzyingly improbable stroke of luck. As American folk heroes go, Wurzelbacher ranks somewhere between Hulk Hogan and Bernie Goetz. Exhibit A: "Social Security is a joke...social security I've never believed in, don't like it. I hate that it's forced on me." Sentence: After blowing his fifteen minutes and all his money on coke and Thai hookers, an infirm, elderly Joe finds that social security actually is a joke, and is finally forced to snake toilets for a living.
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Friday, January 23, 2009
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http://www.nytimes.com/2009/01/23/opinion/23fri2.html?partner=permalink&exprod=permalink
Merril Lynch gave $3 to $4 billion (BILLION. WITH A B.) to it's executives - the same executives who helped plunge America into the latest recession. That's billions of dollars of OUR money, people. I make $35K before taxes (which make up the bulk of what gets taken out) and healthcare costs. After taxes? About $25K. I'm losing almost a THIRD of my paycheck so it can line the pockets of bankers who are responsible for the sheer skullfuckery that the common American is currently enduring.
We must say no to this. Obama has insisted that he'll put more stringent restrictions on the banks, and I think we should pressure him to do so. Normally, I'd take this time to rail about how fucked up capitalism is, and how we need to destroy it, but honestly, all that does is make me feel ideologically loyal to my chosen political philosophy. And it doesn't do a whole lot. So let's push on this issue. Send e-mails, make calls, etc. Let's see if we can make this happen. We may finally have a President and Congress that'll listen to us.
Time will tell.
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Wednesday, January 21, 2009
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From here: http://www.haaretz.com/hasen/spages/1055241.html ..| History did not begin with the Qassams
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By Amira Hass | .. History did not begin with the Qassam rockets. But
for us, the Israelis, history always begins when the Palestinians hurt
us, and then the pain is completely decontextualized. We think that if
we cause the Palestinians much greater pain, they will finally learn
their lesson. Some term this "achievement."
Nevertheless, the "lesson" remains abstract for most Israelis. The
Israeli media prescribes a strict low-information, low-truth diet for
its consumers, one rich in generals and their ilk. It is modest, and
does not boast of our achievements: the slain children and the bodies
rotting under the ruins, the wounded who bleed to death because our
soldiers shoot at the ambulance crews, the little girls whose legs were
amputated due to horrible wounds caused by various types of weaponry,
the devastated fathers shedding bitter tears, the residential
neighborhoods that have been obliterated, the terrible burns caused by
white phosphorus, and the mini-transfer - the tens of thousands of
people who have been expelled from their homes, and are still being
expelled at this very minute, ordered to cram into a built-up area that
is constantly growing smaller and is also under sentence of incessant
bombing and shelling.
Ever since the Palestinian Authority was established, the Israeli
public relations machinery has exaggerated the danger of the military
threat that the Palestinians pose to us. When they moved from stones to
rifles and from Molotov cocktails to suicide bombings, from roadside
bombs to Qassams and from Qassams to Grads, and from the PLO to Hamas,
we said with a whoop of victory, "We told you. They're anti-Semites."
And therefore, we have the right to go on a rampage. What enabled Israel's military rampage - the proper
words to describe it cannot be found in my dictionary - was the
step-by-step isolation of the Gaza Strip. The isolation turned Gaza's
residents into abstract objects, with no names and addresses, except
the addresses of the armed men, and no history, aside from the dates
determined by the Shin Bet security service.
The siege of Gaza did not begin when Hamas seized
control of the Strip's security organs, or when Gilad Shalit was taken
captive, or when Hamas was elected in democratic elections. The siege
began in 1991 - before the suicide bombings. And since then, it has
only become more sophisticated, reaching its peak in 2005.
The Israeli public relations machinery happily presented the
disengagement as the end of the occupation, in brazen disregard of the
facts. The isolation and closure were presented as military
necessities. But we are big boys and girls, and we know that "military
necessities" and consistent lies serve state goals. Israel's goal was
to thwart the two-state solution, which the world had expected to
materialize once the Cold War ended in 1990. This was not a perfect
solution, but the Palestinians were ready for it then.
Gaza is not a military power that attacked its tiny, peace-loving
neighbor, Israel. Gaza is a territory that Israel occupied in 1967,
along with the West Bank. Its residents are part of the Palestinian
people, which lost its land and its homeland in 1948.
In 1993, Israel had a one-time golden opportunity to prove to the
world that what people say about us is untrue - that it is not by
nature a colonialist state. That the expulsion of a nation from its
land, the expulsion of people from their houses and the robbery of
Palestinian land for the sake of settling Jews are not the basis and
essence of its existence.
In the 1990s, Israel had a chance to prove that 1948 is not its
paradigm. But it missed this opportunity. Instead, it merely perfected
its techniques for robbing land and expelling people from their houses,
and forced the Palestinians into isolated enclaves. And now, during
these dark days, Israel is proving that 1948 never ended.
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Tuesday, January 20, 2009
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... I just want to fall in love again...
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Monday, January 19, 2009
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 COME CHECK ME OUT! :) I go on at 8:30 on the back stage with the lovely and talented Courtney Brown!
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Saturday, January 10, 2009
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Hey y'all,
I'd love to go see Thursday on March 4th. They're definitely still my favorite band. I'd love to go with someone so I don't feel like that weird old guy at the show. Anyone wanna come? :)
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