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Justin Woo

justin woo


Last Updated: 11/18/2009

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Gender: Male
Status: Single
Age: 26
Sign: Pisces

City: Jersey City
State: New Jersey
Country: US
Signup Date: 9/18/2004

Blog Archive
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Friday, July 31, 2009 
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
Sunday, May 31, 2009 
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.




Monday, April 27, 2009 
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.

Wednesday, April 22, 2009 




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.





Friday, February 13, 2009 
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.



Friday, February 13, 2009 

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.







Wednesday, February 04, 2009 

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.


Friday, January 30, 2009 


Wednesday, January 28, 2009 


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/





Wednesday, January 28, 2009 

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.

Friday, January 23, 2009 
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.


Wednesday, January 21, 2009 
From here:
http://www.haaretz.com/hasen/spages/1055241.html

.. .. ..
History did not begin with the Qassams
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.

Tuesday, January 20, 2009 
... I just want to fall in love again... 
Monday, January 19, 2009 


COME CHECK ME OUT! :) I go on at 8:30 on the back stage with the lovely and talented Courtney Brown!
Saturday, January 10, 2009 
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? :)