New apartment. A fresh beginning.

I also find it hilarious that on Facebook, everybody born before 1984 has some kind of homage to Michael.

Everybody born after doesn't even realize he's dead. Y'all ain't nothin' but babies, nahm sayn. Rekhanize greatness.

Michael Jackson.

Rarely am I inclined to post such touchy-feely entries; and at a celebrity I don't even know at that.

But today, I saw Thriller LPs selling on broadway starting at $200. I saw a man moonwalking on 63rd to buy coffee. I saw a black guy on the benchpress at the Y singing Billie Jean at top of his lungs. I bought a white glove. He was the greatest ever and the biggest celebrity death (for me) since Pac in '96.

I stood in front of the communal TV at the West Side YMCA today next to a yoked out, 300 pound, tattoed up black guy who started tearing up. Under his breath, he muttered "damn, I'm goan miss that crazy motherfucka."

The greatest ever died today.

My sister.

I guess in typical sibling tradition, my sister and I used to fight endlessly - most often, about stupid shit.

Watching her transform into a beautiful and intelligent person endlessly more mature than I, has been both humbling and inspiring.

Back off, skank whore. This is your last warning.

Most sweat-filled, inspiring, in-the-moment performances of the last few years:

Rachmaninoff Cello Sonata, 3rd mvt, with Earl at Juilliard.
Schubert, Impromptu Op. 90 No. 3, Montreal and Spain.
Brahms, Piano Quartet in c, with Eric/Kristin/Milena in Florida.
Franck, Cello (violin) Sonata, with Mihai in Louisville.
Rachmaninoff, Piano Concerto No. 2, with Henry in Berkeley.
Piazzolla, Nightclub 1960, with Jay in Korea.

Reliving the moment.

Mikey, it's due time.

Lies.

Extreme rage/anger enshrouds logical thought [slash] pain like the fog from the grapevine on highway 5 hides the beauty of the life of L.A.

In twelve hours, I play a recital (for seriously, artistically-minimum-wage) of Schumann's Fantasy Pieces; mostly about subjects of love or the like.

Trying desperately to prevent rage and anger from consuming me.

Failing.

But on another note, Dave/Jerry/Allen come over tomorrow to roast wild boar from Texas (kill from a random-hunting-vacation) on my outdoor grill. Life is still good.

What a ridiculously absurd night in San Francisco.

...and found both at the MoMa today.

Searching for meaning in the sweat filled confines of the YMCA; searching for redemption in the windowless enclosures of the Juilliard practice rooms.

Wow. More lies.

The title of Ned Rorem's final diaries: "Lies."

Midnight hits. Pathetic self-pity.

Man up, they say. Man up...

Days are filled with the pluralism of emotional thought; exhausting to juggle daily rage, acceptance, and apathy.

Do oxford commas really provide clarification?

Movies. Is taste an indicative Rorschach test?

Seung-Hui Cho gunned down 32 innocent people in 2007 at what is now-known as the Virginia Tech Massacre - prior to that, his seemingly-innocent obsession with Chan-Wook Park's "Oldboy" went unnoticed, in spite of his already-psychotic tendencies.

As Mikey loves to point out, "My Sassy Girl" in perspective is much more of a horror film than a chick flick, per se - influencing thousands of Korean girls to further glorify the self-centered ignorance of an entire culture.

Or how about "Serendipity." An entire movie glorifying the phenomenon of emotional cheating, disguising the psychotic nature of the female obsession with chance - an engaged girl leaves her wedding at the altar (cliche enough) to pursue the surely-tangible signs of fate from a telephone number written on a dirty five dollar bill. Vomit in my anus. You have a girl obsessed with this movie? Chances are she's a dirty whore.

I like Rambo, Aliens, and Pulp Fiction. I gladly welcome any analysis.

So...

Yes, I've been casually discussing the utilization of this summer to quote-unquote put my life back together - since that phrase seems to be abstract at best, let me tangibilize it. Here's my day.

I wake up in the morning, and cook myself breakfast.
I head to Juilliard and practice for a few hours.
I go to the YMCA where I pound out an hour of cardio and some light weights, before hitting the sauna to discuss America's constantly-declining hegemony in the wake of the recession, with half a dozen 50+ naked men.
I come home, and I attempt to memorize a few more opus numbers and finish the Vonnegut book I started months ago. Have a drink.
Sleep.

No woman, no cry; the corollary implication being that the existence of woman (singular) necessitates crying. Thanks, Marley.

Professor Ronald Takaki, the chief pioneer of Ethnic Studies and the professor most responsible for the intellectualization of my otherwise complete distaste for beer-drinking white frat boys, committed suicide last week. RIP.