I saw this polaroid, and I was like, I HAVE TO POST THIS! It's cute. I think that someones gona have to do a butcher/beckett love fanfic. Dont ye agree? =)]]>
Apparently, I forgot to script a journal fer two Bdays! Hehehe! =) Late, but better late than never!
My dearest apologies, FBR boys!
Don’t take it personally, Fall Out Boy’s own Joe Trohman, who turned 24 on Monday! Gah, so sorry I forgots!!!! But we love ye Joe Tro! Wonder how ye spent yer bday!
Also, just yesterday, our dear Spencer Smith from the indie rock hit, Panic at the Disco, who just turned legal! Yay! Spencie! My personal fave, therefore, I must put all the Spencer and the headband pix together, fer such an occasion!
-Jack
OMFG, Kim and I are gonna see WTK and TAI in October!!!! How awesome is that???? (Sorry fer my over use of exclamation and question marks, I must really wow-ed right now!)
Its gonna be awesome, I know. Our second concert ever! Totes something to look forward to, yet it seems so damn far away! Come, October! Come now! Hehehe =) Hopefully, someone will listen to me.
Is anyone else going to the gig at the Regency? Doesn anyone know if General Admin is good or not? IDK. Hit me back!
-Jack!
3/5 stars
The Academy Is…
Fast Times At
Pop-punk kids join Warped Tour pals for a bittersweet high school reunion
In ever emo band’s career, there comes a time for “growing up”—dealing with more serious subject matter and jettison pop punk for a broader sound. Fall Out Boy have gone that route, but their friends The Academy Is…, are happy to stay a little longer. On their third album, themed about the senior year in high School, frontman William Beckett captures the struggle of being 18: the feeling that these are “the best days of our lives”, as he sings on “After the Last Midtown Show”, but only because these days wont last. Producers S*A*M and Sluggo reflect that transitional feeling in the tunes, which straddle the Blink-182 styles of yesteryear and the arena polish of Warped Tour bands. (Members of Jack’s Mannequin and Cobra Starship make cameos). And Beckett vividly renders what it’s like to be a kid facing real-world issues, dealing with relationships (“Beware! Cougar!”) and leaving home (“One More Weekend”). “Hit the highway/Pour some liquor for this town,” he shouts on “Paper Chase”. It’s a bittersweet farewell to everything he’s come from, but armed with an eye for detail that his peers lack, he’s ready for what’s next.
-Kyle Anderson
I think that’s an awesome review! Hooray fer TAI! What do ye think about that review, or the album?
Sec LV
(Split POV)
<<Beth’s POV>>
There was a sharp knock at the door of the dorm room I shared with Sophia, but currently, I was the only one in it. She wasn’t in bed, or in the shower. My best guess was that she was downstairs in the caf or in class. Either that or I had gotten up late.
I shuffled in my bed, wrapping the covers tightly around me, feeling the wispy fall air that seeped its way into the room. I shivered, left unperturbed about the fact that my tardies were already piling up and Hawthorne was really strict about putting a limit on acceptable tardies.
The pounding on the door continued, and I fretted about having to get up. Who could it possibly be? Was it Sophia or someone from the coven? Didn’t she have a key?
Grumpy and muttering a line of profanities under my breath, I slipped on a robe over my thin, white cotton Green Day shirt with the Kerplunk album cover on it, and my boy shorts (I don’t sleep in my brassiere and a thong, like stereotypical teenage girls did in the dreams of adolescent boys).
I sighed and ran my fingers through my hair to keep it matted down and to avoid looking like a victim of an electrical shock. Slowly, I made my way to the door and opened it.
“Hi!” I jumped back startled, to see the face of a bottle blonde with her hair in two ‘adorable’ pigtails and overly-made-up eyes. Who the hell was she? Had she come a-knocking because she was Jon’s girlfriend or something? I wouldn’t be surprised if he made the same mistake as Jade.
“Yeah, hi!” the girl next to her echoed, with dyed black hair and drawn on eyebrows that peaked like the temperature charts demonstrating the increase of global warming these past decades.
“Um..,” How should I complete the sentence? Tell them to get the hell out of my room?
“We just dropped by to ask if you could volunteer, uh, ‘Beth Dud-a’,” the first girl said the last part slowly, looking down at her clipboard. Her friend giggled.
“For what?” I asked, irritated that people always made fun of my last name.
“We, the girls of the 5th floor, came up with the idea of asking everyone what they want to do to help, since we’re, like, having a party.” They both blinked their fake eyelashes with that black gunk on them at me in unison. Blondes should never wear mascara. They look demonic!
“A party for what?” I queried, clueless.
They looked at me blankly, like I was stupider than them (which was impossible). “To lighten up the mood, silly!” she replied, as if I had asked the most absurd question in the universe.
“Yeah, silly!” the second repeated.
“What?”
“You know, everything’s been so sad,” the first explained, her lower lip sticking out like a plank. “Ever since that boy died, or those boys, I always forget, everyone’s been so stressed!”
“Yeah, sad, and stressed!” the other added cheerfully, copying the other one’s pout.
The first continued, looking at me. “I know, it’s not that fun but like, we can’t do much about it. We had actually wanted to, like, hire someone to do massages on everyone but, like, Mr. Clark said that it would be too expensive, so we came up with an answer! A party! How cool is that?!”
“Party!” the other chirped, letting out a loud hoot-hoot!
A party. After someone’s death. Nice.
“He says it was expensive, but I really think that he isn’t comfortable knowing that there’s gonna hafta be naked people,” the first whispered. Isn’t everyone? “So if you have any ideas…”
I closed the door in their faces. A party. Huh. That must have been the most unexpected event to follow the killings. But I should have known. A couple of dead kids weren’t going to stop our Barbie Dolls and Kents from living life to the fullest.
This, I guess, shouldn’t bother me. The deaths didn’t bother me. They didn’t leave me distraught and pathetic. Most definitely not; especially when those who had been victims weren’t exactly big in my life.
People would assume that I would say such thing because in reality I was hurt or something like that. This bothered me, because I wasn’t. Spencer and Aiden just didn’t mean anything to me, and I wasn’t about to go around campus in black lace, weeping for people I despised and practically didn’t know, like a lot of other people.
Call me cold hearted.
* * *
<<Davey’s POV>>
I have to know more, that’s why I’m here, I reminded myself, as I sat on a metal chair. My elbows were propped up on the frigid metal table, my fingers wrapped around a steaming hot cup of soy latte, keeping warm.
I had been sitting in Detective Carson’s office, waiting for his arrival. Aiden’s death was definitely puzzling, and I wanted to know the details, as gruesome as they may be. It was definitely for the well-being of the coven. I knew well that they would want to know everything, and would be drowning me with questions.
The death had come as a surprise, though. Our main focus had wandered from Aiden’s absence to Spencer’s own death, and getting everything prepared for the funeral. It was interesting timing, but I didn’t see anything that linked the two together, so it might just have been an inauspicious coincidence.
Detective Carson appeared at the doorway, and I lifted my gaze to his. “I am truly sorry, Mr. Havok, sir,” he apologized, as he strode towards his cluttered desk. “There were just some hold ups in the department…”
“It’s fine, detective,” I replied coolly, waving a dismissive hand.
He nodded and uncovered a folder filled to its max from his desk cabinet. The detective looked up at me, his expression grim and his eyes neutral, not giving an insight into his emotions. Perhaps it was part of his job that drove him to be this way, I thought to myself.
“There’s something I found quite curious,” he remarked, opening the manila folder, and handing a photograph to me. “Bouvier had marks on his wrists, as if he was hooked on something. I think that he was handcuffed, one way or another.”
I studied the photograph, bracelets of vexing purple marking the pallid skin. “Why would he be tied up?” I wondered.
“Perhaps his attackers, or his murderers, wanted more control of the situation. I really do not know.” Detective Carson replied. “But I do believe that he was being hanged from them. From the cuffs, I mean. Some of the skin of his arm was scraped off as the weight of his body carried him down. It’s obvious that Bouvier was in this position for a long time.”
“Did he not scream? Did he not protest the attack in some way? Hadn’t anyone heard his cries?” I inquired aloud.
“Evidently not,” he replied. “He might have been taken somewhere else, before he was dumped in the Harrison.” The detective shrugged. “What’s making this case difficult is that we haven’t a crime scene, meaning no blood or DNA. It will honestly not be facile to figure out who the murderers are.”