Stephen Mejias

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Stephen Mejias
Concerning the Comments Going Around the Office; or: Thank You, Vladimir; or: The Difference Between Day and Night; or: You Can Be In My Dream, but I’ve Got No Choice
Stephen Mejias  |  Oct 03, 2005  | 
Yes,
it is
true:
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Stephen Mejias
From Bright Eyes to Sibelius
Stephen Mejias  |  Sep 30, 2005  | 
We don’t get together as often as we’d like.
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Stephen Mejias
The Thoughts of All Men in All Ages and Lands
Stephen Mejias  |  Sep 29, 2005  | 
In the conference room, where I have lunch each day with two of my favorite people in the world (I am very lucky), I found myself tapping my fingers in constant rhythm against the long, veneered table. Why was I doing this?
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Stephen Mejias
With Loss for Words and Bloodrush and Heartstop
Stephen Mejias  |  Sep 28, 2005  | 
Melissa is safe inside now. I just walked her home.
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Stephen Mejias
Confusion Becomes a Philosophy
Stephen Mejias  |  Sep 27, 2005  | 
Lisa Whiteman keeps a blog. I discovered it on May 12, 2003, and I have enjoyed it everyday since. How many days is that?
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Stephen Mejias
That Brennan Guy
Stephen Mejias  |  Sep 26, 2005  | 
I received a voicemail from Eileen on Friday night, which said something like: "You missed my phone call again, and I’m here with Sean and Omar and Allison and Justin and Lauren and Scott and Cheryn, and we’re all waiting for you, and you’re lame."
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Stephen Mejias
Missing My Friends, The Black Hollies, Playing Live at Maxwell’s Because I’d Rather Stay Home on a Friday Night and Listen to Smog and Listen to Diane Cluck and Listen to
Stephen Mejias  |  Sep 23, 2005  | 
I just want to sit here and be alone and think of her and drink Brooklyn Lager and listen to music and feel the cool new autumn wind blow through my open window—as soft and as right as her hand pressing mine—and forgive me, please friends, forgive me, but I’m tired and I’m happy and is there anything so wrong with that really?
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Stephen Mejias
Lacking Profundity
Stephen Mejias  |  Sep 23, 2005  | 
We’ve reached the end of the week.
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Stephen Mejias
Not Even a Vague Idea
Stephen Mejias  |  Sep 22, 2005  | 
I was 22 years old, and had no idea that high-end audio existed. No idea at all.
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Stephen Mejias
The Marriage of Process and Product
Stephen Mejias  |  Sep 21, 2005  | 
I was 22 years old, and had just made it back to New Jersey from a four-month trip traveling around the States aboard Amtrak trains.
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Stephen Mejias
Knowing
Stephen Mejias  |  Sep 20, 2005  | 
On this occasion, however, John had not come over to tell me to run. Rather, he had come to tell me where to go: “Good work, but I think you’ll have to steer more towards audio,” he suggested.
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Stephen Mejias
Running
Stephen Mejias  |  Sep 19, 2005  | 
Seriously: Will you show me around?
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Stephen Mejias
I'm New Here
Stephen Mejias  |  Sep 19, 2005  | 
The AZ9345 is on right now. And it sounds pretty damn good to me. I’m listening to Smog’s latest album, A River Ain’t Too Much to Love, and god, I love it. I love it. I don’t even know exactly what it is. I keep wondering, “What is it? What’s so great about this album?”
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Stephen Mejias
Some Might Call It a Den
Stephen Mejias  |  Sep 19, 2005  | 
Not how. I mean to say: I should tell you something about the circumstances surrounding my personal act of listening.
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Stephen Mejias
No Real Beginnings or Endings
Stephen Mejias  |  Sep 19, 2005  | 
The music we made in Genie Boom was not unlike the music made by the pumps and steam lines and reactors of Firmenich. Michelle drummed on garbage cans, a red school bell, a gas tank, whatever banged. Todd pressed buttons on his Casio synthesizer and Roland drum machine. I plugged five cheap guitars—old Silvertones and Kays, before they became popular—into whatever amps I could find, turned the knobs on my effects pedals all the way up, and screamed the lines from my poems into the guitars’ pick-ups.
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