I am afraid of Americans
I am afraid of the world
I am afraid I cannot help it
I am afraid I cannot
~ David Bowie
Yes dear readers, I have had a few more profound thoughts while walking. This time however, I was plugged in. I had the iPod blasting, I felt the need for a strut in my stride, I was jonesing for some grooves.
Out the front door I sprang. Sunglasses on, (of course, they are like my cape, they make me all-powerful), hands in pockets, ears connected to iPod, I was ready to roll.
The second song that played on my journey was 'I am afraid of Americans' by David Bowie. I am a huge Bowie fan, and 'I am afraid of Americans' is one of my favorite Bowie tunes. Why? Well aside from the fact that it is just a solid bit of rock 'n' roll, it turns out that I too am afraid of Americans. Not individually, nah, individually Americans are really quite lovely, they are a blast, they are kinda like your crazy, hyper cousins from away. They are boisterous, opinionated, and can't hold their beer. Salt of the Earth, really. It is the American herd that scares me. Moo!
No, no, and no I will not, nor would it be fair for me to do so, tear the American cultural fabric to bits. I am Canadian, hell there are those outside of North America, who think that I am as American as apple pie. In terms of things cultural, especially pop cultural we have very, very, similar experiences. An American's favorite television show is the same as a Canadian's, our favorite burgers are garnished the same way, we drink the same colas, we wear the same t-shirts and jeans. I dare you to pick out the lone American in a line up of Canadians or vice versa. Why the fear then? I am getting to it , WAIT! I have to butter up my friends down South first. I see no need in pissing them off, they are known for their temper, oh, and I am told they come well armed.
So why the fear? Am I not afraid of all crowds? Did I not admit only a couple of days ago that elementary schools freak me out because they are over stuffed with children? Maybe, maybe, I simply suffer from demophobia (Google it!). But what is a country, if not a large crowd of people jammed into invisible boarders? My country, Canada, although a much larger land mass, has a tenth of the amount of people in it, is my fear really only one of numbers? Numerophobia (Google encore)? If so, should I not be even more afraid of India, or China? Should not the idea of Africa scare the living shit out of me? YES, but no. I do get queasy thinking about the masses of humanity, say in Mumbai, Delhi, Shanghai or Beijing. It also pains my guilt ridden whitey Canadian soul to think about the poverty, the conflict, and the global laissez faire towards Africa. But fear, nah, India, China, and Africa are so far removed from my day to day reality that they have become little more than abstraction, not things I tend to think about all that often. The Unites States, however, well those mad buggers make so much noise that it is impossible not to peek from up under the covers to see what all the racket is about. Maybe I am a phonophobe (Google again)? Shhhhhhhh.
Of course my demophobia, numerophobia and phonobobia might play some part in my fear of Americans. No one wants to be trapped in a small room with a huge number of really loud anybodies. But there has to be more than that. I lived in Montreal for 9 years, I kinda dig the clutter and the din. It is more than merely numbers and noise. What is it then? Bombast? That is the word that comes to mind. This polite Canadian, this quiet artist type gets a little edgy when EGO, and RAH, RAH, RAH, and flag waving, and God Bless America are thrown in his face. When the whole we're number 1 shtick is out in full force this humble fella wants to run and hide. Extreme patriotism, and extreme nationalism are ugly my enthusiastic southern friends, get over yourselves.
Love your country, celebrate your culture, cheer for the home team, of course. But goddamn it, the world is bigger and more complex then a hodge podge of a 51st state. Don't make me break out a list as to which areas the USA is not number 1...ahem, ahem, healthcare, need I say more?
Oh and what is all this Us vs Them shit? Does there always have to be a good guy and a bad guy? Right vs left, Commie vs Capitalist, Christian vs Muslim... a little hint my funny southern friends; and here it is, there is no absolute right or wrong. Everything lies in the mucky middle. So quit picking sides, get it? The wild west has been won, the League of Super Heroes does not exist. You, and I mean this with all due respect, are not the planet's moral authority. We are all in this thing together. There are many of us here that would like to help, but you have to let us speak, we want a voice at the table.
So there, I am afraid of Americans. I am afraid of them as a collective. I am afraid at how they religiously follow their churches, their governments, and their Mass Media. I am afraid of how they are so willing to swallow the Kool Aid, of how they are so willing to scream USA, USA, the planet be damned. I am afraid of the wilting super power, like a wounded animal, I am unsure if it is vicious, I am afraid of who or what it might bite next.
As a neighbor, as a close friend, I want you to know that fear does not imply dislike, nor will I be frightened into some sort of quivering respect. Nope, I am Canadian, and a man of the world, and as such, I just thought I should let you all know what the rest of us think. Friends?
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Oh it's on...
Wow what a night of bon mots on the NAD. First Mat Bryon writes a mad romp about writing, editing, drinking, running, losing shoes, you know, that sort of story? The kind that makes you cringe, say eeps, DISASTER at every turn. You also know that because Matt is telling the story, despite some carnage, that everything is gonna turn out fine. Then, curse him, David Hunter writes a manifesto, a fucking MANIFESTO! How the hell I am I supposed to keep up with all this?
Seriously though, God bless the bastards. They have been a constant source of idea, they have been by my side every step of the way. They are my brothers in rhyme.
But back to the anger. Could the buggers not notice that I am in a bit of a creative funk? I have been posting nothing but cheap jokes, and half efforts for the last coupla days. I could make excuses, fatigue, lack of focus, a house full of kids, a new born, distraction (sorry Twitter, I love you all ya all, but dang you suck a lot of my time). Maybe those two mad fuckers wanted me to get the hell out of the wee funk I am in and do some real goddamned writing? Maybe. But lets not let that go to their heads... sinister master plan, or coincidence it doesn't matter, I have to thank them for their words. Not just for tonight's fine efforts, but each and every time they have been nuts enough to post on the NAD. How'd I get so lucky?
I feel like in the last week or so the bar has been raised. First by Gale and her prayer for spiritual understanding. Then Matt comes crashing through the NAD like a drunken madman, scouring the blog with wild but wonderful words. Then David, ever the gentleman, ever the man of great form and substance, suddenly cleans the place all up, makes it spic, span, bright and shiny. He then passes the torch back to me... my hands shake, I have been lazy lately, what do I do, what can I say?
I write through. I am reminded of a Tweet I sent to Val earlier in the day that said (in response to a Tweet that said I needn't say thank you): 'I suffer from an acute case of Politus Canadainius'. So Thank you everybody, readers, posters, commenters, the whole blessed lot of you. You have made this old hack feel like there are times where he can really write his ass off.
So there it is, it is on. The two of you have once again laid the literary ground work, you have blazed new paths. So to hell with the both of you for writing and sharing such kick ass posts tonight... I wasn't prepared! So here you go, my response to the madness; I will fight the only way I know how, and that is with a quick tip of the hat, and a million thanks. That is after all the least a Canadian boy can do. Thank you, it is late, good night.
J
Seriously though, God bless the bastards. They have been a constant source of idea, they have been by my side every step of the way. They are my brothers in rhyme.
But back to the anger. Could the buggers not notice that I am in a bit of a creative funk? I have been posting nothing but cheap jokes, and half efforts for the last coupla days. I could make excuses, fatigue, lack of focus, a house full of kids, a new born, distraction (sorry Twitter, I love you all ya all, but dang you suck a lot of my time). Maybe those two mad fuckers wanted me to get the hell out of the wee funk I am in and do some real goddamned writing? Maybe. But lets not let that go to their heads... sinister master plan, or coincidence it doesn't matter, I have to thank them for their words. Not just for tonight's fine efforts, but each and every time they have been nuts enough to post on the NAD. How'd I get so lucky?
I feel like in the last week or so the bar has been raised. First by Gale and her prayer for spiritual understanding. Then Matt comes crashing through the NAD like a drunken madman, scouring the blog with wild but wonderful words. Then David, ever the gentleman, ever the man of great form and substance, suddenly cleans the place all up, makes it spic, span, bright and shiny. He then passes the torch back to me... my hands shake, I have been lazy lately, what do I do, what can I say?
I write through. I am reminded of a Tweet I sent to Val earlier in the day that said (in response to a Tweet that said I needn't say thank you): 'I suffer from an acute case of Politus Canadainius'. So Thank you everybody, readers, posters, commenters, the whole blessed lot of you. You have made this old hack feel like there are times where he can really write his ass off.
So there it is, it is on. The two of you have once again laid the literary ground work, you have blazed new paths. So to hell with the both of you for writing and sharing such kick ass posts tonight... I wasn't prepared! So here you go, my response to the madness; I will fight the only way I know how, and that is with a quick tip of the hat, and a million thanks. That is after all the least a Canadian boy can do. Thank you, it is late, good night.
J
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
The Writer’s Life: A Bohemian Manifesto
You wouldn’t believe how I’ve been living lately; food has been a low priority. So has housekeeping; there are articles, magazines, newspaper clippings and related dementia strewn across my work area. Seems my books have been multiplying like rabbits too (although I have twelve thousand books, I still felt compelled to buy Stephen King’s Detective novel The Colorado Kid for two bucks at a yard sale) When I do eat I take impatient spoon-full’s of food, chew hastily and return to my computer; I’ve been subsisting on PB & J sandwiches and tea. The writing has taken over. I feel like a true bohemian lately.
It’s the book of course, isn’t it always? And the blogs, like this one. I think about them all day, then I come home and think about them some more, then whenever the synapses are firing correctly I dive in and try to get something down on the page before my famously wiggy short-term memory kicks in and wipes the slate clean. Sometimes I stew over an idea (usually at 5 AM or thereabouts) and get all excited and start wandering in circles, coffee in hand, searching for a pen or something to scribble a note on. Sometimes I get home and I have all these tiny slips of paper in my nap-sack, usually yellow post-it notes, filled with insane and inspired ideas. Some are good, some are shit. Most are shit. By the time I get home only the best notions are left in my head, but being on the move all day working, I fall victim to the usual human foibles; I need time for sleep, food, clothing (laundry) and to clean the apartment. Need to pay bills, run errands (Shopping! Haven’t done shopping all week!) and so the little amount of time I have, I dedicate to writing, but lately the time-balance has been skewed slightly; seems writing has taken up more and more of my time. I haven’t even watched TV since I got cable a month ago. And me, a movie buff, I have not once watched a film since I’ve moved in to this new place. This is definitely strange behavior for Senor Hunter, let me tell you.
A lot of the reason stems from this particular blog, The National Affairs Desk, and my two partners in literary crime, Joseph Lane and Matt Byron. Two more dedicated guys I could never have met. We’ve formed a kind of un-spoken (ironic?) and un-holy bond with each other. I’m trying to do my part, because I love to do it. And now I’ve gone and started another blog which will require more attention, and more maintenance, and yes, more writing.
It’s been fun, though. Every day I search through the papers and news reports for interesting angles, and I find I have a lot to say about nearly everything. But If I write down everything I think about the universe it’d dwarf a phone book, so instead you get snippets. I’m also in search of my voice; when you’re part of a repertory company like the NAD, you need to discover your own voice. Joseph Lane is the sane one (for the most part) Matt is the crazy Dean Moriarty of Kerouac’s fabled beat generation, and both are Hunter S. Thompson lovers. So where do I fit in? I don’t know. I love Edward Abbey, an elitist nature writer who had a foul mouth and a penchant for burning bill-boards along America’s highways because he thought they ruined the landscape and it’s aesthetic, plus he wanted to be buried in the desert (“...Disregard all state burial laws”, he states in his will). I love music, jazz in particular. I love writing. Simple when put in those easy terms, but I have complexities too. I couldn’t tell you about my voice; either I haven’t discovered it yet, or I have laryngitis.
So where was I? Oh yes; the writing. I am completely immersed in it. Although I am not a prolific author (I am too perfectionist for that) I have written more in the past three months then I ever have. I’ve beaten back that bastard known as Writer’s Block a few times now, and I’m getting the hang of writing every day, although sometimes the words come hard, and slow. The long and short of it is this; I’m a fucking writer, and I love it, and this is what I want to do with the rest of my life. Hang the 9 to 5 job; I deny that’s the only way to live. Not for me anyway. This new dedication is a little scary to me; and friends, co-workers, they don’t understand. The term “Writer” is an abstraction to them. They probably envision a guy in a straight-jacket sitting behind an Underwood type-writer, ranting and drooling, but mostly they see the reality; bare cupboards and bare pockets. To this end they may be correct on both counts.
But GOD I love it so.
David Hunter, Over and Out.
PS: Hope you like the new T-Dot NAD!
It’s the book of course, isn’t it always? And the blogs, like this one. I think about them all day, then I come home and think about them some more, then whenever the synapses are firing correctly I dive in and try to get something down on the page before my famously wiggy short-term memory kicks in and wipes the slate clean. Sometimes I stew over an idea (usually at 5 AM or thereabouts) and get all excited and start wandering in circles, coffee in hand, searching for a pen or something to scribble a note on. Sometimes I get home and I have all these tiny slips of paper in my nap-sack, usually yellow post-it notes, filled with insane and inspired ideas. Some are good, some are shit. Most are shit. By the time I get home only the best notions are left in my head, but being on the move all day working, I fall victim to the usual human foibles; I need time for sleep, food, clothing (laundry) and to clean the apartment. Need to pay bills, run errands (Shopping! Haven’t done shopping all week!) and so the little amount of time I have, I dedicate to writing, but lately the time-balance has been skewed slightly; seems writing has taken up more and more of my time. I haven’t even watched TV since I got cable a month ago. And me, a movie buff, I have not once watched a film since I’ve moved in to this new place. This is definitely strange behavior for Senor Hunter, let me tell you.
A lot of the reason stems from this particular blog, The National Affairs Desk, and my two partners in literary crime, Joseph Lane and Matt Byron. Two more dedicated guys I could never have met. We’ve formed a kind of un-spoken (ironic?) and un-holy bond with each other. I’m trying to do my part, because I love to do it. And now I’ve gone and started another blog which will require more attention, and more maintenance, and yes, more writing.
It’s been fun, though. Every day I search through the papers and news reports for interesting angles, and I find I have a lot to say about nearly everything. But If I write down everything I think about the universe it’d dwarf a phone book, so instead you get snippets. I’m also in search of my voice; when you’re part of a repertory company like the NAD, you need to discover your own voice. Joseph Lane is the sane one (for the most part) Matt is the crazy Dean Moriarty of Kerouac’s fabled beat generation, and both are Hunter S. Thompson lovers. So where do I fit in? I don’t know. I love Edward Abbey, an elitist nature writer who had a foul mouth and a penchant for burning bill-boards along America’s highways because he thought they ruined the landscape and it’s aesthetic, plus he wanted to be buried in the desert (“...Disregard all state burial laws”, he states in his will). I love music, jazz in particular. I love writing. Simple when put in those easy terms, but I have complexities too. I couldn’t tell you about my voice; either I haven’t discovered it yet, or I have laryngitis.
So where was I? Oh yes; the writing. I am completely immersed in it. Although I am not a prolific author (I am too perfectionist for that) I have written more in the past three months then I ever have. I’ve beaten back that bastard known as Writer’s Block a few times now, and I’m getting the hang of writing every day, although sometimes the words come hard, and slow. The long and short of it is this; I’m a fucking writer, and I love it, and this is what I want to do with the rest of my life. Hang the 9 to 5 job; I deny that’s the only way to live. Not for me anyway. This new dedication is a little scary to me; and friends, co-workers, they don’t understand. The term “Writer” is an abstraction to them. They probably envision a guy in a straight-jacket sitting behind an Underwood type-writer, ranting and drooling, but mostly they see the reality; bare cupboards and bare pockets. To this end they may be correct on both counts.
But GOD I love it so.
David Hunter, Over and Out.
PS: Hope you like the new T-Dot NAD!
Further random thoughts, inspired by walk and dishes
It turns out that I have lost the ability to control the weather with my sunglasses. It is that, or I have mastered the skill of controlling the weather with my sunglasses, if so, expect it to be sunny and mild from now until I get bored and yen for thunderstorms. BANG, CRASH, ZIP!
I wonder which car would win in a battle between a Honda Fit and a Ford Focus hatchback? SMUSH!
What sound do fallen leaves make when you scruff your feet in them? SWISH, SWOOSH, SWASH, ZWISH, all the above? Hmmm?
Are the trees whose leaves change color and fall to the ground sooner then most, the weaklings of the bunch? Are they quitters? Were they horribly teased as seedlings? WIMPS!
What does it mean when I ask a 10-year-old to act like a ten-year-old? How is a ten-year-old supposed to act? Is there a definitive guide on the subject? HELP!
Is it normal for a 36-year-old to get an awful urge to jump in the deepest puddles? SPLASH!
Am I weird for thinking that the only bell I would allow on my bicycle would sound like that of the horn of an 18 wheeler. HONK HONK!
It is a dark and stormy night. Where did I put my sunglasses? BOO!
I wonder which car would win in a battle between a Honda Fit and a Ford Focus hatchback? SMUSH!
What sound do fallen leaves make when you scruff your feet in them? SWISH, SWOOSH, SWASH, ZWISH, all the above? Hmmm?
Are the trees whose leaves change color and fall to the ground sooner then most, the weaklings of the bunch? Are they quitters? Were they horribly teased as seedlings? WIMPS!
What does it mean when I ask a 10-year-old to act like a ten-year-old? How is a ten-year-old supposed to act? Is there a definitive guide on the subject? HELP!
Is it normal for a 36-year-old to get an awful urge to jump in the deepest puddles? SPLASH!
Am I weird for thinking that the only bell I would allow on my bicycle would sound like that of the horn of an 18 wheeler. HONK HONK!
It is a dark and stormy night. Where did I put my sunglasses? BOO!
Turkey Talk:
An inside look into a modern writing process.
By Matt Byron
Friday 8/12/06
7:50 pm.
Seeing as how busy I’ve been and how little free-time I have to work on my various works-in-progress - as soon as I received my cousin Kate’s out-of-town wedding invitation, I knew I’d have to fabricate an airtight line of bullshit to fed the whole family as to why my absence was unfortunate but inescapable. So I decided to experiment with some new material; that I had signed on as an understudy for the 2nd chair percussionist at Chicago’s Historic Civic Opera House and, regrettably, had gotten called in as an emergency backup for 3 performances of the Studs Terkel classic, “Working”. And am of course, legally obligated, given my contract, to fulfill. Whew…shameful! A lie so out there it had to pass on weirdness alone... So--After several reassurances that “Kate will understand” and not to feel bad about my “doing what has to be done” and sincere well-wishes on my upcoming performances--I started to feel a bit scum-baggy. But regrets be damned-because in reality I had other pressing engagements.
I’ve made plans with my good buddy and defacto assistant editor, Diego. All the writing I’ve done (particularly the stuff that hasn’t been proof-read or edited) needed some serious “once-overs” and organizational bandaging, that is,if I ever expected them to reach a printer. We’re looking to churn through about a thousand handwritten pages and make some cuts. For purposes of social lubrication; I’ve decided to employ a bottle of Wild Turkey-which will hopefully send us into some kind of wild editing frenzy. Alright…now prepare for “D’s” arrival. This means that certain items must be procured at once to meet his specifications-no compromise allowed. A few of which are: authentic imported Nag Champa incense, fresh (never, ever stale) Marlboro Reds, internet access, and at the very least an 8-lb. bag of ice.
Since the violent demise of my front door buzzer/intercom system (when I, in a Xanax-induced rage, ripped the entire unit out of the drywall in my living room with my bare hands and a drumstick), I’ve been forced to rely on cell phones, punctuality, and often pennies being pitched off the living room window-to gain my guests access into the building. Apparently Diego has just arrived-unless the loose change ricocheting off my 3rd floor window is coming from someone else. I suppose I’ll go let the poor bastard in-who doesn’t even know yet just how doomed his night is. But before we get to diving deep into a 4 ½ ft. pile of yet-to-be proofread writing, I figured the right thing to do is to toast the work at hand with a drink. This fine bottle of Wild Turkey should be just the thing, and I believe D has reached my lobby.
Saturday 8/13/06
10:45 am.
Note to self-Wild Turkey is not a social lubricant. I know this now-and so does my friend, Diego, who, departed about an hour ago; a twisted grin on his face; waving goodbye and stumbling frantically away down some North Side back alley-with his one remaining show…never the less “klip-klopping” away with a sopping muddy sock at an incredible rate of spend. No doubt, he will make his bus.
My shirt is covered in a thick layer of cool mud with the light smell of Grey Flannel cologne still noticeable. More mud, now dried-on and clumpy, all over my right leg. My hands are scratched up and reek of the distinctive, gag-reflex worthy combination of vomit, whiskey, and cigarettes. One of the times you'd eat Colgate straight from the tube if only you had some. The lucoplacia on my tongue is ¾ of an inch thick and coming loose in chunks. My back and knees ache from a traumatic bout of drunken sprinting to evade two motorcycle cops, with which we succeeded…and I somehow cut my ear. Most likely snagged on branch 'cause their too damn big for my head, or so I was told in grade school…
We can’t be certain, but we believe Chicago’s Finest most likely wanted a word with us after seeing me stumble into the middle of the intersection at Lawrence & Western; and proceed to throw up all over a pizza delivery guy on his bike. A simple case of wrong place/ wrong time for the both of us. Unless I had a new pizza and a fresh change of clothes for this unfortunate fucker, a mere alcohol breath apology would be like pouring slat in a wound-so I decided to spare him the nonsense and just get the hell out of there before two peoples nights were ruined.
To the police, previously unnoticed a couple of cars back at the red light, it must have appeared to be a malicious and intentional act; from a possibly dangerous and deranged pedestrian. A pizza delivery guy, cautiously just crossing the street when some big stumbling freak runs out to greet him…and just pukes all over him-then just turns and runs away. No wonder they hit the sirens. We make a run for it.
“You call that editing?!” Diego screams as we make a mad dash for California Ave. We flee in accordance to D’s precise, seemingly premeditated escape route, through several small alleyways
“Fuck you, Spaniard!” I reply, panting in mid-flight; while we pass through a backyard. “What the fuck were…panting breaths…you doing over…panting breaths…there at the…panting breaths…Statue of Lincoln??”
“Nobody has a problem with me standing over there-the police are after you” D yells back at me.
“Well…panting breaths…fuck you then…panting breaths…because if you hadn’t insisted…panting breaths…on fucking around…panting breaths…on the other side of the street…panting breaths…for 10 minutes…panting , turning left..we would have been inside…still running…Garcia’s having Margaritas…panting breaths…and I could’ve made it…panting and running…to the bathroom…panting still…motherfucker!”
We hopped a fence-right on to the uncharted, dark muddy, slope of a ravine-and nearly slid clear into the Chicago River. A close call indeed but we had lost the cops. After I spit out a mouthful of cold mud and wiped my eyes-I noticed Diego hunched over at the bank of the river reaching desperately for his shoe with a stick, but that fucker had already set sail. I didn’t notice much of a current at first, but after watching his show float away at about 10-ft per second- I had to speak my mind.
“You better not go after it, D-that fucking current will suck your drunken ass right down the river. Its pitch black around here and you’ll probably end up downstream in the bowels of some underground water processing dungeon, or hell you might just end up in Wisconsin. Either way-you’ll be in bad shape when they fish your bloated body out of wherever you surface”
D, from what little I could see was horrified, “Not Wisconsin!”, he cried.
“Oh yes sir…Wisconsin…better off that you let it go, huh?” I replied.
He sighed deeply and nodded his head in agreement. “Fine, fine. Gimme a cigarette - I’m done working on this book for tonight.” He lit the cigarette, “You know your ear is bleeding…”
“FUCK” I mutter as my fingers probe for the source, “Can we just climb back up to the street now, please?”
We slowly make our ascent-still paranoid of cops on the prowl for some vomiting monster who, “disappeared right before our fucking eyes...him and another one-on foot; maybe a Mexican…”
“All this mud and bullshit for FREE, huh?! We should do this again tomorrow night” A visibly frustrated Diego shot out.
“Just chill out little me-ho; we’ll find you another shoe.” I replied.
“It’s not about the fucking shoe, man. Its just that I almost dies out there tonight twice-then nearly got arrested…for evading the police if nothing else.” At this point he starts to shake me violently-“If for nothing else, man!”
I break free, “It’s not my fault...blame the…you can charge all this to that monstrous demon-ale-of-a-whiskey…that’s your god-damned culprit” I say confidently.
“Fuck you and you…all this shit…I’m gonna be soo hung over…I need a bed.”
“We should probably suffer together,” I say “You wanna come by later to work on the book and have a drink?”
“Oh yeah…sure..” D grumbles “I’ll jump on that grenade twice- -at least not in the same day.”
“SEE!” I screech, “That’s what this is al about-TRUST-and it doesn’t seem like you trust my drive…or my work ethic”.
“It’s hard to trust the work ethic principles of a criminally insane, lazy, drug addict, with ADHD-I’ll call you later…I gotta run and catch the Western X49 Bus..see ya, (klip klop-klip klop-klip klop-klip klop….)” And away he goes.
“I’ll give this another shot…tomorrow.” I thought.
By Matt Byron
Friday 8/12/06
7:50 pm.
Seeing as how busy I’ve been and how little free-time I have to work on my various works-in-progress - as soon as I received my cousin Kate’s out-of-town wedding invitation, I knew I’d have to fabricate an airtight line of bullshit to fed the whole family as to why my absence was unfortunate but inescapable. So I decided to experiment with some new material; that I had signed on as an understudy for the 2nd chair percussionist at Chicago’s Historic Civic Opera House and, regrettably, had gotten called in as an emergency backup for 3 performances of the Studs Terkel classic, “Working”. And am of course, legally obligated, given my contract, to fulfill. Whew…shameful! A lie so out there it had to pass on weirdness alone... So--After several reassurances that “Kate will understand” and not to feel bad about my “doing what has to be done” and sincere well-wishes on my upcoming performances--I started to feel a bit scum-baggy. But regrets be damned-because in reality I had other pressing engagements.
I’ve made plans with my good buddy and defacto assistant editor, Diego. All the writing I’ve done (particularly the stuff that hasn’t been proof-read or edited) needed some serious “once-overs” and organizational bandaging, that is,if I ever expected them to reach a printer. We’re looking to churn through about a thousand handwritten pages and make some cuts. For purposes of social lubrication; I’ve decided to employ a bottle of Wild Turkey-which will hopefully send us into some kind of wild editing frenzy. Alright…now prepare for “D’s” arrival. This means that certain items must be procured at once to meet his specifications-no compromise allowed. A few of which are: authentic imported Nag Champa incense, fresh (never, ever stale) Marlboro Reds, internet access, and at the very least an 8-lb. bag of ice.
Since the violent demise of my front door buzzer/intercom system (when I, in a Xanax-induced rage, ripped the entire unit out of the drywall in my living room with my bare hands and a drumstick), I’ve been forced to rely on cell phones, punctuality, and often pennies being pitched off the living room window-to gain my guests access into the building. Apparently Diego has just arrived-unless the loose change ricocheting off my 3rd floor window is coming from someone else. I suppose I’ll go let the poor bastard in-who doesn’t even know yet just how doomed his night is. But before we get to diving deep into a 4 ½ ft. pile of yet-to-be proofread writing, I figured the right thing to do is to toast the work at hand with a drink. This fine bottle of Wild Turkey should be just the thing, and I believe D has reached my lobby.
Saturday 8/13/06
10:45 am.
Note to self-Wild Turkey is not a social lubricant. I know this now-and so does my friend, Diego, who, departed about an hour ago; a twisted grin on his face; waving goodbye and stumbling frantically away down some North Side back alley-with his one remaining show…never the less “klip-klopping” away with a sopping muddy sock at an incredible rate of spend. No doubt, he will make his bus.
My shirt is covered in a thick layer of cool mud with the light smell of Grey Flannel cologne still noticeable. More mud, now dried-on and clumpy, all over my right leg. My hands are scratched up and reek of the distinctive, gag-reflex worthy combination of vomit, whiskey, and cigarettes. One of the times you'd eat Colgate straight from the tube if only you had some. The lucoplacia on my tongue is ¾ of an inch thick and coming loose in chunks. My back and knees ache from a traumatic bout of drunken sprinting to evade two motorcycle cops, with which we succeeded…and I somehow cut my ear. Most likely snagged on branch 'cause their too damn big for my head, or so I was told in grade school…
We can’t be certain, but we believe Chicago’s Finest most likely wanted a word with us after seeing me stumble into the middle of the intersection at Lawrence & Western; and proceed to throw up all over a pizza delivery guy on his bike. A simple case of wrong place/ wrong time for the both of us. Unless I had a new pizza and a fresh change of clothes for this unfortunate fucker, a mere alcohol breath apology would be like pouring slat in a wound-so I decided to spare him the nonsense and just get the hell out of there before two peoples nights were ruined.
To the police, previously unnoticed a couple of cars back at the red light, it must have appeared to be a malicious and intentional act; from a possibly dangerous and deranged pedestrian. A pizza delivery guy, cautiously just crossing the street when some big stumbling freak runs out to greet him…and just pukes all over him-then just turns and runs away. No wonder they hit the sirens. We make a run for it.
“You call that editing?!” Diego screams as we make a mad dash for California Ave. We flee in accordance to D’s precise, seemingly premeditated escape route, through several small alleyways
“Fuck you, Spaniard!” I reply, panting in mid-flight; while we pass through a backyard. “What the fuck were…panting breaths…you doing over…panting breaths…there at the…panting breaths…Statue of Lincoln??”
“Nobody has a problem with me standing over there-the police are after you” D yells back at me.
“Well…panting breaths…fuck you then…panting breaths…because if you hadn’t insisted…panting breaths…on fucking around…panting breaths…on the other side of the street…panting breaths…for 10 minutes…panting , turning left..we would have been inside…still running…Garcia’s having Margaritas…panting breaths…and I could’ve made it…panting and running…to the bathroom…panting still…motherfucker!”
We hopped a fence-right on to the uncharted, dark muddy, slope of a ravine-and nearly slid clear into the Chicago River. A close call indeed but we had lost the cops. After I spit out a mouthful of cold mud and wiped my eyes-I noticed Diego hunched over at the bank of the river reaching desperately for his shoe with a stick, but that fucker had already set sail. I didn’t notice much of a current at first, but after watching his show float away at about 10-ft per second- I had to speak my mind.
“You better not go after it, D-that fucking current will suck your drunken ass right down the river. Its pitch black around here and you’ll probably end up downstream in the bowels of some underground water processing dungeon, or hell you might just end up in Wisconsin. Either way-you’ll be in bad shape when they fish your bloated body out of wherever you surface”
D, from what little I could see was horrified, “Not Wisconsin!”, he cried.
“Oh yes sir…Wisconsin…better off that you let it go, huh?” I replied.
He sighed deeply and nodded his head in agreement. “Fine, fine. Gimme a cigarette - I’m done working on this book for tonight.” He lit the cigarette, “You know your ear is bleeding…”
“FUCK” I mutter as my fingers probe for the source, “Can we just climb back up to the street now, please?”
We slowly make our ascent-still paranoid of cops on the prowl for some vomiting monster who, “disappeared right before our fucking eyes...him and another one-on foot; maybe a Mexican…”
“All this mud and bullshit for FREE, huh?! We should do this again tomorrow night” A visibly frustrated Diego shot out.
“Just chill out little me-ho; we’ll find you another shoe.” I replied.
“It’s not about the fucking shoe, man. Its just that I almost dies out there tonight twice-then nearly got arrested…for evading the police if nothing else.” At this point he starts to shake me violently-“If for nothing else, man!”
I break free, “It’s not my fault...blame the…you can charge all this to that monstrous demon-ale-of-a-whiskey…that’s your god-damned culprit” I say confidently.
“Fuck you and you…all this shit…I’m gonna be soo hung over…I need a bed.”
“We should probably suffer together,” I say “You wanna come by later to work on the book and have a drink?”
“Oh yeah…sure..” D grumbles “I’ll jump on that grenade twice- -at least not in the same day.”
“SEE!” I screech, “That’s what this is al about-TRUST-and it doesn’t seem like you trust my drive…or my work ethic”.
“It’s hard to trust the work ethic principles of a criminally insane, lazy, drug addict, with ADHD-I’ll call you later…I gotta run and catch the Western X49 Bus..see ya, (klip klop-klip klop-klip klop-klip klop….)” And away he goes.
“I’ll give this another shot…tomorrow.” I thought.
OK I am a little excited about all this...
Nothing I like more then seeing a tubby guy in a ball cap make greedy bastards quiver in their $2,000 suits. This will probably be my favorite movie of the year. Michael Moore is such a bitch, I love him.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Thoughts while walking to meet the kids at school...
I can control the weather with my sunglasses. Put 'em on rain starts, take 'em off rain stops. I am not sure what to make of this new super power. Hmmm?
People dress funny in the fall. My fashion favorite today; sandals, long white sports socks, shorts, Nike hoodie under acid washed jean jacket and a toque to top it off. Classic Canadiana.
Do leaves reproduce asexually as soon as they fall from a tree and hit the ground?
What sort of a resume does a fella need to have in order to score a job as a crossing guard? Would I look sexy wearing an orange vest and carrying a tiny stop sign?
Why do nards pimp up 1993 Dodge Neons? Isn't that like putting a tuxedo on a piece of dog shit?
Where did summer go? Is it almost October already?
Why won't 'It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas' get out of my head?
Damn, I am the first one at the school again. Why am I such a freak for time?
I wonder if I should stand here and Twit on my cell, or actually converse with the other parents?
Come on school bell, elementary schools give me the creeps.
Brrrrinnngg!
People dress funny in the fall. My fashion favorite today; sandals, long white sports socks, shorts, Nike hoodie under acid washed jean jacket and a toque to top it off. Classic Canadiana.
Do leaves reproduce asexually as soon as they fall from a tree and hit the ground?
What sort of a resume does a fella need to have in order to score a job as a crossing guard? Would I look sexy wearing an orange vest and carrying a tiny stop sign?
Why do nards pimp up 1993 Dodge Neons? Isn't that like putting a tuxedo on a piece of dog shit?
Where did summer go? Is it almost October already?
Why won't 'It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas' get out of my head?
Damn, I am the first one at the school again. Why am I such a freak for time?
I wonder if I should stand here and Twit on my cell, or actually converse with the other parents?
Come on school bell, elementary schools give me the creeps.
Brrrrinnngg!
An hour of peace and quiet.
An hour of peace and quiet, in the middle of the afternoon, is hard to come by in my house. I could do nothing, putter around the web, time suck on Twitter or Facebook. I could be responsible domestically, try, and probably once again fail, at fixing the goddamn hot water heater. Then do dishes, wash laundry, sweep the floors, etc, etc, and boo. Or, or, and this is what I think I might do, (BUSTED! I am doing it.) I could write for a bit, update the blog. I could be productive. I am as you might know the head of a burgeoning not-for-profit media empire, my half starved agents are everywhere (check your garbage cans, they tend to sustain themselves on scraps).
Oh it's not so bad, it's all in good fun. If it were a job, would I then do it during a rare hour of peace and quiet? I think not. If the NAD, and all that has come from it, becomes a drag, and it might, it is also the prefect medium to bitch about it. Hmmm do I control the blog, or does the blog control me? Creepy...
Just one of those posts to post. Not a lot a substance here. A wee whine about the financial state of things, but again, money, when this whole thing was dreamed up, about a month or so ago, was the last thing I had in mind. Fame, hell ya! I'd love the NAD to be well received and a huge Internet hit. But anyway, I am rambling, I am getting way ahead of myself. The NAD had humble beginnings, there was no plan to take over the world during its conception. I am proud of where it is right now. It might be time to shake my head, walk off the delusions of grandeur, blink the stars from my eyes, and be thankful for what it is. I would be better served to hope for the best, but remain grounded. Whatever will be, will be.
I have no idea what I am getting on about. Take this post with a grain of salt. It is a bit of free association. I wrote to write.
Oh it's not so bad, it's all in good fun. If it were a job, would I then do it during a rare hour of peace and quiet? I think not. If the NAD, and all that has come from it, becomes a drag, and it might, it is also the prefect medium to bitch about it. Hmmm do I control the blog, or does the blog control me? Creepy...
Just one of those posts to post. Not a lot a substance here. A wee whine about the financial state of things, but again, money, when this whole thing was dreamed up, about a month or so ago, was the last thing I had in mind. Fame, hell ya! I'd love the NAD to be well received and a huge Internet hit. But anyway, I am rambling, I am getting way ahead of myself. The NAD had humble beginnings, there was no plan to take over the world during its conception. I am proud of where it is right now. It might be time to shake my head, walk off the delusions of grandeur, blink the stars from my eyes, and be thankful for what it is. I would be better served to hope for the best, but remain grounded. Whatever will be, will be.
I have no idea what I am getting on about. Take this post with a grain of salt. It is a bit of free association. I wrote to write.
Late night distraction
I promised some of you a post about emotion. I got lazy, easily distracted. Here is all I could come up with:
Have fun.
Have fun.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
A quick Sunday 'how we doing?'
Hi ya kids. Joseph here with a little hello. I thought, seeing that it is the end or beginning of another week (depends on one's perspective, might even be a half full/half empty thing, I dunno, does it matter?) that I would dole out some well deserved thank yous to all of the NAD's readers and of course contributors. Special thanks to Gale, David, Rasmenia and Matt for keeping me on my verbose toes all week. Thank you readers and commentators for keeping the whole blessed lot of us here at the NAD honest.
What is next at the NAD? Where are we going from here? Those are the subjects of the million emails I get, mostly from Matt (he is the enthusiastic one), but also from David. The both of them, have their own blogs, but are also committed to expanding the NAD brand beyond the mothership. Matt has his Chicago Office, he is developing the NAD News Wire. David has started a NAD Toronto Office...the NAD is spreading like the swine flu, get inoculated while the inoculation is good.
It's been a wild ride. This blog has exploded, I am shocked at how well it has been received and I am very very proud of it. That said, in the spirit of democracy, hell the spirit of the NAD itself, I thought it a good idea to have an open thread where the reader and the contributer can discuss what is next for the NAD. Tell me what you like, tell me what you dislike, tell me what you'd like to see in the future. We are all in this thing together. Lets make the NAD as fun a place as it can possibly be.
Thanks Again
J
What is next at the NAD? Where are we going from here? Those are the subjects of the million emails I get, mostly from Matt (he is the enthusiastic one), but also from David. The both of them, have their own blogs, but are also committed to expanding the NAD brand beyond the mothership. Matt has his Chicago Office, he is developing the NAD News Wire. David has started a NAD Toronto Office...the NAD is spreading like the swine flu, get inoculated while the inoculation is good.
It's been a wild ride. This blog has exploded, I am shocked at how well it has been received and I am very very proud of it. That said, in the spirit of democracy, hell the spirit of the NAD itself, I thought it a good idea to have an open thread where the reader and the contributer can discuss what is next for the NAD. Tell me what you like, tell me what you dislike, tell me what you'd like to see in the future. We are all in this thing together. Lets make the NAD as fun a place as it can possibly be.
Thanks Again
J
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Losing My Religion
~ He who has a why to live can bear almost any how. ~ Friedrich Nietzsche
First and foremost I would like to thank NAD for having me back. With that said, my first post seemed to piggyback a Joseph Lane post and, although this was not intended, here we go again.
The other day I made an interesting observation about my Twitter friends. I noticed that I had managed to form a connection with a significant amount of self-proclaimed atheists as well as proud Bible toting God lovers. Where then, I wondered, do I fall in the mix? Typically I refrain from sharing my beliefs because to be honest I don’t feel a need to defend them or convert anyone else. In addition, my spirituality is so complex it would take a book to explain it, hence the inspiration for the novel I’m working on.
To provide a bit of background, I was raised in the Catholic Church and set free at age eighteen. My parents insisted I had to follow their faith until that age and coming of age I ran like hell. I have always questioned authority and, if something didn’t sit well with me, I called it like I saw it. So there I was, eighteen, free from Catholic condemnation and headed off to college. Life was good until Murphy’s Law hit. Whatever could go wrong for me did, from little things to major wrongs; from not being able to get ice cream at a campus ice cream parlor (apparently the freezers were set too high that day) to my first car catching on fire, with me in it, during a road trip. Did this make me run back to church? Just the opposite, it made me challenge God in a way I never did before. Bring it on! I dared. Is that the best you got? I challenged.
Then something happened. When I receive a new planner, I have a tendency to look ahead and see what day my birthday falls on in the upcoming calendar. One year, I noticed my birthday was going to fall on Easter Sunday, the most holy of Catholic holidays. HA! I laughed, looked up to the sky and mocked, “So what are you going to do now, strike me down?” Now I do believe in a Higher Power and I believe he/she or it has a deep sense of humor. January came and a series of unexplainable events ensued. I would love to share them all with you but NAD may revoke my guest pass.
To make a long story short, enough events transpired in my life to convince me, a highly intellectual, free thinking individual beyond a reasonable doubt that there is something much more to this scripted play of the flesh in which we all take part. To borrow, out of context, from one of my favorite authors James Baldwin, the evidence of things not seen was compelling.
I do not label my spiritual relationship, which seems to bring me into conflict with those who maintain religious affiliation. I have visited many churches in my church hopping days and none of them have ever felt like home. I have discovered more drama and judgment in religious environments than I care to stomach. Ironically, I find that atheists often display more tolerance and the principles at the heart of Christianity than the most devout Christians; an insightful belief in humanity perhaps?
Personally I find organized religion to be too divisive and judgmental. Are all Buddhists going to hell because they don’t accept Jesus as their Lord and Savior? That’s a bit absurd to me. To be honest, losing my religion was the best thing that ever happened to me. In doing so, I developed a far more profound and intimate relationship with the universe. Atheism I could never adopt simply because if I truly believed this shithole we call life is all there is, I would put the gun to my temple and pull the trigger right now. I believe that free will has a purpose. I believe we all consentingly signed on to take part in research of sorts to help get it right by learning from our wrongs. I believe that when I transcend the flesh my inquisitive self will be fulfilled and that alone, for me, makes the human experiment worthwhile.
-Gale Mullings
First and foremost I would like to thank NAD for having me back. With that said, my first post seemed to piggyback a Joseph Lane post and, although this was not intended, here we go again.
The other day I made an interesting observation about my Twitter friends. I noticed that I had managed to form a connection with a significant amount of self-proclaimed atheists as well as proud Bible toting God lovers. Where then, I wondered, do I fall in the mix? Typically I refrain from sharing my beliefs because to be honest I don’t feel a need to defend them or convert anyone else. In addition, my spirituality is so complex it would take a book to explain it, hence the inspiration for the novel I’m working on.
To provide a bit of background, I was raised in the Catholic Church and set free at age eighteen. My parents insisted I had to follow their faith until that age and coming of age I ran like hell. I have always questioned authority and, if something didn’t sit well with me, I called it like I saw it. So there I was, eighteen, free from Catholic condemnation and headed off to college. Life was good until Murphy’s Law hit. Whatever could go wrong for me did, from little things to major wrongs; from not being able to get ice cream at a campus ice cream parlor (apparently the freezers were set too high that day) to my first car catching on fire, with me in it, during a road trip. Did this make me run back to church? Just the opposite, it made me challenge God in a way I never did before. Bring it on! I dared. Is that the best you got? I challenged.
Then something happened. When I receive a new planner, I have a tendency to look ahead and see what day my birthday falls on in the upcoming calendar. One year, I noticed my birthday was going to fall on Easter Sunday, the most holy of Catholic holidays. HA! I laughed, looked up to the sky and mocked, “So what are you going to do now, strike me down?” Now I do believe in a Higher Power and I believe he/she or it has a deep sense of humor. January came and a series of unexplainable events ensued. I would love to share them all with you but NAD may revoke my guest pass.
To make a long story short, enough events transpired in my life to convince me, a highly intellectual, free thinking individual beyond a reasonable doubt that there is something much more to this scripted play of the flesh in which we all take part. To borrow, out of context, from one of my favorite authors James Baldwin, the evidence of things not seen was compelling.
I do not label my spiritual relationship, which seems to bring me into conflict with those who maintain religious affiliation. I have visited many churches in my church hopping days and none of them have ever felt like home. I have discovered more drama and judgment in religious environments than I care to stomach. Ironically, I find that atheists often display more tolerance and the principles at the heart of Christianity than the most devout Christians; an insightful belief in humanity perhaps?
Personally I find organized religion to be too divisive and judgmental. Are all Buddhists going to hell because they don’t accept Jesus as their Lord and Savior? That’s a bit absurd to me. To be honest, losing my religion was the best thing that ever happened to me. In doing so, I developed a far more profound and intimate relationship with the universe. Atheism I could never adopt simply because if I truly believed this shithole we call life is all there is, I would put the gun to my temple and pull the trigger right now. I believe that free will has a purpose. I believe we all consentingly signed on to take part in research of sorts to help get it right by learning from our wrongs. I believe that when I transcend the flesh my inquisitive self will be fulfilled and that alone, for me, makes the human experiment worthwhile.
-Gale Mullings
Friday, September 25, 2009
The National Affairs Desk: Toronto
The WIRe – Week in Review
David Hunter
TORONTO -- A few things that came across the news desk here in Toronto this week; The 61st Prime Time Emmy’s were broadcast this week hosted by former child star Neil Patrick Harris and his forehead, and it featured a new category: reality programming. Here’s a reality: ZzzzZzzzzzzzzz….. A video has surfaced of Ben Stiller teaching 89 year old Mickey Rooney how to use Twitter. That ought to be worth a larf, since Mickey is older than electricity itself….Former chess champ Anatoly Karpov had a rematch with Gary Kasparov on the 25th anniversary of their title bout, which took almost as long to finish; the original match lasted five months and had to be called due to player “exhaustion”….Barack Obama, who became the first sitting U.S. President to guest on Letterman’s show, was intrigued by a heart-shaped potato brought in by a fan, and by Letterman’s question, “how long have you been a black man?”….Canadian Prime Minister Stephen Harper passed on addressing the United Nations at the G20 summit, dumping the duties on Deputy Affairs Minister Lawrence Cannon. Wouldn’t want our PM to do anything IMPORTANT like being a statesman for our country now would we....speaking of the G20, Pittsburgh turned chaotic Thursday after protesters responded to calls to disperse by throwing stones and knocking over garbage cans, yeah, that helps…Former Canadian Prime Minister Pierre Elliot Trudeau is being inducted into the Queer Hall of Fame for his role in de-criminalizing homosexuality....K-Fed is apparently okay with adding "fatso" to his other attributes "untalented" and "obnoxious"....Zooey Deschanel marries Death Cab singer Ben Gibbard, and this writer's heart is breaking....Canadian author Douglas Coupland's new book "Generation A" is being released; from X to A, eh Doug?.... Mackenzie Phillips, star of the 70’s sitcom One Day at a Time, and daughter of Papa John Phillips, has alleged in her new book that she and her father had a sexual relationship for ten years, by turns it was rape and consensual, she alleges… Mama Michele says she’s crazy because, “she’s had a needle up her arm for 35 years…” Gee mom, you’re swell….scientists have come to the brilliant conclusion that if you paint a Butterflies antennas black, they will become lost and be unable to migrate. I could have told you THAT without a science degree….Patrick Swayze’s memoir’s are set to hit the shelves soon, and in it he states that the script for his hit movie Dirty Dancing “seemed fluffy, nothing more than a summer camp movie”….why is former UFC champ Chuck Liddell dancing with the stars? Shouldn’t he be grounding and pounding them instead? It’d be more fun to watch….Jessica Simpson’s Maltipoo daisy was ingested…I mean EATEN… by coyotes and she is devastated. “Jessica has a very small inner circle,” one of her friends says, “but she always had Daisy. Daisy gave her unconditional love.”
End Notes
Thanks to all the NAD contributors this week, it’s been interesting. Although we had no rhyme, reason or theme this week, we can be thankful that all remaining celebrities are still alive and not dead as this Summer of Death comes to a close. Please scroll down and revisit some of this week’s great posts, and enjoy our comment sections, some of the best on the net, in my humble opinion. Until next week.
Protest for protest's sake?
Ah the fuzzy right to free speech. The implied freedom to say whatever the hell we want. The right to protest, the right to question one's elected government. The wonderful notion that there are checks and balances. The idea that somehow, we are all equal members in society and governance. Should I call bullshit? Do people still really think these rights exist? I mean really?
Regardless of what we are fed about how freedom reigns in North America, is it not more true that we the citizens do as we are told? We are bred after all to listen to the powers that be. They are the adults, the elite, they are powerful for a reason, right? Probably. But Nietzsche was a previous topic. I am not sure I want to get into that right now. The idea of superior men leading the masses, kinda makes me feel icky. I'd be bound to get all drunk and um take to the streets in protest. But isn't that the point of this piece? Well yes, now where the hell is my pint? I have signs to make.
Explain this video to me:
If this video has not been proven a hoax yet, it will be. But who is behind the hoax? Drunken frat boys after a half hour spent at an Army/Navy Surplus Store? The government? Some fringe group of anarchists? Lefties trying to make a point? What is the point? Is this a staged protest about government brutality? Was this an advertisement for a vigilante militia? Huh, what, why? I am left scratching my head.
I find I am left scratching my head at most protests. Don't get me wrong, I have as many bones with the way geopolitics is administered as the other guy, but why all the yelling? Why the name calling, why the half baked signs? If your behavior during protest is more distasteful then the group or idea that you are protesting, what then is the point? Do you guys like the taste of pepper spray? Are you, the mohawked masses, deficient in spice? What would Gandhi think? What would Jesus think for that matter?
I dunno, maybe I am just a wimp. Maybe I am just not all that comfortable with confrontation. It would take a whole heck of human awfulness for me to take to the streets with a poorly spelled placard. I'd have to be awfully pissed off, awfully disillusioned (disoriented..???) to wander the streets with a sign with a picture of the President all dolled up like Hitler. Maybe that's just me. Yes things are as horrible as ever, but are they bad enough to make myself look and act like an ass? I dunno? Methinks some doth protest too much.
If This Is The World We Live In, I'd Like My Drano And Bleach Cocktail...NOW.
From the national Affairs desk Chicago -- WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 23, 2009
by Stephanie Stebbins, N.A.D. house guest...
Hi!
Are you a neurotic, potentially delusional person who would go to extremes to find out if your significant other is cheating on you?
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That's right. If you just send $19.95 to our head company, "People Are Morons Who Will Spend Money On Anything" YOU TOO can have the answers you seek!
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by Stephanie Stebbins,
SPECIAL GUEST CONTRIBUTOR
Want more STEPHANIE?! See her awesome blog at
http://noonecanownyoursoul.wordpress.com/
by Stephanie Stebbins, N.A.D. house guest...
Hi!
Are you a neurotic, potentially delusional person who would go to extremes to find out if your significant other is cheating on you?
WELL! Have I got the product for you!
http://www.semenspy.com
For just a small amount of money, YOU TOO can become a forensic detective right in your own home! That's right, friends and booger eaters, you can now obsess to the point of buying a home forensic kit to find out if she's letting someone else dip their ladle in her gravy maker!
Pshaaaw, never mind that it's pretty simple to tell by NORMAL means when your mate is being unfaithful. We all know that it is now THE FUTURE and the standard ways of testing loyalty no longer work so you MUST HAVE THIS KIT!
It will solve all of the problems in your relationship once you have this kit to scour his/her bedsheets and clothing with! Never you mind that people will think you have absolutely gone STRAIGHT out of your mind, forensic testing of your lovely is the ANSWER and we have it.
That's right. If you just send $19.95 to our head company, "People Are Morons Who Will Spend Money On Anything" YOU TOO can have the answers you seek!
ACT NOW! DON'T DELAY! SEND US ALL OF YOUR MONEY BECAUSE WE KNOW YOU ARE SECRETLY AN INSECURE IDIOT WHO WILL BUY THIS!
by Stephanie Stebbins,
SPECIAL GUEST CONTRIBUTOR
Want more STEPHANIE?! See her awesome blog at
http://noonecanownyoursoul.wordpress.com/
Thursday, September 24, 2009
A peek at beliefs
~ A casual stroll through the lunatic asylum shows that faith does not prove anything. ~ Friedrich Nietzsche
First off, what I believe. Or it might be better put what I do not believe. I am a fuzzy nihilist, a happy skeptic, I tend to hold strong to the notion that everything we experience, feel, think, touch, taste, etc is a uniquely personal and thus human experience. There is no hand turning the screw, no man pulling the strings. We are all in this thing alone, so we better try our best to get along.
Nihilism is a bit of a dirty term, it's been attached over the years to the nasty bits of anarchism, lawlessness, non conformity, those things that make the powers that be cringe. Why be so anti-establishment? What are you trying to prove boy? Nothing, I mean no harm, I just tend to take a broader look at things. I have never been one to willingly swallow the Kool Aid. Nope, not without spiking the punch first.
Dictionary.com defines nihilism thusly (I will highlight the bits that I think pertain to me):
ni⋅hil⋅ism
-noun
1. total rejection of established laws and institutions.
2. anarchy, terrorism, or other revolutionary activity.
3. total and absolute destructiveness, esp. toward the world at large and including oneself: the power-mad nihilism that marked Hitler's last years.
4. Philosophy ~
a. an extreme form of skepticism: the denial of all real existence or the possibility of an objective basis for truth.
b. nothingness or nonexistence.
5. (sometimes initial capital letter) the principles of a Russian revolutionary group, active in the latter half of the 19th century, holding that existing social and political institutions must be destroyed in order to clear the way for a new state of society and employing extreme measures, including terrorism and assassination.
6. annihilation of the self, or the individual consciousness, esp. as an aspect of mystical experience.
Like any other school of thought, I can't really claim to be a true blue nihilist. I am not that dark. I believe that very little of what we hold to be absolute or sacred is true at all. I believe the absolute and the sacred are the apex of human logical laziness. We as a species, entrusted with this large brain, feel the need to explain our existence; we can't, we probably will never get to the point where we will, so what do we do? We create gods, religions, forms of governments, laws, systems of control. If nothing is real, everything is permitted. Fear of the unknown is the father of all human ugliness, if it can't be explained, if it is different, if it makes us question our beliefs, it must be wrong, it must be vilified, RUN!
So yes, I am a happy nihilist, an atheist, a STRONG agnostic (an atheist and agnostic you ask? Yes, I can not disprove the existence of God, I can though abhor his systems of promotion), I have socialist leanings, I am way more left then right, I am a pacifist, a lover, a proud father. I believe in the beauty of nature and art. I believe my new born child is the world's greatest invention. I am not dissatisfied with life, I just think things need further investigation. I am not one to take the easy route. I like the bumpy road. I like life because of all its warts. SO THERE. That is who I am, that is what I believe or disbelieve. Does any one else want to come out an play? I'd love for this to become a grand discussion of belief and faith.
~ And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you. ~ Friedrich Nietzsche
First off, what I believe. Or it might be better put what I do not believe. I am a fuzzy nihilist, a happy skeptic, I tend to hold strong to the notion that everything we experience, feel, think, touch, taste, etc is a uniquely personal and thus human experience. There is no hand turning the screw, no man pulling the strings. We are all in this thing alone, so we better try our best to get along.
Nihilism is a bit of a dirty term, it's been attached over the years to the nasty bits of anarchism, lawlessness, non conformity, those things that make the powers that be cringe. Why be so anti-establishment? What are you trying to prove boy? Nothing, I mean no harm, I just tend to take a broader look at things. I have never been one to willingly swallow the Kool Aid. Nope, not without spiking the punch first.
Dictionary.com defines nihilism thusly (I will highlight the bits that I think pertain to me):
ni⋅hil⋅ism
-noun
1. total rejection of established laws and institutions.
2. anarchy, terrorism, or other revolutionary activity.
3. total and absolute destructiveness, esp. toward the world at large and including oneself: the power-mad nihilism that marked Hitler's last years.
4. Philosophy ~
a. an extreme form of skepticism: the denial of all real existence or the possibility of an objective basis for truth.
b. nothingness or nonexistence.
5. (sometimes initial capital letter) the principles of a Russian revolutionary group, active in the latter half of the 19th century, holding that existing social and political institutions must be destroyed in order to clear the way for a new state of society and employing extreme measures, including terrorism and assassination.
6. annihilation of the self, or the individual consciousness, esp. as an aspect of mystical experience.
Like any other school of thought, I can't really claim to be a true blue nihilist. I am not that dark. I believe that very little of what we hold to be absolute or sacred is true at all. I believe the absolute and the sacred are the apex of human logical laziness. We as a species, entrusted with this large brain, feel the need to explain our existence; we can't, we probably will never get to the point where we will, so what do we do? We create gods, religions, forms of governments, laws, systems of control. If nothing is real, everything is permitted. Fear of the unknown is the father of all human ugliness, if it can't be explained, if it is different, if it makes us question our beliefs, it must be wrong, it must be vilified, RUN!
So yes, I am a happy nihilist, an atheist, a STRONG agnostic (an atheist and agnostic you ask? Yes, I can not disprove the existence of God, I can though abhor his systems of promotion), I have socialist leanings, I am way more left then right, I am a pacifist, a lover, a proud father. I believe in the beauty of nature and art. I believe my new born child is the world's greatest invention. I am not dissatisfied with life, I just think things need further investigation. I am not one to take the easy route. I like the bumpy road. I like life because of all its warts. SO THERE. That is who I am, that is what I believe or disbelieve. Does any one else want to come out an play? I'd love for this to become a grand discussion of belief and faith.
~ And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you. ~ Friedrich Nietzsche
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
NAD Men and English Dogs: A Few Words Before Bed
When our supreme editor-in-chief Joseph Lane asked me to contribute to The National Affairs Desk, I was secretly elated; there’s no better ego boost then to have someone solicit your talents (or to RECOGNIZE my talents, If indeed I have any to begin with..) and give a poor bloke another forum for downloading those meandering and insane thoughts onto the page. I see that it’s become more than that, however. It’s become a strange and wonderful camaraderie; we have become brothers in words. This is the closest I’ve come to being in a writer’s group, even though no judgment is passed, and no critiques are issued. We respect each other, and we urge each other on. It’s a writer’s God-send.
This is not an admonition to all those writers who choose to be separatists, who want to go it alone and fight through the writer’s blocks by themselves, no. I’m simply advocating the “pay it forward” concept of writing and composing. Do for others as you would have them do unto you. In other words, read other people’s blogs, ask writers to contribute to your own, be pro-active. I notice some writer’s have not taken this approach; they sit on their 5000 followers and don’t share a thing. That’s entirely their prerogative. I think it’s a mistake. Those you step over on the way up, you may meet on the way down again, and they’ll be grabbing your pant cuff on the long ride down. I wish not to be this way (Of course, after I get a book up on the New York Times Best Seller list I may dip my foot into debauchery and self-indulgent egotism and elicit comments from former colleagues like “it used to be about the writing man!”) But I digress.
I’m lucky. I have attracted a small but rabid entourage of writers, just like Jack Kerouac did. I shall not sit on a heap of followers and not share them; I’m not Reverend Jim Jones. There are too many good writers out there who need a break, like some of our NAD contributors Matt Byron, Joseph Lane and the wonderful Gale Mullings. And me. I could use a break too. To summarize; be good to your fellow writers and they will be good to you. And as my partner in literary crime Joseph Lane always says, we’re all in this together.
David Hunter, over and out.
Note: Please keep scrolling down and read about ruts, the writing kind, courtesy of one Joseph Lane. Thank you for your patronage.
This is not an admonition to all those writers who choose to be separatists, who want to go it alone and fight through the writer’s blocks by themselves, no. I’m simply advocating the “pay it forward” concept of writing and composing. Do for others as you would have them do unto you. In other words, read other people’s blogs, ask writers to contribute to your own, be pro-active. I notice some writer’s have not taken this approach; they sit on their 5000 followers and don’t share a thing. That’s entirely their prerogative. I think it’s a mistake. Those you step over on the way up, you may meet on the way down again, and they’ll be grabbing your pant cuff on the long ride down. I wish not to be this way (Of course, after I get a book up on the New York Times Best Seller list I may dip my foot into debauchery and self-indulgent egotism and elicit comments from former colleagues like “it used to be about the writing man!”) But I digress.
I’m lucky. I have attracted a small but rabid entourage of writers, just like Jack Kerouac did. I shall not sit on a heap of followers and not share them; I’m not Reverend Jim Jones. There are too many good writers out there who need a break, like some of our NAD contributors Matt Byron, Joseph Lane and the wonderful Gale Mullings. And me. I could use a break too. To summarize; be good to your fellow writers and they will be good to you. And as my partner in literary crime Joseph Lane always says, we’re all in this together.
David Hunter, over and out.
Note: Please keep scrolling down and read about ruts, the writing kind, courtesy of one Joseph Lane. Thank you for your patronage.
Rut? What Rut?
I have been writing full out for days. Not one long project. I am not writing a novel, a novella, a screenplay or even a short book of poems, nope. I have been writing short jabs, quick punches, an uppercut every now and then, I have been blogging, and up until now I thought I was winning the fight.
Then it hit me, right in the gut. I could see the rut coming a mile away, but it was as if two hired goons where holding my arms back. WHACK, BANG, POW, writer's block, my nemesis, began wailing away. Was it hopeless? Was there no way I could fight such a ungodly beast?
Hell no! Why? Because I have got allies. Yes, and I have many. A billion thanks to my friends who contribute, read and comment on the NAD. You are a source of constant fodder, you prop me up, you give me strength, you are the ink in my pen, the spring in my step. I write for, and because I have talented people around me. You all are my posse, together we can slay that beast.
Then it hit me, right in the gut. I could see the rut coming a mile away, but it was as if two hired goons where holding my arms back. WHACK, BANG, POW, writer's block, my nemesis, began wailing away. Was it hopeless? Was there no way I could fight such a ungodly beast?
Hell no! Why? Because I have got allies. Yes, and I have many. A billion thanks to my friends who contribute, read and comment on the NAD. You are a source of constant fodder, you prop me up, you give me strength, you are the ink in my pen, the spring in my step. I write for, and because I have talented people around me. You all are my posse, together we can slay that beast.
In response to 'On style'
From the NAD's dear friend Rasmenia, originally posted as a comment.
Egad... I can't take it. I've just got to spit out my 2 cents & I'll do my best not to create a mess of logorrhea on the page, here.
My opinon - for whatever it's worth - is that the days of Strunk & White are over.
Obviously, if one has the prose of the Elysian Fields endlessly streaming out of their ass, it won't matter much if they haven't yet grasped the concept of how to use quotes, commas & other dandy dots & dashes.
At the same time, the most rigid grammar Nazi isn't necessarily a good writer.
I'm very picky about each & every word when I'm writing a peice of fiction. I'm just as selective with each bit of punctuation & when MSWord (or a human being in my writer's group) tries to tell me that I shouldn't use an ellipses, or a sentence fragment, I ignore it.
Part of writing is using your own voice to make your own style & fuck the rules - THERE ARE NO RULES.
But... it still has to be readable.
So, um... yeah. What I'm saying is, I agree with Matt.
Egad... I can't take it. I've just got to spit out my 2 cents & I'll do my best not to create a mess of logorrhea on the page, here.
My opinon - for whatever it's worth - is that the days of Strunk & White are over.
Obviously, if one has the prose of the Elysian Fields endlessly streaming out of their ass, it won't matter much if they haven't yet grasped the concept of how to use quotes, commas & other dandy dots & dashes.
At the same time, the most rigid grammar Nazi isn't necessarily a good writer.
I'm very picky about each & every word when I'm writing a peice of fiction. I'm just as selective with each bit of punctuation & when MSWord (or a human being in my writer's group) tries to tell me that I shouldn't use an ellipses, or a sentence fragment, I ignore it.
Part of writing is using your own voice to make your own style & fuck the rules - THERE ARE NO RULES.
But... it still has to be readable.
So, um... yeah. What I'm saying is, I agree with Matt.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Have another donut
The Prime Minister of Canada Steven Harper, plans to skip President Obama's speech to the United Nations to make a trip to a donut shop. I kid you not, read this: (link)
During the NHL playoffs, years ago, Jim Schoenfeld, then the coach of the New Jersey Devils, got into it with a referee, the referee Don Koharski, claimed Schoenfeld pushed him. Schoenfeld responded by famously saying: "Good, 'cause you fell, you fat pig! Have another donut! Have another donut!"
This whole thing reminds me of that event. Have another donut Harpo! Have another donut!
During the NHL playoffs, years ago, Jim Schoenfeld, then the coach of the New Jersey Devils, got into it with a referee, the referee Don Koharski, claimed Schoenfeld pushed him. Schoenfeld responded by famously saying: "Good, 'cause you fell, you fat pig! Have another donut! Have another donut!"
This whole thing reminds me of that event. Have another donut Harpo! Have another donut!
On Style
So I drank a full pot of coffee, things began to rumble, things were shaking down south. Off I whisked to the bathroom, my den of silence, the place where I get most of my best reading and for that matter thinking done.
What am I reading right now? I am reading Invisible Monsters by Chuck Palahnuik. Truth be told I am not sure I like it. It's not the content, his premise is solid. It is a story about the fashion industry: super models, trannies, flashing cameras, oh my. No, I am digging the plot. It's his style. I am finding the whole damn thing too gimmicky. He is trying too hard, too many tricks. I wish he'd tell the story, I am already dizzy and I have read only 20 pages. So there, no offense Mr. Palahnuik, you're brilliant, I am a huge fan. It's just that the first 20 pages of Invisible Monsters had me reaching for the Gravol. Maybe that's the point. But what is my point? Is this a book review? Heavens no, this is a rant about style.
Style versus substance. I used to write raw, I abhorred the shackles of grammar and structure. I thought them false constraint; I believed my mind and my words were too wild to be caged. Blame Kerouac and his beats. Then thank them for the inspiration. I eventually began to blog, which meant that my words were being 'published' with the potential for all to read. The perfectionism sunk in. I was now playing a writer on the Internet. I had better buck up, edit, edit, spell check, worry. I took it one step further. I enrolled in journalism classes. British journalism classes at that. I wanted my words and the structure of them scrutinized like only the British could. I wanted to be as good as I could get. Style be damned.
Guess what? The words then stopped. It was no longer fun writing. It became a task, something too clean, more akin to washing the dishes than art. I was in a creative funk. The old me- raw, poetic, rebellious vs the new me- polite, structured, tight. I have been writing through that battle now for the last couple of years. The poet versus the journalist. Perhaps I am a new breed of poetic journalist. But I will let Matt comment about that- he is, of course the expert in all things gonzo.
So there. Not a book review, not an attack on Chuck Palahnuik, just some observations on literary style, from a guy still searching for the best belt to match with his literary hat. Now off I waddle to the bathroom on a quest for the next grand subject. Excuse me a moment.
What am I reading right now? I am reading Invisible Monsters by Chuck Palahnuik. Truth be told I am not sure I like it. It's not the content, his premise is solid. It is a story about the fashion industry: super models, trannies, flashing cameras, oh my. No, I am digging the plot. It's his style. I am finding the whole damn thing too gimmicky. He is trying too hard, too many tricks. I wish he'd tell the story, I am already dizzy and I have read only 20 pages. So there, no offense Mr. Palahnuik, you're brilliant, I am a huge fan. It's just that the first 20 pages of Invisible Monsters had me reaching for the Gravol. Maybe that's the point. But what is my point? Is this a book review? Heavens no, this is a rant about style.
Style versus substance. I used to write raw, I abhorred the shackles of grammar and structure. I thought them false constraint; I believed my mind and my words were too wild to be caged. Blame Kerouac and his beats. Then thank them for the inspiration. I eventually began to blog, which meant that my words were being 'published' with the potential for all to read. The perfectionism sunk in. I was now playing a writer on the Internet. I had better buck up, edit, edit, spell check, worry. I took it one step further. I enrolled in journalism classes. British journalism classes at that. I wanted my words and the structure of them scrutinized like only the British could. I wanted to be as good as I could get. Style be damned.
Guess what? The words then stopped. It was no longer fun writing. It became a task, something too clean, more akin to washing the dishes than art. I was in a creative funk. The old me- raw, poetic, rebellious vs the new me- polite, structured, tight. I have been writing through that battle now for the last couple of years. The poet versus the journalist. Perhaps I am a new breed of poetic journalist. But I will let Matt comment about that- he is, of course the expert in all things gonzo.
So there. Not a book review, not an attack on Chuck Palahnuik, just some observations on literary style, from a guy still searching for the best belt to match with his literary hat. Now off I waddle to the bathroom on a quest for the next grand subject. Excuse me a moment.
Monday, September 21, 2009
The sorta night it's been
I have been in a creative funk all day. I did my typical scouring of the Internet in search for something, anything I could rant, rave, praise or bash, but nothing caught my eye. I had nearly come to the conclusion that I was about to let the NAD and its readers down. Tonight, I just didn't have it in me.
Suddenly at about 10:00 pm, usually a time of peace and quiet in my household, my 10 year old daughter bursts through the living room door, not panicked, sorta giggling, a weird bemused look in her eye, and says 'mommy needs you'. Fair enough, weird request, but why is she so awake? Off I trudge, towards our bedroom, a tad angry, it's late, it's my time of the night, why oh why is everyone in the house still wide awake? I enter the kitchen. Emily laughing, 'what are you doing Zach?' she says. I look towards the kitchen sink, there I see my 6 year old son Zach pissing in the garbage can. My brain goes pbthhh, huh, wah, what the heck is happening, how is this possible? 'Zach, Zach, what are you doing Zach, that is not the toilet, stop!' It was of course way past too late. He had somehow managed to stop peeing on the floor, he was conscious enough to come to the conclusion that the garbage can was a better piss receptacle. Hurray for small miracles. Clean up in aisle six. Oh and have I said fuck yet? No? Oh well then, FUCK!
There you have it, another night in the life of a brand new dad. All this will be fodder for when Zach is older. Ye gods are his future girlfriends going to hear about this. Mean? Perhaps. But how can I not?
Suddenly at about 10:00 pm, usually a time of peace and quiet in my household, my 10 year old daughter bursts through the living room door, not panicked, sorta giggling, a weird bemused look in her eye, and says 'mommy needs you'. Fair enough, weird request, but why is she so awake? Off I trudge, towards our bedroom, a tad angry, it's late, it's my time of the night, why oh why is everyone in the house still wide awake? I enter the kitchen. Emily laughing, 'what are you doing Zach?' she says. I look towards the kitchen sink, there I see my 6 year old son Zach pissing in the garbage can. My brain goes pbthhh, huh, wah, what the heck is happening, how is this possible? 'Zach, Zach, what are you doing Zach, that is not the toilet, stop!' It was of course way past too late. He had somehow managed to stop peeing on the floor, he was conscious enough to come to the conclusion that the garbage can was a better piss receptacle. Hurray for small miracles. Clean up in aisle six. Oh and have I said fuck yet? No? Oh well then, FUCK!
There you have it, another night in the life of a brand new dad. All this will be fodder for when Zach is older. Ye gods are his future girlfriends going to hear about this. Mean? Perhaps. But how can I not?
A Realistic Solution
*VIA TELEVISED PUBLIC ADDRESS*
“My fellow Americans: today we stand at the door steps of a New Day –and with a New Day comes the promise of a better tomorrow. Each day-on the other side of the coin our nation faced some of the same challenges we’ve faces time and time-battle to battle-again and again and again. I am, of course, referring to our Great Nations’ problems with drugs…
The gangs keep killing, the number of addicts is sharply on the rise, and the tax-payers keep paying for it…for OUR failure to snuff out his time old dilemma. But with the new dawn of today comes a drastic, but, fresh approach to one of America’s greatest battles for the safety and security of our citizens. This bill has been passed in an expedited manor…in accordance with a nearly unheard of UNANIMOUS vote by both the House and Senate for immediate integration of the new strategy.
So as of today-we have legalized the sale off all previously illegal drugs and pharmaceuticals to the public-by designated retail outlets; amongst which currently are: Walgreens, Costco, Wal-Mart, and soon, McDonalds Restaurants. All drugs, regardless of previous pricing, shall be retailed at $0.25 per single dose. The $0.25, pharmaceutical grade dosages will be individually packaged and clearly labeled as to the specific contents, what the expected duration of said dosage will be, what combinations and amounts will result in overdose, and how long after ingestion insanity is expected to begin.
This new policy will almost immediately help effectuate the following changes:
1: the drugs being manufactured, controlled, and taxed by the government will simultaneously stop deaths related to “drug cutting”- a process by which mid- and low- level dealers expand their supply by adding various cheaper substances to a particular batch; and secondly-by means of the profits raised--resolve our previously irresolvable national budgetary deficit.
2: this new legalization will nearly put all street drug dealing gangs out of business overnight--bringing a huge amount of drug-related violence to an end. We’ve anticipated a 98.4% drop in dealer and addict murders.
3: The freedom to abuse drugs by our current using population will both disgust and horrify inexperienced potential new drugs users by the new public display of the depths and depravity and dangers of starting up a drug habit.
This move will, in time, make us a much stronger nation. It will separate the men from the boys…and furthermore-the man of weak will from those of strong constitution…Thank You.
President George W. Bush
-in a dream I had
Matt Byron
“My fellow Americans: today we stand at the door steps of a New Day –and with a New Day comes the promise of a better tomorrow. Each day-on the other side of the coin our nation faced some of the same challenges we’ve faces time and time-battle to battle-again and again and again. I am, of course, referring to our Great Nations’ problems with drugs…
The gangs keep killing, the number of addicts is sharply on the rise, and the tax-payers keep paying for it…for OUR failure to snuff out his time old dilemma. But with the new dawn of today comes a drastic, but, fresh approach to one of America’s greatest battles for the safety and security of our citizens. This bill has been passed in an expedited manor…in accordance with a nearly unheard of UNANIMOUS vote by both the House and Senate for immediate integration of the new strategy.
So as of today-we have legalized the sale off all previously illegal drugs and pharmaceuticals to the public-by designated retail outlets; amongst which currently are: Walgreens, Costco, Wal-Mart, and soon, McDonalds Restaurants. All drugs, regardless of previous pricing, shall be retailed at $0.25 per single dose. The $0.25, pharmaceutical grade dosages will be individually packaged and clearly labeled as to the specific contents, what the expected duration of said dosage will be, what combinations and amounts will result in overdose, and how long after ingestion insanity is expected to begin.
This new policy will almost immediately help effectuate the following changes:
1: the drugs being manufactured, controlled, and taxed by the government will simultaneously stop deaths related to “drug cutting”- a process by which mid- and low- level dealers expand their supply by adding various cheaper substances to a particular batch; and secondly-by means of the profits raised--resolve our previously irresolvable national budgetary deficit.
2: this new legalization will nearly put all street drug dealing gangs out of business overnight--bringing a huge amount of drug-related violence to an end. We’ve anticipated a 98.4% drop in dealer and addict murders.
3: The freedom to abuse drugs by our current using population will both disgust and horrify inexperienced potential new drugs users by the new public display of the depths and depravity and dangers of starting up a drug habit.
This move will, in time, make us a much stronger nation. It will separate the men from the boys…and furthermore-the man of weak will from those of strong constitution…Thank You.
President George W. Bush
-in a dream I had
Matt Byron
Rant, Rave, Spit Blood
(A little something I wrote in 2006)
Rant, rave, spit blood, take the kick to the balls, wallow in the mud. Laugh it off, strike back, act as if you are right. Write young man... write.
If they mock; scoff, write them off as incompetent. Fools they must be, archaic in mind and soul. Dumbfounded, fool hearted, hoodwinked by their religion, their false prophets, the holes in their constitutions. Wrong is their self-righteousness, wrong their stagnant sense of good vs evil. Inane, let them them cling to their sense of power, their us versus them. Their time is near, the fog will clear, intelligence trumps dogma, stronger wills will prevail. The good fight is one worth fighting. Rights over rites, logic regardless of profit. Carry on beautiful dreamers, your day will come.
Rant, rave, spit blood, take the kick to the balls, wallow in the mud. Laugh it off, strike back, act as if you are right. Write young man... write.
If they mock; scoff, write them off as incompetent. Fools they must be, archaic in mind and soul. Dumbfounded, fool hearted, hoodwinked by their religion, their false prophets, the holes in their constitutions. Wrong is their self-righteousness, wrong their stagnant sense of good vs evil. Inane, let them them cling to their sense of power, their us versus them. Their time is near, the fog will clear, intelligence trumps dogma, stronger wills will prevail. The good fight is one worth fighting. Rights over rites, logic regardless of profit. Carry on beautiful dreamers, your day will come.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
The sorry state of journalism
First a disclaimer. Yes, I have a diploma in journalism, but no, I have not been published or worked for any news organization. So I cannot attest to the true workings of a newsroom. This, therefore, is an opinion piece. This a rant at what I see on the screen, not an attack on what may or may not be going on behind the screen. There, that should cover my ass. I have admitted that I am ignorant, and because of that ignorance I hope I am permitted some bias. Here goes:
Watch this: (hat tip C&L)
So there, the Obama Administration snubs Fox News (and I am using the term "News" here in the loosest way possible). My gut tells me, fair enough, fuck 'em, they have made a mockery of responsible journalism for years. One of the first things you are taught as a journalist is to report the facts (the who, what, when, where and how), remain unbiased, allow all sides to express their opinion, never, ever pick sides. Fox News, regardless of their catchphrase 'fair and balanced', is the most blatantly biased 'news' organization of the lot. They take pride in that. Hell it is their bread and butter. They pander to the right, they for the most part set the right's agenda. They are less a news organization and more an open mic for the conservative movement. Bless 'em. What was Obama to do? Ignore the raving madmen like Hannity, O'Reilly and Beck? Cuddle up to that swine Chris Wallace because he plays a news anchor on TV? Perhaps. He is after all the President, why not be the better man? Show up, state your case, smile, nod, shake Chrissy-poos hand, and be done with them. Why add to their fodder? They have proclaimed their dislike for Obama. They express that dislike 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. But wait, would appearing on Fox News legitimize a truly illegitimate 'news' organization? Maybe, but they do yell loud, they are being listened to, why not try and at least get your message out to the propagandized hordes?
Is it all Fox's fault? NO. The mainstream media (and I am sorry, Fox, regardless of viewership is not a mainstream news organization), is nearly as polarized and lazy as Fox. Fox doesn't play by the accepted rules, they are therefore fringe. But are any of the big American news providers playing by the rules? Have the rules changed? Is it impossible not to pick sides? CNN for example, can we forgive them for allowing Lou Dobbs to spit hate? MSNBC: is there journalistic integrity in allowing the leftist views of Olbermann and Maddow to dominate the airwaves? Are the rules different now on the network and cable news providers? Is televised news all opinion, facts be damned? Has the slow death of the newspaper industry changed everything? Is the journalist slowly becoming obsolete? Has the game changed- do talking heads and supposed 'experts' matter more than the writer, the journalist, the gatherer of facts? Is true journalism dead? Is the gig up? Is opinion all that matters? Will it forever be us versus them?
So there. All this is only my opinion, does that then make it a journalistic piece? NO. It makes it one man's views and concerns about the state of shared information. Maybe journalism can not separate itself from bias. Maybe we have to view news, not as Fox vs MSNBC vs CNN vs ABC vs The New York Times, but as the collection of views from every perspective. Maybe we should channel surf. Brand loyalty be damned.
Watch this: (hat tip C&L)
So there, the Obama Administration snubs Fox News (and I am using the term "News" here in the loosest way possible). My gut tells me, fair enough, fuck 'em, they have made a mockery of responsible journalism for years. One of the first things you are taught as a journalist is to report the facts (the who, what, when, where and how), remain unbiased, allow all sides to express their opinion, never, ever pick sides. Fox News, regardless of their catchphrase 'fair and balanced', is the most blatantly biased 'news' organization of the lot. They take pride in that. Hell it is their bread and butter. They pander to the right, they for the most part set the right's agenda. They are less a news organization and more an open mic for the conservative movement. Bless 'em. What was Obama to do? Ignore the raving madmen like Hannity, O'Reilly and Beck? Cuddle up to that swine Chris Wallace because he plays a news anchor on TV? Perhaps. He is after all the President, why not be the better man? Show up, state your case, smile, nod, shake Chrissy-poos hand, and be done with them. Why add to their fodder? They have proclaimed their dislike for Obama. They express that dislike 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. But wait, would appearing on Fox News legitimize a truly illegitimate 'news' organization? Maybe, but they do yell loud, they are being listened to, why not try and at least get your message out to the propagandized hordes?
Is it all Fox's fault? NO. The mainstream media (and I am sorry, Fox, regardless of viewership is not a mainstream news organization), is nearly as polarized and lazy as Fox. Fox doesn't play by the accepted rules, they are therefore fringe. But are any of the big American news providers playing by the rules? Have the rules changed? Is it impossible not to pick sides? CNN for example, can we forgive them for allowing Lou Dobbs to spit hate? MSNBC: is there journalistic integrity in allowing the leftist views of Olbermann and Maddow to dominate the airwaves? Are the rules different now on the network and cable news providers? Is televised news all opinion, facts be damned? Has the slow death of the newspaper industry changed everything? Is the journalist slowly becoming obsolete? Has the game changed- do talking heads and supposed 'experts' matter more than the writer, the journalist, the gatherer of facts? Is true journalism dead? Is the gig up? Is opinion all that matters? Will it forever be us versus them?
So there. All this is only my opinion, does that then make it a journalistic piece? NO. It makes it one man's views and concerns about the state of shared information. Maybe journalism can not separate itself from bias. Maybe we have to view news, not as Fox vs MSNBC vs CNN vs ABC vs The New York Times, but as the collection of views from every perspective. Maybe we should channel surf. Brand loyalty be damned.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Buraucracy Rules: An Irate Citizen's Letter
TORONTO -- Hey everybody, David Hunter here. Joseph Lane is on a week-end bender with his buddies and has entrusted his beloved National Affairs Desk to me for the time being (mistake!) so true to my nature I will try to amuse and entertain as best I can, and hope nothing litigious happens in the process. A funny thing came across the news desk here in Toronto; apparently an irate citizen took exception to the bureaucracy thrown his way when applying for his passport and wrote this letter to the passport office. I don't know if it's a real letter, there's no way to know that, but if it's not It's still worth a gander because it speaks the truth, however inelegant and inconvenient it is.
Dear sirs,
I'm in the process of renewing my passport, and still cannot believe this. How is it that Radio Shack has my address and telephone number and knows that I bought a cable t.v. from them back in 1987, and yet, the Federal Government is still asking me where I was born and on what date.
For Christ sakes, do you guys do this by hand? My birth date you have on my social security card, and it is on all the income tax forms I've filed for the past 30 years. It is on my health insurance card, my driver's license, on the last eight damn passports I've had, on all those stupid customs declaration forms I've had to fill out before being allowed off the plane over the last 30 years, and all those insufferable census forms that are done at election times.
Would somebody please take note, once and for all, that my mother's name is Maryanne, my father's name is Robert and I'd be absolutely astounded if that ever changed between now and when I die!!!!!!
I apologize, I'm really pissed off this morning. Between you an' me, I've had enough of this bullshit! You send the application to my house, then you ask me for my fuckin' address.
What is going on? You have a gang of Neanderthal assholes workin' there! Look at my damn picture. Do I look like Bin Laden? I don't want to dig up Yasser Arafat, for shit sakes. I just want to go and park my ass on a sandy beach.
And would someone please tell me, why would you give a shit whether I plan on visiting a farm in the next 15 days? If I ever got the urge to do something weird to a chicken or a goat, believe you me, I'd sure as hell not want to tell anyone!
Well, I have to go now, 'cause I have to go to the other end of the city and get another fuckin' copy of my birth certificate, to the tune of $60. Would it be so complicated to have all the services in the same spot to assist in the issuance of a new passport the same day?? Nooooo, that'd be to damn easy and maybe makes sense. You'd rather have us running all over the fuckin' place like chickens with our heads cut off, then find some asshole to confirm that it's really me on the damn picture - you know,the one where we're not allowed to smile?! (bureaucratic fuckin' morons) Hey, you know
why we can't smile? We're totally pissed off!
Signed
- An Irate Citizen.
P.S. Remember what I said above about the picture and getting someone to confirm that it's me? Well, my family has been in this country since 1776 ........ I have served in the military for something over 30 years and have had security clearances up the ying yang ........ However, I have to get someone 'important' to verify who I am - you know, someone like my doctor WHO WAS BORN AND RAISED IN INDIA !
Sincerely,
You Sure In The Hell Should Know Who.
Dear sirs,
I'm in the process of renewing my passport, and still cannot believe this. How is it that Radio Shack has my address and telephone number and knows that I bought a cable t.v. from them back in 1987, and yet, the Federal Government is still asking me where I was born and on what date.
For Christ sakes, do you guys do this by hand? My birth date you have on my social security card, and it is on all the income tax forms I've filed for the past 30 years. It is on my health insurance card, my driver's license, on the last eight damn passports I've had, on all those stupid customs declaration forms I've had to fill out before being allowed off the plane over the last 30 years, and all those insufferable census forms that are done at election times.
Would somebody please take note, once and for all, that my mother's name is Maryanne, my father's name is Robert and I'd be absolutely astounded if that ever changed between now and when I die!!!!!!
I apologize, I'm really pissed off this morning. Between you an' me, I've had enough of this bullshit! You send the application to my house, then you ask me for my fuckin' address.
What is going on? You have a gang of Neanderthal assholes workin' there! Look at my damn picture. Do I look like Bin Laden? I don't want to dig up Yasser Arafat, for shit sakes. I just want to go and park my ass on a sandy beach.
And would someone please tell me, why would you give a shit whether I plan on visiting a farm in the next 15 days? If I ever got the urge to do something weird to a chicken or a goat, believe you me, I'd sure as hell not want to tell anyone!
Well, I have to go now, 'cause I have to go to the other end of the city and get another fuckin' copy of my birth certificate, to the tune of $60. Would it be so complicated to have all the services in the same spot to assist in the issuance of a new passport the same day?? Nooooo, that'd be to damn easy and maybe makes sense. You'd rather have us running all over the fuckin' place like chickens with our heads cut off, then find some asshole to confirm that it's really me on the damn picture - you know,the one where we're not allowed to smile?! (bureaucratic fuckin' morons) Hey, you know
why we can't smile? We're totally pissed off!
Signed
- An Irate Citizen.
P.S. Remember what I said above about the picture and getting someone to confirm that it's me? Well, my family has been in this country since 1776 ........ I have served in the military for something over 30 years and have had security clearances up the ying yang ........ However, I have to get someone 'important' to verify who I am - you know, someone like my doctor WHO WAS BORN AND RAISED IN INDIA !
Sincerely,
You Sure In The Hell Should Know Who.
Friday, September 18, 2009
A blog free weekend
Hello dear readers, just a little note. I have a couple of old friends coming to visit this weekend. I will therefore be entertaining and not blogging. Thank you so much for a great coupla weeks, have a wonderful weekend. I will be the nutter with the lampshade on his head. Cheers!
J
J
Has the world gone mad?
Never in my life did I think I would ever give props, even praise to Bill O'Reilly, but I am going to today.
First watch this:(via Daily Kos)
There you have it folks, the raving lunatic of the mad right, throwing his support behind the public option. I am shocked, I am awed, but I have to do it, hat tip Bill O'Reilly. Oh man that stung.
First watch this:(via Daily Kos)
There you have it folks, the raving lunatic of the mad right, throwing his support behind the public option. I am shocked, I am awed, but I have to do it, hat tip Bill O'Reilly. Oh man that stung.
Word play
Poetry, egad, you might say
Well yes, and why not?
It's all just word play
But really how could you?
Surely not on this day
But I shall, and I will
You can't control one's fair play.
Well yes, and why not?
It's all just word play
But really how could you?
Surely not on this day
But I shall, and I will
You can't control one's fair play.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
The Toronto News Desk
The WIRe – Week in Review
David Hunter
TORONTO – It’s been an interesting week here in Hog-Town; the Toronto International Film Festival is on and the likes of Drew Barrymore and Megan Fox are prowling around town. Well, within a two block radius of their respective Hotel Suites anyway….President Obama and our Prime minister Stephen Harpo met this week to discuss trade issues, energy and the economy, in addition to Afghanistan and healthcare reform, in an hour-long meeting at the White House; but mostly the President wanted to know why Harpo’s hair never moves, and how someone with no appeal becomes leader of a nation…..Kanye West interrupts sweet little Taylor Swift’s acceptance speech and says “Beyonce should have won..” classy. He has since apologized due to public backlash; I smell publicity stunt all over this one….apparently George Clooney would rather have a “rectal exam by a fellow with cold hands” then join a social networking site. TMI dude….Scarlett Johansson is boning up on her role of Black Widow by reading tons of comic books, “...there is quite a stack of comic books taking up space!” she says. Gonna need a bigger mansion I guess…..OBITS: Actor Henry Gibson b. 1935 – d. 2009 of Germantown Pennsylvania, has died at age 73. Best known as a bit player in the cast of Laugh-In, Walter Klopek in The ‘Burbs and a most awesome evil Neo-Nazi in The Blues Brothers….Mary Travers of the folk trio Peter, Paul and Mary, has died at age 72. Another great Boomer gone…..Actor Patrick Swayze has died at the age of 57 after a two year battle with pancreatic cancer. The world seems a little colder this week….RIP Patrick.
“It’s amazing Molly; the love inside, you take it with you…”
End notes…
I was wondering when all this talk of race and skin color would rear its ugly head; President Barack Obama, who was president of the Harvard Law Review and earned his stripes as a United States Senator, doesn’t deserve to be judged on the pigment of his skin, but on the content of his character, and the intentions in his heart. I suppose its all fair game; look at the shots George W. Bush took. He was just too dumb to realize it…I’m reasonably sure someone out there has referred to him as a “Red-neck” at one time or another, but that’s not the same as bigotry and racism. On a personal note, I happen to like Obama, he’s smart, tuned in, and youthful; give him a chance to do his job; and for Pete’s sake, stop using his skin-color as a starting point in debates on his policies; it has nothing to do with anything.
Repeat after me: Skin color is irrelevant. Grow up, and let’s get quibbling about real issues.
Special thanks to NAD editor and head honcho Joseph Lane, for bringing a diverse group of writers together and sharing his forum with us. He has created something special…so enjoy it, and keep reading.
Until we meet again, keep your chin up.
David Hunter, September 17, 2009, the Toronto News Desk
David Hunter
TORONTO – It’s been an interesting week here in Hog-Town; the Toronto International Film Festival is on and the likes of Drew Barrymore and Megan Fox are prowling around town. Well, within a two block radius of their respective Hotel Suites anyway….President Obama and our Prime minister Stephen Harpo met this week to discuss trade issues, energy and the economy, in addition to Afghanistan and healthcare reform, in an hour-long meeting at the White House; but mostly the President wanted to know why Harpo’s hair never moves, and how someone with no appeal becomes leader of a nation…..Kanye West interrupts sweet little Taylor Swift’s acceptance speech and says “Beyonce should have won..” classy. He has since apologized due to public backlash; I smell publicity stunt all over this one….apparently George Clooney would rather have a “rectal exam by a fellow with cold hands” then join a social networking site. TMI dude….Scarlett Johansson is boning up on her role of Black Widow by reading tons of comic books, “...there is quite a stack of comic books taking up space!” she says. Gonna need a bigger mansion I guess…..OBITS: Actor Henry Gibson b. 1935 – d. 2009 of Germantown Pennsylvania, has died at age 73. Best known as a bit player in the cast of Laugh-In, Walter Klopek in The ‘Burbs and a most awesome evil Neo-Nazi in The Blues Brothers….Mary Travers of the folk trio Peter, Paul and Mary, has died at age 72. Another great Boomer gone…..Actor Patrick Swayze has died at the age of 57 after a two year battle with pancreatic cancer. The world seems a little colder this week….RIP Patrick.
“It’s amazing Molly; the love inside, you take it with you…”
End notes…
I was wondering when all this talk of race and skin color would rear its ugly head; President Barack Obama, who was president of the Harvard Law Review and earned his stripes as a United States Senator, doesn’t deserve to be judged on the pigment of his skin, but on the content of his character, and the intentions in his heart. I suppose its all fair game; look at the shots George W. Bush took. He was just too dumb to realize it…I’m reasonably sure someone out there has referred to him as a “Red-neck” at one time or another, but that’s not the same as bigotry and racism. On a personal note, I happen to like Obama, he’s smart, tuned in, and youthful; give him a chance to do his job; and for Pete’s sake, stop using his skin-color as a starting point in debates on his policies; it has nothing to do with anything.
Repeat after me: Skin color is irrelevant. Grow up, and let’s get quibbling about real issues.
Special thanks to NAD editor and head honcho Joseph Lane, for bringing a diverse group of writers together and sharing his forum with us. He has created something special…so enjoy it, and keep reading.
Until we meet again, keep your chin up.
David Hunter, September 17, 2009, the Toronto News Desk
To blahg
I have felt it my duty to write a post today. I scoured the Internet in search of a compelling story. Something that would make me go what the hell? Maybe a wow. Even a huh? Alas nothing really stood out.
There was the canned outrage at the Canadian Health Department sending extra body bags to remote Native reserves in the North, in case the swine flu fits those areas as hard as predicted. Worrisome, perhaps, but I don't see it as a political outrage. I am always leery when Native issues are used for political gain. Maybe that is just my middle class white guilt shining through, who knows? My point is, I bet the Canadian health system is gearing up all over the country for a second wave of the Swine Flu, the fact that a few extra body bags have been sent to northern communities is probably nothing more then preparation for what might come. Sad, but not a political issue. There I said it. Her Majesty's Royal Opposition can suck it.
Whoops, I guess that story did bring out some rage... but not enough. Anything else catch my eye?
I thought about attacking privacy issues, the Patriot Act, the 4th Amendment et al. But I got lazy. I was slightly inspired to do so after reading Hunter S. Thompson's Kingdom of Fear. But the task seemed daunting. And damn it, yes, I am in fact Canadian, sometimes it's best I ignore the elephant down South.
Anything else?
There was the music industry. But I poked enough fun at them on Twitter. Oh, right there was the little bit about me having a nasty cold. Could I really rant on and on about that? Probably not. But wait, isn't this ramble all pretty much a fever induced rant in the first place? ACHOO! Perhaps. Now where did I put my tissue?
There was the canned outrage at the Canadian Health Department sending extra body bags to remote Native reserves in the North, in case the swine flu fits those areas as hard as predicted. Worrisome, perhaps, but I don't see it as a political outrage. I am always leery when Native issues are used for political gain. Maybe that is just my middle class white guilt shining through, who knows? My point is, I bet the Canadian health system is gearing up all over the country for a second wave of the Swine Flu, the fact that a few extra body bags have been sent to northern communities is probably nothing more then preparation for what might come. Sad, but not a political issue. There I said it. Her Majesty's Royal Opposition can suck it.
Whoops, I guess that story did bring out some rage... but not enough. Anything else catch my eye?
I thought about attacking privacy issues, the Patriot Act, the 4th Amendment et al. But I got lazy. I was slightly inspired to do so after reading Hunter S. Thompson's Kingdom of Fear. But the task seemed daunting. And damn it, yes, I am in fact Canadian, sometimes it's best I ignore the elephant down South.
Anything else?
There was the music industry. But I poked enough fun at them on Twitter. Oh, right there was the little bit about me having a nasty cold. Could I really rant on and on about that? Probably not. But wait, isn't this ramble all pretty much a fever induced rant in the first place? ACHOO! Perhaps. Now where did I put my tissue?
Caption this, if you dare:
Hat tip to these guys (link)
I am a tad under the weather. My brain seemingly devoid of the capacity to rant. So dear friends, have a little fun while I gather my strength.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Gratitude
Just a quick post of thanks.
When I started this blog a few weeks a go, yes, I had some hopes and dreams for it. I want it to be a place where people could come and read some well written posts, on any or all subject, and then feel free to discuss said subject ad nauseum. I thought that if I could get a few people talking, I might make the world a slightly better place.
Wow, have my friends and readers delivered. The growth of this blog has blossomed in the last week or so. People are participating, and I couldn't be happier. A special thanks to David, Matt, Pat, and Gale for contributing such great content. Thank you everyone for playing. You have made this blogger blush.
J
When I started this blog a few weeks a go, yes, I had some hopes and dreams for it. I want it to be a place where people could come and read some well written posts, on any or all subject, and then feel free to discuss said subject ad nauseum. I thought that if I could get a few people talking, I might make the world a slightly better place.
Wow, have my friends and readers delivered. The growth of this blog has blossomed in the last week or so. People are participating, and I couldn't be happier. A special thanks to David, Matt, Pat, and Gale for contributing such great content. Thank you everyone for playing. You have made this blogger blush.
J
FRIDAY RELEASE IMMINENT!!
Althought the many agents of influence at The National Affairs Desk, Chicago, are true journalistic animals, the lazy bastards at the National Affairs Desk Press division (our editorial review and publishing hub), have been utterly useless and I only wish I could blame castration of the lot of 'em for their inability to execute. We are trying our best to get the Friday Release ready immediately to avoid THREE weeks without one...please stay tuned, and check back. The Friday Release shall ride high once again...and with any luck, by early Friday AM, the publishing deadline. Thanks again for the following!
With much love and patience from the Windy City, Matt
With much love and patience from the Windy City, Matt
Jimmy Carter speaks the truth
Here is what Jimmy Carter said in an NBC interview: (link)
"I think an overwhelming portion of the intensely demonstrated animosity toward President Barack Obama is based on the fact that he is a black man, that he's African American,"
I for one agree with the 39th President. The intense opposition to Barack Obama and the childish name calling that it has produced, is nothing more then thinly disguised racism. The wonderful Gale Mullings made similar observations in her post yesterday: (link)
Are we making you uncomfortable? You of the WASP middle class. You who see change as scary, as evil, as a lose of control. You who would endlessly bash the black man in the White House (not your man Bush who made the mess in the first place, that would be unpatriotic, UnAmerican, the troops, support the troops), but not because he is black, no no no, we shan't appear racially intolerant, some of my best friends are black, I love Will Smith, Tiger Woods, Katt Williams makes me rofl. Nope, lets instead, call the President a Socialist, a Fascist, a Commie, Hitler or the Devil incarnate, those words are fair, but gasp we won't use the 'N' word, nope we are all above that, right?
"I think an overwhelming portion of the intensely demonstrated animosity toward President Barack Obama is based on the fact that he is a black man, that he's African American,"
I for one agree with the 39th President. The intense opposition to Barack Obama and the childish name calling that it has produced, is nothing more then thinly disguised racism. The wonderful Gale Mullings made similar observations in her post yesterday: (link)
Are we making you uncomfortable? You of the WASP middle class. You who see change as scary, as evil, as a lose of control. You who would endlessly bash the black man in the White House (not your man Bush who made the mess in the first place, that would be unpatriotic, UnAmerican, the troops, support the troops), but not because he is black, no no no, we shan't appear racially intolerant, some of my best friends are black, I love Will Smith, Tiger Woods, Katt Williams makes me rofl. Nope, lets instead, call the President a Socialist, a Fascist, a Commie, Hitler or the Devil incarnate, those words are fair, but gasp we won't use the 'N' word, nope we are all above that, right?
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Dirty Words
A great guest post from the wonderful Gale Mullings. Read her blog here: (link)
Shared experience has been the factor missing from the universal language of math or currency. Words, as much as math or currency, are meaningless without a proper contextual framework. The last child and first born American to Jamaican parents taught me this lesson early in life. I can still hear my mother asserting, “You’re so damn American!” when my behavior caused her aggravation. I had no idea what this meant but, given her tone, knew it was not favorable.
Our experiences, more so than what we learn in school, shape who we are and I dare say for many of us, growth becomes a process of unlearning. My father told me a story once of a chance encounter he had with a white man who was also educated under the English system. Fondly reminiscing, my father asked the man, “You remember all the nursery rhymes they made us memorize?”; only to be halted by the man’s apparent confusion. In that single moment, my father realized he had been purposely taught foolishness to keep him ignorant, igniting anger at his miseducators.
I excelled in academia with one major shortcoming. I hated history. I managed to get fairly good grades in this subject despite my disdain; which I now attribute to a remarkable mental gag reflex of sorts. With a limited ability to retain bullshit, I managed to regurgitate just enough to pass the exams without internalizing the brainwashing nonsense I was being taught, such as “slavery was an attempt to civilize Africans.”
A question mark is the most powerful punctuation yet so many people fail to utilize it. To the detriment of humanity, the masses continue to recite the nursery rhymes they were taught as children and remix bedtime stories to spoon feed their children. Instead of Jack and Jill, my generation learned Die Commie Die! Communist, I was taught, was a dirtier word than fuck. I wondered why communism was bad and without the proper contextual framework ironically equated the term with “so damn American”, since they seemed to have the same tone.
Today, socialism is the new dirty word. Conservatives have used this word in an attempt to discredit President Obama and terrorize Americans into saving the nation. From what, may I ask? Wikipedia defines socialism “ various theories of economic organization advocating public or direct worker ownership and administration of the means of production and allocation of resources, and a society characterized by equal access to resources for all individuals with an egalitarian method of compensation.” Does that then mean we are fighting against equality?
If so that means in addition to being the other dirty word, liberal, I am also a socialist. By trade, I am a social worker and I have often thought the economic system lacked a sense of balance. From the onset of the economy’s nosedive, I have said what if we the (little) people just stopped? What if we said: “You know this just really isn’t working for me? Let me make it a little more tangible. Take any major corporation, Microsoft for example. Bill Gates is a world renowned billionaire. Some would argue that he deserves to be one of the world’s wealthiest people for his intelligence, innovation and hard work. True indeed but could the machine keep running without all levels of the operation? I wonder how much the lower level employees, whom most likely far outnumber the upper echelon, earn? What would happen to this capital generating operation if the middle and lower levels quit? Could the upper echelon of the company do it all by themselves? If the answer is no, then doesn’t it stand to reason that the proceeds should have a more equitable distribution?
I saw a comedian who joked that white racists are not bothered by the fact political correctness dictates they can no longer say the N-word because they are creative enough to come up with a new code. He related a story in which he heard a white person refer to blacks as “Mondays”. Being well versed in racist vernacular, he was surprised to admit he couldn’t figure that one out and asked for the context. The man replied, “You know, everyone hates Mondays.”
So as I hear the term socialist being aimed at President Obama, America’s first black president, I can’t help but wonder if this is the new code to replace the old dirty N-word and maintain the ever-so-slowly diminishing voice of the so damn American people who have the incredible ability to retain bullshit.
Shared experience has been the factor missing from the universal language of math or currency. Words, as much as math or currency, are meaningless without a proper contextual framework. The last child and first born American to Jamaican parents taught me this lesson early in life. I can still hear my mother asserting, “You’re so damn American!” when my behavior caused her aggravation. I had no idea what this meant but, given her tone, knew it was not favorable.
Our experiences, more so than what we learn in school, shape who we are and I dare say for many of us, growth becomes a process of unlearning. My father told me a story once of a chance encounter he had with a white man who was also educated under the English system. Fondly reminiscing, my father asked the man, “You remember all the nursery rhymes they made us memorize?”; only to be halted by the man’s apparent confusion. In that single moment, my father realized he had been purposely taught foolishness to keep him ignorant, igniting anger at his miseducators.
I excelled in academia with one major shortcoming. I hated history. I managed to get fairly good grades in this subject despite my disdain; which I now attribute to a remarkable mental gag reflex of sorts. With a limited ability to retain bullshit, I managed to regurgitate just enough to pass the exams without internalizing the brainwashing nonsense I was being taught, such as “slavery was an attempt to civilize Africans.”
A question mark is the most powerful punctuation yet so many people fail to utilize it. To the detriment of humanity, the masses continue to recite the nursery rhymes they were taught as children and remix bedtime stories to spoon feed their children. Instead of Jack and Jill, my generation learned Die Commie Die! Communist, I was taught, was a dirtier word than fuck. I wondered why communism was bad and without the proper contextual framework ironically equated the term with “so damn American”, since they seemed to have the same tone.
Today, socialism is the new dirty word. Conservatives have used this word in an attempt to discredit President Obama and terrorize Americans into saving the nation. From what, may I ask? Wikipedia defines socialism “ various theories of economic organization advocating public or direct worker ownership and administration of the means of production and allocation of resources, and a society characterized by equal access to resources for all individuals with an egalitarian method of compensation.” Does that then mean we are fighting against equality?
If so that means in addition to being the other dirty word, liberal, I am also a socialist. By trade, I am a social worker and I have often thought the economic system lacked a sense of balance. From the onset of the economy’s nosedive, I have said what if we the (little) people just stopped? What if we said: “You know this just really isn’t working for me? Let me make it a little more tangible. Take any major corporation, Microsoft for example. Bill Gates is a world renowned billionaire. Some would argue that he deserves to be one of the world’s wealthiest people for his intelligence, innovation and hard work. True indeed but could the machine keep running without all levels of the operation? I wonder how much the lower level employees, whom most likely far outnumber the upper echelon, earn? What would happen to this capital generating operation if the middle and lower levels quit? Could the upper echelon of the company do it all by themselves? If the answer is no, then doesn’t it stand to reason that the proceeds should have a more equitable distribution?
I saw a comedian who joked that white racists are not bothered by the fact political correctness dictates they can no longer say the N-word because they are creative enough to come up with a new code. He related a story in which he heard a white person refer to blacks as “Mondays”. Being well versed in racist vernacular, he was surprised to admit he couldn’t figure that one out and asked for the context. The man replied, “You know, everyone hates Mondays.”
So as I hear the term socialist being aimed at President Obama, America’s first black president, I can’t help but wonder if this is the new code to replace the old dirty N-word and maintain the ever-so-slowly diminishing voice of the so damn American people who have the incredible ability to retain bullshit.
On Canadian politics, such as it is
Here is what I just read: If Jack Layton and his party decide to support the Conservative government and not force an election, would that change your opinion of the NDP? Read here: (link)
Here is my issue, (this might be a good time for my non-Canadian readers to hit the Stumble! button, to fix a sandwich, to mosey along, I am talking Canadian politics, something totally devoid of sexy) Layton and the NDP find themselves, once again stuck between a rock and a hard place. Support a Conservative government, one that is at the opposite end of the political spectrum, in order to stave off an election that no one really wants. Or, do what seems natural, not support the minority Conservative government, thus plunging the tired Canadian electorate into another pricey election, one that will lead almost certainly to another minority government, the vicious circle thus repeating.
None of this is his fault. Jack Layton and the NDP are the forever the 3rd or 4th option. The reason for this seemingly endless supply of minority governments has more to do with the lack of leadership and the lack of trust the Canadian electorate have for the big two Canadian parties. The majority of Canadians are left leaning (yes, it's true, settle down my Conservative friends) this makes Harper, and his government as unpopular a government as there has been since the later days of the Mulroney regime. The Liberals (Canada's more natural governing party, there I said it) have never recovered fully from the Sponsorship scandal, but the true reason the Liberals haven't squashed the Conservatives in the last 2 or 3 elections is leadership. Paul Martin was a great finance minister, but he had the personality of a telephone pole. Stephane Dion, come on, again a good policy guy, but he came off as the kid that was stuffed in a locker in middle school. Dion set the Liberal party back years. What a silly mistake his selection as leader proved to be. Have the Liberals got their man this time in Michael Ignatieff? I am unsure. He comes off as a stuffed shirt, smart yes, but so too was Martin, and Dion. Am I making you dizzy? Would you like some Gravol?
It matters not what Jack Layton decides. Canadian politics is in a quagmire,giggity, giggity. If I were him, I would stay the course. Why waste millions of dollars on an election that in the end will amount to the same blessed thing. The Harper Conservatives no matter how unpopular they are with the Canadian masses, have just enough support to win another minority government. It might be time to sit on our hands, let the Canadian political dust settle. As much as I would love to see Harper and his cronies out off office, the timing and the price is not right.
Here is my issue, (this might be a good time for my non-Canadian readers to hit the Stumble! button, to fix a sandwich, to mosey along, I am talking Canadian politics, something totally devoid of sexy) Layton and the NDP find themselves, once again stuck between a rock and a hard place. Support a Conservative government, one that is at the opposite end of the political spectrum, in order to stave off an election that no one really wants. Or, do what seems natural, not support the minority Conservative government, thus plunging the tired Canadian electorate into another pricey election, one that will lead almost certainly to another minority government, the vicious circle thus repeating.
None of this is his fault. Jack Layton and the NDP are the forever the 3rd or 4th option. The reason for this seemingly endless supply of minority governments has more to do with the lack of leadership and the lack of trust the Canadian electorate have for the big two Canadian parties. The majority of Canadians are left leaning (yes, it's true, settle down my Conservative friends) this makes Harper, and his government as unpopular a government as there has been since the later days of the Mulroney regime. The Liberals (Canada's more natural governing party, there I said it) have never recovered fully from the Sponsorship scandal, but the true reason the Liberals haven't squashed the Conservatives in the last 2 or 3 elections is leadership. Paul Martin was a great finance minister, but he had the personality of a telephone pole. Stephane Dion, come on, again a good policy guy, but he came off as the kid that was stuffed in a locker in middle school. Dion set the Liberal party back years. What a silly mistake his selection as leader proved to be. Have the Liberals got their man this time in Michael Ignatieff? I am unsure. He comes off as a stuffed shirt, smart yes, but so too was Martin, and Dion. Am I making you dizzy? Would you like some Gravol?
It matters not what Jack Layton decides. Canadian politics is in a quagmire,giggity, giggity. If I were him, I would stay the course. Why waste millions of dollars on an election that in the end will amount to the same blessed thing. The Harper Conservatives no matter how unpopular they are with the Canadian masses, have just enough support to win another minority government. It might be time to sit on our hands, let the Canadian political dust settle. As much as I would love to see Harper and his cronies out off office, the timing and the price is not right.
He showed me the boobs
My favorite Patrick Swayze movie was not Ghost (gag, chick flick of chick flicks), or Dirty Dancing (I love to bump and grind, but please), its not even Donnie Darko (which I love, but Swayze only played a bit part), it is in fact Youngblood. Youngblood, why, you might ask? It is a movie about hockey, and when I was 13, the world revolved around hockey. But that is not it, nope, it is was the boobs. Youngblood was the first movie I watched that had boobs in it (followed soon after by An Officer and Gentleman, Terminator, then Porky's). They were Cynthia Gibb's boobs to be exact. I will forever have a crush on Cynthia Gibb, God love her.
So there how is that for a eulogy? Oh right Point Break was pretty friggin cool movie too. But no offense, Point Break to was all about Gary Busey and Anthony Kiedis for me. Ye gods, I am not good at this eulogizing thing. Rest well Mr. Swayze, you deserve it.
So there how is that for a eulogy? Oh right Point Break was pretty friggin cool movie too. But no offense, Point Break to was all about Gary Busey and Anthony Kiedis for me. Ye gods, I am not good at this eulogizing thing. Rest well Mr. Swayze, you deserve it.
Monday, September 14, 2009
A rant pop cultural
I am too old for MTV. There I said it. I did not watch their annual Video Music Awards. Truth be told the only music awards I still enjoy are the British Music Awards. I have a thing for accents, yes, and I prefer my pop, Brit. I have since my university years, so there.
But where was I? Yes, the VMA's. Turns odd that country starlet Taylor Swift won the award for Best Female Video(shouldn't that award go to the filmmaker..??), moments into her acceptance speech Kanye West (remember him?) burst on stage, grabbed the microphone from the young pop star and then said something to the effect that he congratulates Swift for the award, but that Beyonce's video should have won, because it was one of the best videos of all time. He then passed the mic back to the clearly dumbfounded Swift and disappeared back stage. Confused at first, the VMA crowd soon began to boo, then gave Swift a standing ovation. Kanye was not seen for the rest of the night, go figure.
I experienced all this go down not on TV, but pretty much in real time on Twitter. First there were posts saying 'wtf did Kanye just do?' or 'poor Taylor Swift', then quickly the posts turned to 'Kanye is an asshole', 'Kanye is a diva', Pink who was live Twitting from the awards called Kanye 'the biggest piece of shit on earth'. I reTweeted that one myself, I dunno, I think I get chuckles out of the idea of two celebrity egomaniacs in a cat fight. My money is on Pink, she looks like she can take care of herself. WHAM...POW!
It took me a few minutes, yes, I followed the herd, I myself called Kanye a diva. After thinking it over, however, it became obvious to me that this whole thing was staged. This was a publicity stunt. I am not sure what Kanye has on the go, I am not sure if he is promoting a new album right now, or has a new one dropping soon, but it was obvious that he needs folks talking about him. Good or bad, any publicity is good publicity.
Hearken back to the MTV Movie Awards. Oy, MTV again, you wonder why I have outgrown it? Remember when Bruno (Sacha Baron Cohen) descended from the heavens in an angel costume and landed on Eminem's face, teabagging the hotheaded rapper? Eminem stormed off, in disgust, Twitter lit up with how Eminem was a big baby, a diva, unable to take a joke, etc, etc. But wait, it gets better, it turns out that the whole thing was staged... common sense stated that it had to be. The producers of an award show know exactly where everyone is sitting, oh and um movie stars don't just dangle on strings, then land where gravity dictates, this was a carefully crafted stunt. Eminem it turns out was promoting a new record, Sacha Baron Cohen, a movie, ahem, of course, go figure. The whole thing was one of the greatest publicity stunts of all time. Tipped hats all around.
Kanye will apologize in his blog (which has already happened), he will be interviewed by the entertainment press, and even the mainstream press, he will be in all the magazines, hell he might even be vilified for a bit, but in the end, he wins. He his achieved his goal, or his publicist goal, which was to get folks talking. As to whether or not it helps sell records. That I don not know. I never thought he was all that great, but hey, I am old, I am not into the same stuff as the cool kids.
Here is my point, be mad at Kanye, call him a prick, a diva or even an ass, if it makes you fell better, but remember, all he is doing is playing the game. Hate the game not the player.
But where was I? Yes, the VMA's. Turns odd that country starlet Taylor Swift won the award for Best Female Video(shouldn't that award go to the filmmaker..??), moments into her acceptance speech Kanye West (remember him?) burst on stage, grabbed the microphone from the young pop star and then said something to the effect that he congratulates Swift for the award, but that Beyonce's video should have won, because it was one of the best videos of all time. He then passed the mic back to the clearly dumbfounded Swift and disappeared back stage. Confused at first, the VMA crowd soon began to boo, then gave Swift a standing ovation. Kanye was not seen for the rest of the night, go figure.
I experienced all this go down not on TV, but pretty much in real time on Twitter. First there were posts saying 'wtf did Kanye just do?' or 'poor Taylor Swift', then quickly the posts turned to 'Kanye is an asshole', 'Kanye is a diva', Pink who was live Twitting from the awards called Kanye 'the biggest piece of shit on earth'. I reTweeted that one myself, I dunno, I think I get chuckles out of the idea of two celebrity egomaniacs in a cat fight. My money is on Pink, she looks like she can take care of herself. WHAM...POW!
It took me a few minutes, yes, I followed the herd, I myself called Kanye a diva. After thinking it over, however, it became obvious to me that this whole thing was staged. This was a publicity stunt. I am not sure what Kanye has on the go, I am not sure if he is promoting a new album right now, or has a new one dropping soon, but it was obvious that he needs folks talking about him. Good or bad, any publicity is good publicity.
Hearken back to the MTV Movie Awards. Oy, MTV again, you wonder why I have outgrown it? Remember when Bruno (Sacha Baron Cohen) descended from the heavens in an angel costume and landed on Eminem's face, teabagging the hotheaded rapper? Eminem stormed off, in disgust, Twitter lit up with how Eminem was a big baby, a diva, unable to take a joke, etc, etc. But wait, it gets better, it turns out that the whole thing was staged... common sense stated that it had to be. The producers of an award show know exactly where everyone is sitting, oh and um movie stars don't just dangle on strings, then land where gravity dictates, this was a carefully crafted stunt. Eminem it turns out was promoting a new record, Sacha Baron Cohen, a movie, ahem, of course, go figure. The whole thing was one of the greatest publicity stunts of all time. Tipped hats all around.
Kanye will apologize in his blog (which has already happened), he will be interviewed by the entertainment press, and even the mainstream press, he will be in all the magazines, hell he might even be vilified for a bit, but in the end, he wins. He his achieved his goal, or his publicist goal, which was to get folks talking. As to whether or not it helps sell records. That I don not know. I never thought he was all that great, but hey, I am old, I am not into the same stuff as the cool kids.
Here is my point, be mad at Kanye, call him a prick, a diva or even an ass, if it makes you fell better, but remember, all he is doing is playing the game. Hate the game not the player.
Friday, September 11, 2009
September 11th
From my humble writing space I stare out at the night sky; the twinkling lights, the glow of Downtown Toronto, the CN Tower lit up against the dark of Lake Ontario. It’s comforting to know it’s there, the CN Tower, standing on the same ground it was on built 33 years ago. It’s a symbol of Toronto, Canada even, and although we Torontonians are sick of the thing, familiarity breeding contempt and all, deep down we are proud of it. We are proud of the men who built her; proud to know she was once the tallest free-standing structure in the world; proud to know she was built to last 300 years (plus one) and that we took offence when 16 terrorists threatened to blow her up, along with breaking into parliament and beheading our Prime Minister. These things we can’t abide; not in OUR house.
And so we come to September 11th. That damn ugly day we wish never happened.
I don’t wish to go into the details, we all know them. God, how can we not? Thanks to CNN and YouTube this thing will live forever. Remember Pearl Harbor? I suppose you don’t. 9/11 was our generation’s awakening, the destruction of our innocence, a defining moment; just like Pearl Harbor was for the WWII generation. I never knew such evil existed before that day. I still can’t believe it.
I was working as an assistant manager at a retail discount store that day. The night before I had been with my girlfriend and she told me she’d had a vision; she’d dreamt about a plane hitting a building, and how the people in the building were burning, jumping out windows, trying to escape being scorched to death. She was crying as she told me this, this I do solemnly swear is the truth. I, of course, paid no attention; it was only a dream. I don’t take much stock in these things. Matters, especially grey matters, tend to be subjective, but I was creeped out nonetheless.
Where was I? I was listening to Howard Stern broadcasting out of New York. I had my little ear buds on, radio tucked in my pocket. Howard was a new thing to us here; recently our local rock station Q107 had picked him up for their morning show, so I listened because I was curious. I think he was talking about his ass or something, giving some crass advice on how to wipe after you do a number two. He abruptly stopped, and then, in a serious tone not associated with Howard, said: “we’re getting reports that a plane has hit the World Trade tower…”
What followed was a rant about how stupid a pilot would have to be to hit an object as large and conspicuous as the Twin Towers. I was inclined to agree with him.
Then the second one hit. The pilot jokes stopped, and he announced almost immediately, “New York is under attack!”
Cue the terrorist’s rants. Howard then lamented the fact that he was talking about his balls a few moments before, apologetic, humbled, he proceeded to tell us that his act was entertainment, a shtick. You knew it was serious if Howard Stern was waxing philosophical.
And so I stood there at the front of the store, the employees gathered around me waiting for updates. After a few moments, we drifted off to try and get on with our day, somehow.
Then Howard started screaming that the South Tower had collapsed. Robin, his on-air side-kick, left immediately to go find her children, but found that her driver had abandoned her.
I stood there, my mouth agape. It’s difficult to describe; it was like someone punched me in the gut and told me my father died all at the same time. Some old lady was asking me something, something about shower curtains. I don’t remember. I told her that the World Trade Tower had been destroyed by terrorists, and how could she ask about something so stupid. She didn’t appear to understand.
When that North Tower fell, I was a nervous wreck. I could hardly finish the day. Our lovely boss saw no need in closing the store, or sending us home. I thought Toronto was next. I thought we were all doomed. Watching the images later on CNN, I was struck the unity of those New Yorkers. I fell in love with New York and its people that day. I wished I could have been there to help, or lend support, or something. I felt useless.
Band practice was cancelled that night. We all showed up at the rehearsal space, took one look at each other, and said forget it. We went to get coffee, and drove to the airport. We heard that all air traffic had been suspended, and we were not only incredulous, but curious. We sat there that night, talking quietly, looking up at the night sky over Pearson International Airport, where not a single plane flew that evening. That’s how we knew it was real, and not some abstract thing.
Putting these things into words is difficult; how you feel about something, sometimes, is not quantifiable. But those buildings; arrow straight, masculine rockets of glass and concrete shooting above the New York skyline; these things become indelible. The many people who died are an abstraction, not rightly I might add, because it’s those towers that get eulogized. They were so damn PRESENT, so THERE. I cried for the people of New York, for those who lost loved ones, for the guys who put their blood and sweat and life on the line to build those things. I cried for America.
Post-script
Tonight the CN Tower stands; I’ve been glancing at her through the balcony door. It’s a small comfort. For the 3000 people who died on September 11th, 2001, a small consolation. I need some way to deal with it, and that’s the only way I know how.
Rest in Peace.
David Hunter, Toronto, September 11th, 2009
And so we come to September 11th. That damn ugly day we wish never happened.
I don’t wish to go into the details, we all know them. God, how can we not? Thanks to CNN and YouTube this thing will live forever. Remember Pearl Harbor? I suppose you don’t. 9/11 was our generation’s awakening, the destruction of our innocence, a defining moment; just like Pearl Harbor was for the WWII generation. I never knew such evil existed before that day. I still can’t believe it.
I was working as an assistant manager at a retail discount store that day. The night before I had been with my girlfriend and she told me she’d had a vision; she’d dreamt about a plane hitting a building, and how the people in the building were burning, jumping out windows, trying to escape being scorched to death. She was crying as she told me this, this I do solemnly swear is the truth. I, of course, paid no attention; it was only a dream. I don’t take much stock in these things. Matters, especially grey matters, tend to be subjective, but I was creeped out nonetheless.
Where was I? I was listening to Howard Stern broadcasting out of New York. I had my little ear buds on, radio tucked in my pocket. Howard was a new thing to us here; recently our local rock station Q107 had picked him up for their morning show, so I listened because I was curious. I think he was talking about his ass or something, giving some crass advice on how to wipe after you do a number two. He abruptly stopped, and then, in a serious tone not associated with Howard, said: “we’re getting reports that a plane has hit the World Trade tower…”
What followed was a rant about how stupid a pilot would have to be to hit an object as large and conspicuous as the Twin Towers. I was inclined to agree with him.
Then the second one hit. The pilot jokes stopped, and he announced almost immediately, “New York is under attack!”
Cue the terrorist’s rants. Howard then lamented the fact that he was talking about his balls a few moments before, apologetic, humbled, he proceeded to tell us that his act was entertainment, a shtick. You knew it was serious if Howard Stern was waxing philosophical.
And so I stood there at the front of the store, the employees gathered around me waiting for updates. After a few moments, we drifted off to try and get on with our day, somehow.
Then Howard started screaming that the South Tower had collapsed. Robin, his on-air side-kick, left immediately to go find her children, but found that her driver had abandoned her.
I stood there, my mouth agape. It’s difficult to describe; it was like someone punched me in the gut and told me my father died all at the same time. Some old lady was asking me something, something about shower curtains. I don’t remember. I told her that the World Trade Tower had been destroyed by terrorists, and how could she ask about something so stupid. She didn’t appear to understand.
When that North Tower fell, I was a nervous wreck. I could hardly finish the day. Our lovely boss saw no need in closing the store, or sending us home. I thought Toronto was next. I thought we were all doomed. Watching the images later on CNN, I was struck the unity of those New Yorkers. I fell in love with New York and its people that day. I wished I could have been there to help, or lend support, or something. I felt useless.
Band practice was cancelled that night. We all showed up at the rehearsal space, took one look at each other, and said forget it. We went to get coffee, and drove to the airport. We heard that all air traffic had been suspended, and we were not only incredulous, but curious. We sat there that night, talking quietly, looking up at the night sky over Pearson International Airport, where not a single plane flew that evening. That’s how we knew it was real, and not some abstract thing.
Putting these things into words is difficult; how you feel about something, sometimes, is not quantifiable. But those buildings; arrow straight, masculine rockets of glass and concrete shooting above the New York skyline; these things become indelible. The many people who died are an abstraction, not rightly I might add, because it’s those towers that get eulogized. They were so damn PRESENT, so THERE. I cried for the people of New York, for those who lost loved ones, for the guys who put their blood and sweat and life on the line to build those things. I cried for America.
Post-script
Tonight the CN Tower stands; I’ve been glancing at her through the balcony door. It’s a small comfort. For the 3000 people who died on September 11th, 2001, a small consolation. I need some way to deal with it, and that’s the only way I know how.
Rest in Peace.
David Hunter, Toronto, September 11th, 2009
Everything stopped...
It was another mundane day at work. I was a letter sorter at UPS, as good a gig as an Anglo-kid could get in Montreal without really trying. I was good at it, I was pretty much king-shit at the warehouse. I had control of the radio. If I had my choice it would have been the campus radio station, but I needed to please as many of my co-workers as possible, and also keep myself sane, and at least mildly amused, so the radio stayed on the classic rock channel all day long. What does it matter? I will tell you, hold on.
I was sorting letters, not really paying attention to the radio, when a classic rock tune was cut off midway through. Odd. Then I hear the DJ say that he is getting breaking news that a plane has hit one of the Twin Towers in New York. Wow, I thought, that's some crazy shit. Then I continued to sort again. The music continued, everything was back to normal. So I thought.
I am not sure how long 'normal' lasted. There was nothing at all normal about this day. Well duh, you say, this was 9/11, the shit was just beginning to hit the fan.
The music stopped. The DJs, the morning guys, cheesy jokesters, were suddenly serious, shocked, numb. They reported that a second plane had hit the second Tower, and that it appeared that there was a terrorist attack under way in New York City. Holy shit!
Everything stopped. The warehouse ground to a halt. No boxes moved on the treadmills, I dropped my bag of letters. The odd person asked, what the hell is happening? What do we do now? Why is this happening? Why indeed.
We were sent home. I remember how calm and sedate the drive home was. I had the news channel on the radio, as I think everyone else did. Montreal at 9:00 am, usually a wall to wall, survival of the fittest, jungle of a drive, seemed orderly... you could sense the shock in the air.
My girlfriend who had just gotten out of bed, met me at the door in tears, and said, 'Joe have you heard the news? It's all over the TV.' Yes, I said, 'They sent us home, not sure when they will call us back.' I then plunked down on the couch, where I watched the news almost 24/7 for a week.
On the couch, my still teary, but relatively appeased girlfriend curled up at my side. I witnessed the towers collapse. All I could think was, this isn't real, this is like a big budget action movie. How could this happen? Why, what is the point? Terrorism, Bin Laden, I felt were nothing more then the things of fairy tales, they were the monsters in closets, the troll under bridges. This isn't real, why now? Christ we just got past the hype of Y2K. Hell the US has a mental midget for a President, are we all doomed?
I didn't feel emotional until a few days later when then Canadian Prime Minister Jean Chretien made a speech at a memorial for the victims of the attacks of 9/11. Chretien is not a noted orator. He is the little guy from Shawinigan. But there was a tone, a quiver, an emotional honesty to his speech that made me cry my eyes out. I had felt detached, maybe through shock and disbelief the first few days after 9/11, but Chretien in his broken English, was able to articulate just how I and I think most other Canadians were feeling at time, which was grief, fatigue and love for our friends, cousins, and neighbours in the United States.
I will forever be left with the why, and the how? There are aspects to the story of 9/11 that like the death of JFK will never seem truly factual. There are holes in this tragic story, that might never be honestly filled. But is that the point? Not on this day, this day is one for reflection, one to grieve those that were pointlessly lost. A day to say I love New York. A day not to bitch about the ills of American politics. A day to act like good neighbours. God Bless America.
I was sorting letters, not really paying attention to the radio, when a classic rock tune was cut off midway through. Odd. Then I hear the DJ say that he is getting breaking news that a plane has hit one of the Twin Towers in New York. Wow, I thought, that's some crazy shit. Then I continued to sort again. The music continued, everything was back to normal. So I thought.
I am not sure how long 'normal' lasted. There was nothing at all normal about this day. Well duh, you say, this was 9/11, the shit was just beginning to hit the fan.
The music stopped. The DJs, the morning guys, cheesy jokesters, were suddenly serious, shocked, numb. They reported that a second plane had hit the second Tower, and that it appeared that there was a terrorist attack under way in New York City. Holy shit!
Everything stopped. The warehouse ground to a halt. No boxes moved on the treadmills, I dropped my bag of letters. The odd person asked, what the hell is happening? What do we do now? Why is this happening? Why indeed.
We were sent home. I remember how calm and sedate the drive home was. I had the news channel on the radio, as I think everyone else did. Montreal at 9:00 am, usually a wall to wall, survival of the fittest, jungle of a drive, seemed orderly... you could sense the shock in the air.
My girlfriend who had just gotten out of bed, met me at the door in tears, and said, 'Joe have you heard the news? It's all over the TV.' Yes, I said, 'They sent us home, not sure when they will call us back.' I then plunked down on the couch, where I watched the news almost 24/7 for a week.
On the couch, my still teary, but relatively appeased girlfriend curled up at my side. I witnessed the towers collapse. All I could think was, this isn't real, this is like a big budget action movie. How could this happen? Why, what is the point? Terrorism, Bin Laden, I felt were nothing more then the things of fairy tales, they were the monsters in closets, the troll under bridges. This isn't real, why now? Christ we just got past the hype of Y2K. Hell the US has a mental midget for a President, are we all doomed?
I didn't feel emotional until a few days later when then Canadian Prime Minister Jean Chretien made a speech at a memorial for the victims of the attacks of 9/11. Chretien is not a noted orator. He is the little guy from Shawinigan. But there was a tone, a quiver, an emotional honesty to his speech that made me cry my eyes out. I had felt detached, maybe through shock and disbelief the first few days after 9/11, but Chretien in his broken English, was able to articulate just how I and I think most other Canadians were feeling at time, which was grief, fatigue and love for our friends, cousins, and neighbours in the United States.
I will forever be left with the why, and the how? There are aspects to the story of 9/11 that like the death of JFK will never seem truly factual. There are holes in this tragic story, that might never be honestly filled. But is that the point? Not on this day, this day is one for reflection, one to grieve those that were pointlessly lost. A day to say I love New York. A day not to bitch about the ills of American politics. A day to act like good neighbours. God Bless America.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
A Tired, Quick Update
Zoey decided that last night was gonna be the night to be a menace. She allowed her mom and her dad, oh, about 2 hours sleep. I knew such nights were coming, yes she is perfect, but she is still a newborn, and newborns sometimes cry throughout the night. I think, to test the meddle of their parents. A test of endurance. Just another parenting challenge. Oi, being the grown up sucks balls sometimes.
Guess what? Today was also the first day of school for the older two. Mommy and daddy running on fumes, trying to get their kids fed, and educated, it's hard work, damned hard work sometimes. Oh, and is it just me, or is the herding together of a whole bunch of preteens into a small confined space scary as hell? God bless you teachers, you are a special and brave lot.
Guess what? Today was also the first day of school for the older two. Mommy and daddy running on fumes, trying to get their kids fed, and educated, it's hard work, damned hard work sometimes. Oh, and is it just me, or is the herding together of a whole bunch of preteens into a small confined space scary as hell? God bless you teachers, you are a special and brave lot.
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