"Doing nothing is very hard to do... you never know when you're done."
Monday, November 29, 2010
Friday, November 26, 2010
This Week's Winner of the Dave Parker Award for Excellence: Fred & Barney
This dated advertisement could also fit under the category of "Things Done Changed".
Boy, those were the days, when children's cartoons characters would slang smokes for the suits at Philip Morris and the like. I'm struggling to see any parallels between underage cigarette use and commercials such as the above - but it's a lazy Friday and I got turkey on my mind.
Turkey? Yes turkey. It's Thanksgiving for our American friends to the south, and by virtue of the fact that I have a sister on scholarship to an school in the States who's visiting, me mammy is whippin'-up a nice bird for the fam.
Speaking of Turkey...
That would be the home supporters of Turkish football club Besiktas welcoming new off-season acquisition Allen Iverson, who signed a 2-year deal to play with the Besiktas Basketball Club in Istanbul. You have to be happy for the guy. He's gone through some difficult family issues concerning divorce and a daughter's health over the last while, compounded by the fact that the once perennial all-star couldn't find a club that would start him - that smile made my day - no homo.
Now his only concern should be to avoid Fenerbahce and Galatasaray fans when on a promenade throughout the beautiful continent dividing city of Istanbul. Them Turks are passionate about their clubs, especially the three Istanbul clubs who between them, share a fair amount of hatred.
Don't believe me? Ask Graham Souness. The Englishman was the manager of Turkish side Galatasaray in the mid 1990's. Following a defeat of cross-town rivals Fenerbahce, Souness ran to the midfield point and stuck a massive flag donning the famous Galatasaray Gold & Red for all the angry Fenerabahce supporters to see. Bloody English and their ignorance of other people's hatred.
The hatred shared by the Instanbul clubs for one another is so great, that in the Fenerbahce dominated part of Istanbul, the McDonald's signs are blue and gold, and not the common red and gold also used by Galatasaray. I'm not kidding.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Letterz From Da Editor 2
I've been eagerly anticipating this moment for some time, but finally the time has come. One of, if not my favorite websites, Deadspin.com asked its readers a few weeks back to submit some awkward team photos from their youths. Today they were posted.
http://deadspin.com/5693693/the-awkward-team-photos-of-our-awkward-youth-and-one-dog-a-gallery/gallery/15
http://deadspin.com/5693693/the-awkward-team-photos-of-our-awkward-youth-and-one-dog-a-gallery/gallery/15
If anybody can guess which of the approved commenters I am based on my screen name and avatar, you will win a framed copy of my 1987 Guildwood Softball League team photo sponsored by Rapid Lube Oil Change & Filter.
Things I've Learned From Rap: Words Mean Nothing
Sitting around today, just living in the fuckin lap o' luxury, thinking about a blog entry and the common themes of this page came to mind.
The staff here, a collective greater than the quantitative measures of mathematics (see 1), have always strived to assist in the progression of targeting certain ideas without deviating from the script.
On that note, let's revisit the idea of the Things I've Learned from Rap Music.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
According to the massive breadth of rap music I have been privied to, it would seem that contextually - words do not matter. A very small percentage of what rappers actually put on vinyl is factual.
Not much different from fictional literature, the words are meant to tell a story, paint the proverbial picture and provide a form of escapism for its readers or listeners. The problem with this is that rappers posture themselves to give the impression that what they say is the truth i.e. Real talk.
While Master P aka Percy Miller might want to convince you that his driveway is actually similar to a dealership based on the number and production date of his automobiles, C.S. Lewis would never try to have us believe that their is indeed an amazing fantasy land blanketed by snow and inhabited by strange woodland creatures easily accessible at the rear of your wardrobe.
Which reminds me - this video is a nice introduction:
Let's face it - rappers are artists no different than a folk singer or a writer - they have a passion for their craft and even at the most unreknowned of standings, give said craft effort. Based on my experiences, its impossible to be both in the studio and on the block chopping that rock at the same time. One or the other I'd reckon.
When an artist is talking about his army of luxury vehicles or his arsenal of weapons with armor-piercing rounds, inevitably he is lying. Perhaps these false statements are metaphors or intelligently veiled notions meant to inspire its listeners visuals, but nonetheless, they are factually incorrect. There are examples that both come-off a blatant lies and those that sound false, but are more difficult to prove.
Let's have a gander at a few examples;
Bling, Bling - B.G. feat. Hot Boyz, Birdman and Mannie Fresh (1998)
B.G. "I got the price of a mansion around ma neck and wrist, my dog Baby got a special-built machine, Mercedes Benz 700, V-14." (@3:15)
This track is stuffed to the brim with braggadocio and inaccuracies, however perhaps B.G. takes the cake. Not only does he say that he has the price of a mansion around his neck and wrist, which cannot be true, even if we were to fast-forward a decade and purchase that post-Katrina home at 90% off, but he states that Baby aka Birdman had a custom-built automobile made for B.G. that was a V-14. The V refers to the cylinder-type of the car, where the 14 represents the number of cylinders. The original Benz 700 1998 was a 8 cylinder (V8) which was a common for a luxury vehicle at the time, however even if Baby had the scratch to afford a V-14 modification, he would have had a struggle finding somebody pre-millennium to do the mod. He lying.
Hustlin' - Rick Ross (2006)
In the very insular hip-hop community, there has been a fair bit of backlash concerning Miami's own Booby Boi Ricky Ross. Prior to entering the world of recording arts, Rick Ross was a prison guard, which contradicts much of what he has to say about being a drug-dealer and all-around hustler. His 2006 breakout smash hit Hustlin' is ripe with lies and inaccuracies.
Rick Ross - "I know Pablo, Noriega, the real Noriega he owe me a hundred favours." (1:10)
Here Mr. Ross is very clear that he knows that actual Noriega, who's first name is Manuel, and not Pablo, so I assume he's also speaking of Colombia drug kingpin Pablo Escobar, who was murdered December 2nd 1993. Here he's differentiating between Noriega the rapper, and Manuel Noriega, the 'politician'. Stating that Manuel Noriega, the former military dictator of Panama, owes him a hundred favours seems bizarre, since Noriega was captured and imprisoned in 1990, making said favours more or less obsolete. If there's anything Ricky Ross hustles, its likely the ladies at the local drive-thru who upsize his combo at no additional cost.
By the way - the unedited version of this track is exponentially better than this version.
Despite the proliferation of lies in rap music, there are several artists like Jedi Mind Tricks and Immortal Technique who pride themselves on truth and educating their listeners through their songs, however they are unfortunately not as popular (see mainstream, shit) as other artists.
I could go on and on copying and pasting videos from YouTube and pointing out all the inaccuracies, but the point has been made no? Rappers talk so much shit that they cannot be taken seriously - the problem is that kids are impressionable and believe a lot of bullshit they hear in songs. Because of this they have principles and value things in life that are only wasteful and counter-productive. Fuck - whatever it's a loss cause - can't blame me for trying.
The staff here, a collective greater than the quantitative measures of mathematics (see 1), have always strived to assist in the progression of targeting certain ideas without deviating from the script.
On that note, let's revisit the idea of the Things I've Learned from Rap Music.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
According to the massive breadth of rap music I have been privied to, it would seem that contextually - words do not matter. A very small percentage of what rappers actually put on vinyl is factual.
Not much different from fictional literature, the words are meant to tell a story, paint the proverbial picture and provide a form of escapism for its readers or listeners. The problem with this is that rappers posture themselves to give the impression that what they say is the truth i.e. Real talk.
While Master P aka Percy Miller might want to convince you that his driveway is actually similar to a dealership based on the number and production date of his automobiles, C.S. Lewis would never try to have us believe that their is indeed an amazing fantasy land blanketed by snow and inhabited by strange woodland creatures easily accessible at the rear of your wardrobe.
Which reminds me - this video is a nice introduction:
Let's face it - rappers are artists no different than a folk singer or a writer - they have a passion for their craft and even at the most unreknowned of standings, give said craft effort. Based on my experiences, its impossible to be both in the studio and on the block chopping that rock at the same time. One or the other I'd reckon.
When an artist is talking about his army of luxury vehicles or his arsenal of weapons with armor-piercing rounds, inevitably he is lying. Perhaps these false statements are metaphors or intelligently veiled notions meant to inspire its listeners visuals, but nonetheless, they are factually incorrect. There are examples that both come-off a blatant lies and those that sound false, but are more difficult to prove.
Let's have a gander at a few examples;
Bling, Bling - B.G. feat. Hot Boyz, Birdman and Mannie Fresh (1998)
B.G. "I got the price of a mansion around ma neck and wrist, my dog Baby got a special-built machine, Mercedes Benz 700, V-14." (@3:15)
This track is stuffed to the brim with braggadocio and inaccuracies, however perhaps B.G. takes the cake. Not only does he say that he has the price of a mansion around his neck and wrist, which cannot be true, even if we were to fast-forward a decade and purchase that post-Katrina home at 90% off, but he states that Baby aka Birdman had a custom-built automobile made for B.G. that was a V-14. The V refers to the cylinder-type of the car, where the 14 represents the number of cylinders. The original Benz 700 1998 was a 8 cylinder (V8) which was a common for a luxury vehicle at the time, however even if Baby had the scratch to afford a V-14 modification, he would have had a struggle finding somebody pre-millennium to do the mod. He lying.
Hustlin' - Rick Ross (2006)
In the very insular hip-hop community, there has been a fair bit of backlash concerning Miami's own Booby Boi Ricky Ross. Prior to entering the world of recording arts, Rick Ross was a prison guard, which contradicts much of what he has to say about being a drug-dealer and all-around hustler. His 2006 breakout smash hit Hustlin' is ripe with lies and inaccuracies.
Rick Ross - "I know Pablo, Noriega, the real Noriega he owe me a hundred favours." (1:10)
Here Mr. Ross is very clear that he knows that actual Noriega, who's first name is Manuel, and not Pablo, so I assume he's also speaking of Colombia drug kingpin Pablo Escobar, who was murdered December 2nd 1993. Here he's differentiating between Noriega the rapper, and Manuel Noriega, the 'politician'. Stating that Manuel Noriega, the former military dictator of Panama, owes him a hundred favours seems bizarre, since Noriega was captured and imprisoned in 1990, making said favours more or less obsolete. If there's anything Ricky Ross hustles, its likely the ladies at the local drive-thru who upsize his combo at no additional cost.
By the way - the unedited version of this track is exponentially better than this version.
Despite the proliferation of lies in rap music, there are several artists like Jedi Mind Tricks and Immortal Technique who pride themselves on truth and educating their listeners through their songs, however they are unfortunately not as popular (see mainstream, shit) as other artists.
I could go on and on copying and pasting videos from YouTube and pointing out all the inaccuracies, but the point has been made no? Rappers talk so much shit that they cannot be taken seriously - the problem is that kids are impressionable and believe a lot of bullshit they hear in songs. Because of this they have principles and value things in life that are only wasteful and counter-productive. Fuck - whatever it's a loss cause - can't blame me for trying.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Letterz From Da Editor
Hey boys and girls. My apologies for the brief hiatus between posts, but I've been a little busy the last few days.
Here's a link if interested - hope it works:
http://64.246.64.33/merge/tsnform.aspx?c=sportsnetwork&page=soc-mls/news/news.aspx?id=4358175
Before I go any further, this happened the other night:
In other news, I ran into Cee-Lo and Big Gipp from Goodie Mob today while shopping for boots. I grew-up on the ATL sound perfected by Dungeon Family artists like Goodie and Outkast.
Guess who's white and not from Atlanta. I need sun more than photosynthesis.
We had a few laughs, despite the fact Cee-Lo was a little distracted by the jentrified pop music that had his portly frame girating akwardly, and talked about some of my favorite tracks - Gipp and I even shared an impromptu duet of Cool Breeze's Watch For The Hook.
Check-back tomorrow for more useless information and enlightenment. Cue the Goodie.
Here's a link if interested - hope it works:
http://64.246.64.33/merge/tsnform.aspx?c=sportsnetwork&page=soc-mls/news/news.aspx?id=4358175
Before I go any further, this happened the other night:
In other news, I ran into Cee-Lo and Big Gipp from Goodie Mob today while shopping for boots. I grew-up on the ATL sound perfected by Dungeon Family artists like Goodie and Outkast.
Guess who's white and not from Atlanta. I need sun more than photosynthesis.
We had a few laughs, despite the fact Cee-Lo was a little distracted by the jentrified pop music that had his portly frame girating akwardly, and talked about some of my favorite tracks - Gipp and I even shared an impromptu duet of Cool Breeze's Watch For The Hook.
Check-back tomorrow for more useless information and enlightenment. Cue the Goodie.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Ruminations 7.0
This blog has already established the fact that people are getting lazy with both the written and spoken word. I often fear pointing out such errors since many are easy to make and I don't want to come-off as a hypocrite, but I have website so why-the-fuck-not?
Much of this laziness is apparent in the world of sports journalism. While errors of the like are far more permissible in sports writing than they are in other avenues of journalism, they are still preventable. As a writer who often dabbles in the field of sports journalism, I am often privied to some strange choices.
One that has really been bugging me lately is the usage of the following sentence:
"Michael Vick is better than people are saying"
"I disagree with the fact that people are saying Greg Oden is the second coming of Sam Bowie"
These notions are typically stated by a host of sports program, where his opinion is seemingly contrary to the ones shared by the 'people'. Sure, the majority of 'people' (who are these people? the layperson, the pundit, the expert?) feel one way, but by no means can the majority sentiment be expressed in terms of the 'people'. Recall the fact that opinion are like assholes.
It's a simple correction really. Instead of referring to the people, say the majority or the masses:
"Michael Vick is better than the majority of people are saying."
Or preface it by pointing-out some specifities using some qualifying agents:
Any of the following will work: naysayers, cynics, conservatives, white people, d-bags, etc.
How novice does using "people are saying" sound? That's what people do - they say things. There's no need to qualify the fact that people are saying things, because last time i checked, animals and inanimate objects keep their feelings to themselves.
All I'm asking is that people in the sports media use more qualifying and literal terms to be specific and shy away from making broad statements like the aforementioned.
"People are saying this blog blows"
Actually, only people that can read and have read this blog think it blows. See what I'm saying.
"People who have stumbled upon badnewsblog think it blows, the illeterate are impartial."
If you disagree - you're playing yourself.
Much of this laziness is apparent in the world of sports journalism. While errors of the like are far more permissible in sports writing than they are in other avenues of journalism, they are still preventable. As a writer who often dabbles in the field of sports journalism, I am often privied to some strange choices.
One that has really been bugging me lately is the usage of the following sentence:
"Michael Vick is better than people are saying"
"I disagree with the fact that people are saying Greg Oden is the second coming of Sam Bowie"
These notions are typically stated by a host of sports program, where his opinion is seemingly contrary to the ones shared by the 'people'. Sure, the majority of 'people' (who are these people? the layperson, the pundit, the expert?) feel one way, but by no means can the majority sentiment be expressed in terms of the 'people'. Recall the fact that opinion are like assholes.
It's a simple correction really. Instead of referring to the people, say the majority or the masses:
"Michael Vick is better than the majority of people are saying."
Or preface it by pointing-out some specifities using some qualifying agents:
Any of the following will work: naysayers, cynics, conservatives, white people, d-bags, etc.
How novice does using "people are saying" sound? That's what people do - they say things. There's no need to qualify the fact that people are saying things, because last time i checked, animals and inanimate objects keep their feelings to themselves.
All I'm asking is that people in the sports media use more qualifying and literal terms to be specific and shy away from making broad statements like the aforementioned.
"People are saying this blog blows"
Actually, only people that can read and have read this blog think it blows. See what I'm saying.
"People who have stumbled upon badnewsblog think it blows, the illeterate are impartial."
If you disagree - you're playing yourself.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Sports Induced Orgasms
The enjoyment and viewing of sports is much like cooking for yourself - watching them require both time and effort, however more often than not it turns out terrible. In the same manner that watching a sporting event for a second time has little to no value, my leftovers also have a shelf life of little less than a minute and a value of a little less than a homeless man's feces.
Trust me on this one folks, I watch a lot of sports, and as a result of this, I have witnessed many an event that left me questioning more than my interests and motivations. It's not unrealistic to assume that 9 out of every 10 Leaf games ends in disappointment, and much like my cooking, will only leave a putrid taste in one's mouth.
I don't really have the time to discuss the Raps, but besides Bargnani, not a single player would start on any other NBA team. Really? True dat - Even the Clippers. I'll take fat Baron Davis and rookie Eric Bledsoe over Jack or Calderon any night. Reggie Evans - thanks a million for all the rebounds, but having the ball traverse the cylinder and fall-through the mesh is actually the most important element of the game. It's called scoring and can be practiced both on the court and off the field (vaginal insertion of appendages, preferably the penis.) Actually, considering the aesthetic value of your face and that gnarley jihadesque beard Mr. Evans, let's focus on scoring in a game, and I'll try to pick-up your slack with the gaggles of groupies.
If only every game could provide that euphoric form of ecstasy that leaves many a men at the point of near climax, where that exact moment would be substituted in place of sex for a very similar result. Last week's Texans - Jaguars game provided a little of this, as Jags QB David Garrard's last second Hail Mary pass was batted-down and out of the end zone by a Texans safety, only to land in the arms of a Jags receiver. Touchdown. Game over. Coincidentally, the most euphoric and ecstatic play-by-play man on the planet no involved in Latin American football was covering the game. Thank God for Gus Johnson - we need more of you.
Here's a quick crash course on Gus Johnson - most are short, the Brandon Stokley one and Xavier - Kansas State finale is worth watching multiple times. Enjoy.
Xavier - Kansas State... Ignore the Ad... CRAWFORD FOR THE THREEEEEEEEEEEE
STTTTTTTOCKLEEEEEEY
Batista With The Catchhhhhh
Gus Loses It Following a Put-Back
An Al Harrington 3-Ball
Blowing His Wad on a Jamal Crawford 3
Trust me on this one folks, I watch a lot of sports, and as a result of this, I have witnessed many an event that left me questioning more than my interests and motivations. It's not unrealistic to assume that 9 out of every 10 Leaf games ends in disappointment, and much like my cooking, will only leave a putrid taste in one's mouth.
I don't really have the time to discuss the Raps, but besides Bargnani, not a single player would start on any other NBA team. Really? True dat - Even the Clippers. I'll take fat Baron Davis and rookie Eric Bledsoe over Jack or Calderon any night. Reggie Evans - thanks a million for all the rebounds, but having the ball traverse the cylinder and fall-through the mesh is actually the most important element of the game. It's called scoring and can be practiced both on the court and off the field (vaginal insertion of appendages, preferably the penis.) Actually, considering the aesthetic value of your face and that gnarley jihadesque beard Mr. Evans, let's focus on scoring in a game, and I'll try to pick-up your slack with the gaggles of groupies.
If only every game could provide that euphoric form of ecstasy that leaves many a men at the point of near climax, where that exact moment would be substituted in place of sex for a very similar result. Last week's Texans - Jaguars game provided a little of this, as Jags QB David Garrard's last second Hail Mary pass was batted-down and out of the end zone by a Texans safety, only to land in the arms of a Jags receiver. Touchdown. Game over. Coincidentally, the most euphoric and ecstatic play-by-play man on the planet no involved in Latin American football was covering the game. Thank God for Gus Johnson - we need more of you.
Here's a quick crash course on Gus Johnson - most are short, the Brandon Stokley one and Xavier - Kansas State finale is worth watching multiple times. Enjoy.
Xavier - Kansas State... Ignore the Ad... CRAWFORD FOR THE THREEEEEEEEEEEE
STTTTTTTOCKLEEEEEEY
Batista With The Catchhhhhh
Gus Loses It Following a Put-Back
An Al Harrington 3-Ball
Blowing His Wad on a Jamal Crawford 3
Monday, November 15, 2010
A Very Celtic Halloween
These photos have been posted elsewhere, but I thought why not put them up on badnews since many of my devoted readers are fans of the ol' game of peach basket. I've mentioned before how this season I am switching my allegiances to support the green and white, which is lame, however I know that at least one of my loyal readers is Celtic crazy. Enjoy.
P Squared aka The Truth channeling his inner-frog, Ray Allen doing the Off The Wall era MJ, an unknown chubby brother as a ghetto-ass Batman and KG dressed-up as some dude from Yo Gabba Gabba, or so I'm told.
P Squared aka The Truth channeling his inner-frog, Ray Allen doing the Off The Wall era MJ, an unknown chubby brother as a ghetto-ass Batman and KG dressed-up as some dude from Yo Gabba Gabba, or so I'm told. 
Marquis Daniels exploring a post-NBA career change. Hey 'Quis, there's no pussy in the priesthood.
The Big Shamrock in drag as Shaqueasy with some chick dressed as his pimp I assume
Rondo lookin' all Tiger, Jermaine O'Neal as Mr. T, Big Baby Davis as a man who woke-up only for the ribs, Delonte West doing the V for Vendetta thing (he fucked LeBron's mammy) and KG and Pierce preparing to sexually assault that dish of Mac N' Cheese.
Damn I'm hungry. That last photo has me thinking about one genre of cuisine in particular:
Ruminations 6.0
A new day, another morning after – thank goodness for my cappuccino maker, sometimes it feels like you’re my only friend.
Two quick thoughts – more often than not, realized always in hindsight, an excess of draught beer does not agree with me. Secondly, stand-up comedy is not as easy as it looks, and I was only heckling (despite the fact my annotations were funnier than much of the comedian’s material.)
Having said that, 2 weeks from now I will be climbing on-stage to cast-off the shackles of stage fright and retrieve my self-esteem from the hallowed recesses where it currently hides. Anybody that knows me should have just experienced a mild chuckle knowing that if there is one thing I do not fear, it is standing before a room of people staring intently at my delightful visage, seconds before I begin to verbally eviscerate each and every one.
Literally, I can’t wait.
In order for things to go smoothly, I will likely require some of the following people to be seated amongst the throngs of satisfied onlookers in the event I forget some of my material and need to ad-lib some jokes:
1) An obese black man wearing a FUBU #5 football jersey. My preference would be the model popularized by every rapper circa 1995 that features the ‘faded’ colour scheme with the FUBU name written in cursive on the lapel. Classy shit bra.
2) Mayor Rob Ford or the retarded dude from Goonies with the lopsided face. Either or.
3) My mother and/or any of my ex-girlfriends (pre-drinking would help.)
4) The laugh-track used on America’s Funniest Home Videos or any program on the Nickelodeon or Disney Networks and a half-ounce of shrooms to coerce the audience into laughing.
Stay tuned.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I consider myself a chivalrous man. I put value on the little things that makes a woman feel important. Whether it be holding a door ajar or holding an umbrella, if you truly appreciate the companionship of your woman, there are several small ways of showing this. With each experience you will learn more of what pleases a woman, and inversely what offends her. Following my latest relationship, I will never again walk before a woman. It’s rude. Show the woman you love and/or kinda like that she’s special. Perhaps she will repay you with great sex/honesty (low blow - I know. Sorry Shotta.)
This need not only apply to women you fancy, as you never know when one diminutive act of chivalry towards a stranger may result in the exchange of phone numbers or perhaps if you’re fortunate, an outdoor exchange of bodily fluids. A friend of mine recently had a similar experience with a young lady on a rather precipitous night. He called it a rain-bo-bo. While humourous, I cringed nonetheless reminded of the usage of hyphenated single-syllable words as a staple of my youth, which feels bizarre when referring to the oral consumption of a friend’s tube steak.
Where were we? Chivalry right! Regardless of situation, it’s always a great idea to be kind towards women of all ages. I pride myself on holding doors open for women, even if it requires a measure of patience on my part. Imagine the patience the same woman had when pushing some child’s massive cranium through her birth canal. Anyways, off on a tangent again – the point I am struggling to make is to be chivalrous, and in being as such, expect nothing in return from these women. Do I sound like a prick?
I am.
Women of the world – you want equality? Fine, have it. I have no problem with an absolute form of equality in all regards of life, but if I spend so much time holding doors ajar for women, could you not once return the favour by half-assedly jutting out an elbow or shoulder to delay the impending closure of a door. Just the other day, while holding-open the doors at College subway station for a group of older women, I followed them to the second set of doors in a small corridor where once laid a cinnamon bun franchise. As the final lady walked towards the door, not only did she not open it any further, she darted through as if she was Indiana Jones rolling horizontally to avoid the crushing blow of a massive stone door.
Ladies, you want to be president one day? Go for it. Want to run Fortune 500 companies and have your husbands stay home breastfeeding the babies while devouring Activia and watching Ellen asexually dance about stage wearing clothing eerily similar to what I sport daily? It’s yours. All I ask for is to return the smallest percentage of favours we oblige you with on a daily basis by simply showing you appreciate our chivalry. If I may return to the experience I had the other day, I’m not demanding that the wrinkled octogenarian who narrowly escaped the closing door withdraw her dentures to perform fellatio on me amidst a web of salivic deposits and her pot-pourri smelling yellow wig, I am simply asking for her to show her appreciation by returning the favour once.
Fuck I want a cinnabun. Wouldn't say no to a rain-bo-bo either.
Two quick thoughts – more often than not, realized always in hindsight, an excess of draught beer does not agree with me. Secondly, stand-up comedy is not as easy as it looks, and I was only heckling (despite the fact my annotations were funnier than much of the comedian’s material.)
Having said that, 2 weeks from now I will be climbing on-stage to cast-off the shackles of stage fright and retrieve my self-esteem from the hallowed recesses where it currently hides. Anybody that knows me should have just experienced a mild chuckle knowing that if there is one thing I do not fear, it is standing before a room of people staring intently at my delightful visage, seconds before I begin to verbally eviscerate each and every one.
Literally, I can’t wait.
In order for things to go smoothly, I will likely require some of the following people to be seated amongst the throngs of satisfied onlookers in the event I forget some of my material and need to ad-lib some jokes:
1) An obese black man wearing a FUBU #5 football jersey. My preference would be the model popularized by every rapper circa 1995 that features the ‘faded’ colour scheme with the FUBU name written in cursive on the lapel. Classy shit bra.
2) Mayor Rob Ford or the retarded dude from Goonies with the lopsided face. Either or.
3) My mother and/or any of my ex-girlfriends (pre-drinking would help.)
4) The laugh-track used on America’s Funniest Home Videos or any program on the Nickelodeon or Disney Networks and a half-ounce of shrooms to coerce the audience into laughing.
Stay tuned.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I consider myself a chivalrous man. I put value on the little things that makes a woman feel important. Whether it be holding a door ajar or holding an umbrella, if you truly appreciate the companionship of your woman, there are several small ways of showing this. With each experience you will learn more of what pleases a woman, and inversely what offends her. Following my latest relationship, I will never again walk before a woman. It’s rude. Show the woman you love and/or kinda like that she’s special. Perhaps she will repay you with great sex/honesty (low blow - I know. Sorry Shotta.)
This need not only apply to women you fancy, as you never know when one diminutive act of chivalry towards a stranger may result in the exchange of phone numbers or perhaps if you’re fortunate, an outdoor exchange of bodily fluids. A friend of mine recently had a similar experience with a young lady on a rather precipitous night. He called it a rain-bo-bo. While humourous, I cringed nonetheless reminded of the usage of hyphenated single-syllable words as a staple of my youth, which feels bizarre when referring to the oral consumption of a friend’s tube steak.
Where were we? Chivalry right! Regardless of situation, it’s always a great idea to be kind towards women of all ages. I pride myself on holding doors open for women, even if it requires a measure of patience on my part. Imagine the patience the same woman had when pushing some child’s massive cranium through her birth canal. Anyways, off on a tangent again – the point I am struggling to make is to be chivalrous, and in being as such, expect nothing in return from these women. Do I sound like a prick?
I am.
Women of the world – you want equality? Fine, have it. I have no problem with an absolute form of equality in all regards of life, but if I spend so much time holding doors ajar for women, could you not once return the favour by half-assedly jutting out an elbow or shoulder to delay the impending closure of a door. Just the other day, while holding-open the doors at College subway station for a group of older women, I followed them to the second set of doors in a small corridor where once laid a cinnamon bun franchise. As the final lady walked towards the door, not only did she not open it any further, she darted through as if she was Indiana Jones rolling horizontally to avoid the crushing blow of a massive stone door.
Ladies, you want to be president one day? Go for it. Want to run Fortune 500 companies and have your husbands stay home breastfeeding the babies while devouring Activia and watching Ellen asexually dance about stage wearing clothing eerily similar to what I sport daily? It’s yours. All I ask for is to return the smallest percentage of favours we oblige you with on a daily basis by simply showing you appreciate our chivalry. If I may return to the experience I had the other day, I’m not demanding that the wrinkled octogenarian who narrowly escaped the closing door withdraw her dentures to perform fellatio on me amidst a web of salivic deposits and her pot-pourri smelling yellow wig, I am simply asking for her to show her appreciation by returning the favour once.
Fuck I want a cinnabun. Wouldn't say no to a rain-bo-bo either.
Friday, November 12, 2010
Dipset Fridays
Since it's such a gorgeous day out and it's the middle of November - let's have an ENCORE no?
Advice For Men: 2) Headphone Thoughts
My fellow men, be weary of what crosses your mind while wearing headphones in public, because you'll never know who's listening.
And no, I'm not talking about other people hearing your music and you being embarrassed by the shuffling of Cam'ron, Sigur Ros, Spragga Benz and Randy Newman in succession, there's something else which has the potential to be far more embarrassing.
The reason I mention this is because I'm constantly listening to music or podcasts while riding public transportation and sometimes I will say something under my breath that people actually hear.
Yesterday I was standing on a semi-crowded eastbound train listening to a little NBA Today with Ryen Russillo when a young lady stood-up in anticipation of her stop and waited by the door not a foot from me. She stood before me close enough that the proximity, in combination with the fact that she was gorgeous and fit and my junk was approximately 9 inches from her shapely ass proved to be special enough that I fought the urge to smile. I recall saying something under my breath along the lines of "damn that's a fit ass."
What I assumed was an inaudible thought was apparently heard by at least two ladies on the train. One was the delightful young lady who turned to face me while exiting the train and looked at me with a non-expression that equates to her actually not being offended, rather potentially flattered by the comment.
The other privileged passenger was an older lady likely in her mid 60's that sat directly next to where I was standing. Her opinion of the remark was clear, as for the remaining 2 stops of my ride, she glared at me with a look of sheer disgust. I can understand her frustration.
To be consistent with this 'Advice For Men' bit, it is integral that we learn from our errors to become better men. All I can hope for is that in some way, I am able to help in the matter.
And no, I'm not talking about other people hearing your music and you being embarrassed by the shuffling of Cam'ron, Sigur Ros, Spragga Benz and Randy Newman in succession, there's something else which has the potential to be far more embarrassing.
The reason I mention this is because I'm constantly listening to music or podcasts while riding public transportation and sometimes I will say something under my breath that people actually hear.
Yesterday I was standing on a semi-crowded eastbound train listening to a little NBA Today with Ryen Russillo when a young lady stood-up in anticipation of her stop and waited by the door not a foot from me. She stood before me close enough that the proximity, in combination with the fact that she was gorgeous and fit and my junk was approximately 9 inches from her shapely ass proved to be special enough that I fought the urge to smile. I recall saying something under my breath along the lines of "damn that's a fit ass."
What I assumed was an inaudible thought was apparently heard by at least two ladies on the train. One was the delightful young lady who turned to face me while exiting the train and looked at me with a non-expression that equates to her actually not being offended, rather potentially flattered by the comment.
The other privileged passenger was an older lady likely in her mid 60's that sat directly next to where I was standing. Her opinion of the remark was clear, as for the remaining 2 stops of my ride, she glared at me with a look of sheer disgust. I can understand her frustration.
To be consistent with this 'Advice For Men' bit, it is integral that we learn from our errors to become better men. All I can hope for is that in some way, I am able to help in the matter.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Works of Fiction: Bill and Bel (3/3)
Night Fell. Morning Came. The pounding sounds similar to that of a jack-hammer ripping through firm concrete force Bill out of his frozen sleep. Nearby, a squirrel vigorously chews on an acorn from one of our coniferous friends, ambivalent to the bystander spread across a neighbouring rock. The piercing pain behind his right ear has led to an annoying migraine that refuses to pass with a throbbing tenderness, amplifying all sounds around him, explaining why a critter was confused for a jack-hammer. It’s now morning and the dew has settled on the path and on Bill’s thawed exterior. He surprised that he lived the night, though he has no idea how close to death he really was. Hunger pains begin to envelope his entire body, forcing him to stand and continue his search for something to eat, and more importantly, a way out of this mess. After walking for about an hour, Bill notices for the first time that he hasn’t seen a single runner since he entered the forest days ago with Isobel. Eugene and its surrounding areas have become a hot-bed for runners and fitness enthusiasts. It’s not an uncommon site to find the local trails filled to the brim with long-distance runners attempting to emulate local icon Steve Prefontaine and his brash legacy. Bill realizes that he must be really deep in the forest if there are no runners intersecting the woods. How far must he be from an exit he wonders? Always a shade away from being a full-blown self-defeatist, Bill is now in the depths of despair. He continues to amble along for hours with nothing but the towering trees for company. With death on his mind, its easy to confuse the woods as a massive burial ground where the trees are enormous headstones and the soft-ground a warm final resting place.
Well aware that he had either just completely lost his mind or was in the process of doing so, Bill was uncertain if his eyes were now playing tricks as well. About 100 yards ahead laid a massive spruce enjoying its afterlife horizontally, blocking the winding trail, sticking out about a foot above its barky exterior a fluffy bright red feather duster. How peculiar thought Bill. Intrigued by the misplacement and juxtaposition of a feather duster smack dab in the middle of a dense forest, Bill approached the enormous log apprehensively not knowing what to expect. Using what little energy remained, Bill slowly circled ‘round back of the log to find a startled creature with a telling expression of fear painted on its small visage. It was a fox. The slyest of all animals within the animal kingdom, the fox was thought to be as sharp as it is deceptive. Bill was surprised to find this agile feather duster known for its propensity to appear invisible slumped lazily behind the log with a mouthful of what appeared to be wild berries. The sight of nourishment was clearly too much for Bill, and he fainted at the side of the fox, who now had less reason to be scared then before. Regaining consciousness just minutes later, Bill sat reclined with his head propped up against the sitting spruce as the not-so-sly fox continued to devour the wild berries just feet from where Bill sat. Still a little uncertain that he had yet to completely lose his mind, this essentially was the perfect confirmation that he in fact had. His thoughts were now those that likely inspired a drunk C.S. Lewis. Turning his head slightly to ask a question, the motions are there, but no words will come out. Not a word is spoken between the two forest dwellers, the fox too distracted with his lunch. He passes out once more.
Bill awakes from his slumber to find that it is still daytime, meaning that he must have been out for no more than a couple of hours or that he has completely slept through the night. It was just a couple of hours. The first thing that he notices is that surprisingly his hunger pains have subsided. The stomach groans and pain which shot up his insides towards his bruised noggin have disappeared. He tastes a bitter, tangy residue on his lips and realizes that the fox must have fed him some of those wild berries. Where has the fox run-off to? Where was that massive log? He was now in a section of the forest which was far better lit with a wide, simple trail leading to somewhere he knew he needed to walk towards. Bill was confused. Had this not-so-sly fox fed him before dragging him into this clearing? Bill had several questions that would likely never receive an answer. An animal he had deemed to be deceitful and slick was in fact the reason he was still alive.
A lot can be said about reading a book by its cover. No way in hell would I have passed out alongside that fire-red fox knowing that I’d awake with a full belly and some sense of direction. He didn’t utter a single word, but I have the feeling that this is the way he wanted me to go. He knows this forest better than I do. Perhaps he was trying to lead me towards my beautiful Isobel. Forget the dude that put the ‘Bop’ in the ‘Bop – shu – whatever’. I wanna shake that fox’s hand. Nice guy, decent food.
Bill continued walking. With each step the forest’s tree coverage began to recede, identifying the something, whatever it may be, was just ahead. Anticipating a climatic end to his desperate travels, using what little energy he acquired from those wild berries, Bill begins to run along the ever-widening trail into a sun-drenched opening. Once again, Bill passes out from a combination of things. Night Fell.
Morning Came. The sunlight which blanketed his body and the field where he laid was warming. Using what little identification he had found on Bill, a long-haired and sinewy mustached runner was able to call Isobel from a nearby payphone at a public washroom. Thank god the man who had an uncanny resemblance to Steve Prefontaine always ran with two quarters stashed in a self-made slit in the tongue of his shoes, since carrying Bill any further than he had would have proved to be a rather difficult venture. Faster than physically possible, Isobel arrived at a public park, a hundred or so yards from the field where the runner had stumbled upon an unconscious Bill. Isobel and the man placed Bill in the car, vowing to never again let him out of her sight on Eugene’s challenging trails. As Bill dozed off in the back of the car, Isobel and the runner continued to speak, with the subject changing from Bill and what must have been a miserable few days, to themselves and their frustrations with dating and companionship. After about 10 minutes of banter, Isobel jumped gleefully back into her car with the runner’s phone number written on a small piece of paper. With his head poking slightly through the window of the car, the man, much to her surprise and pleasure, reached forward and kissed her softly on the cheek. She smiled and drove south with one hand on the steering wheel, the other massaging the weary bones and muscles of her sleeping border collie Bill.
Well aware that he had either just completely lost his mind or was in the process of doing so, Bill was uncertain if his eyes were now playing tricks as well. About 100 yards ahead laid a massive spruce enjoying its afterlife horizontally, blocking the winding trail, sticking out about a foot above its barky exterior a fluffy bright red feather duster. How peculiar thought Bill. Intrigued by the misplacement and juxtaposition of a feather duster smack dab in the middle of a dense forest, Bill approached the enormous log apprehensively not knowing what to expect. Using what little energy remained, Bill slowly circled ‘round back of the log to find a startled creature with a telling expression of fear painted on its small visage. It was a fox. The slyest of all animals within the animal kingdom, the fox was thought to be as sharp as it is deceptive. Bill was surprised to find this agile feather duster known for its propensity to appear invisible slumped lazily behind the log with a mouthful of what appeared to be wild berries. The sight of nourishment was clearly too much for Bill, and he fainted at the side of the fox, who now had less reason to be scared then before. Regaining consciousness just minutes later, Bill sat reclined with his head propped up against the sitting spruce as the not-so-sly fox continued to devour the wild berries just feet from where Bill sat. Still a little uncertain that he had yet to completely lose his mind, this essentially was the perfect confirmation that he in fact had. His thoughts were now those that likely inspired a drunk C.S. Lewis. Turning his head slightly to ask a question, the motions are there, but no words will come out. Not a word is spoken between the two forest dwellers, the fox too distracted with his lunch. He passes out once more.
Bill awakes from his slumber to find that it is still daytime, meaning that he must have been out for no more than a couple of hours or that he has completely slept through the night. It was just a couple of hours. The first thing that he notices is that surprisingly his hunger pains have subsided. The stomach groans and pain which shot up his insides towards his bruised noggin have disappeared. He tastes a bitter, tangy residue on his lips and realizes that the fox must have fed him some of those wild berries. Where has the fox run-off to? Where was that massive log? He was now in a section of the forest which was far better lit with a wide, simple trail leading to somewhere he knew he needed to walk towards. Bill was confused. Had this not-so-sly fox fed him before dragging him into this clearing? Bill had several questions that would likely never receive an answer. An animal he had deemed to be deceitful and slick was in fact the reason he was still alive.
A lot can be said about reading a book by its cover. No way in hell would I have passed out alongside that fire-red fox knowing that I’d awake with a full belly and some sense of direction. He didn’t utter a single word, but I have the feeling that this is the way he wanted me to go. He knows this forest better than I do. Perhaps he was trying to lead me towards my beautiful Isobel. Forget the dude that put the ‘Bop’ in the ‘Bop – shu – whatever’. I wanna shake that fox’s hand. Nice guy, decent food.
Bill continued walking. With each step the forest’s tree coverage began to recede, identifying the something, whatever it may be, was just ahead. Anticipating a climatic end to his desperate travels, using what little energy he acquired from those wild berries, Bill begins to run along the ever-widening trail into a sun-drenched opening. Once again, Bill passes out from a combination of things. Night Fell.
Morning Came. The sunlight which blanketed his body and the field where he laid was warming. Using what little identification he had found on Bill, a long-haired and sinewy mustached runner was able to call Isobel from a nearby payphone at a public washroom. Thank god the man who had an uncanny resemblance to Steve Prefontaine always ran with two quarters stashed in a self-made slit in the tongue of his shoes, since carrying Bill any further than he had would have proved to be a rather difficult venture. Faster than physically possible, Isobel arrived at a public park, a hundred or so yards from the field where the runner had stumbled upon an unconscious Bill. Isobel and the man placed Bill in the car, vowing to never again let him out of her sight on Eugene’s challenging trails. As Bill dozed off in the back of the car, Isobel and the runner continued to speak, with the subject changing from Bill and what must have been a miserable few days, to themselves and their frustrations with dating and companionship. After about 10 minutes of banter, Isobel jumped gleefully back into her car with the runner’s phone number written on a small piece of paper. With his head poking slightly through the window of the car, the man, much to her surprise and pleasure, reached forward and kissed her softly on the cheek. She smiled and drove south with one hand on the steering wheel, the other massaging the weary bones and muscles of her sleeping border collie Bill.
Works of Fiction: Bill and Bel (2/3)
Night Fell. Morning Came. The blood which saturated the area behind his right ear had completely coagulated and much of it blended in well with the few auburn leaves which lined the path. Bill looked like shit. Covered with scrapes, knots and twigs from head to toe, there was no part of his entire body that went without pain. Almost immediately he thought of Isobel. For some reason he was confident that she was safe. Maybe it was because it was he who had fallen down the hill while she stood safely stories above. Perhaps the fact that she was an accomplished hiker was reassuring to Bill or maybe it was because she was as comfortable surviving on her own as Bill was at struggling with solitude. He knew she was fine. Now he had to worry about himself. While picking pieces of bark and branches out of his thick skin, Bill began walking slowly in as straight of a line as possible, conscious of his surroundings in hopes that he could find a way out of this forest and into the arms of his love.
Bill had no idea how long he had been walking. He continued to struggle along the trail which varied in width and difficulty as it winded through the dense forest. Though it was likely midday, the tree-coverage blocked most of the sunlight, and despite the fact that many of the trees had shed their leaves as in Eugene, many would not. Bill had some trouble understanding why this happened each and every autumn. There was much he failed to understand about the world around him. While he could barely lift his head as he continued to amble along, amazingly he noticed that he was surrounded by an army of trees, enveloped by Spruces, Firs and Pines so many it would be impossible to count. The coniferous varieties were clinging with great valiance to their cones, almost as if being contained within this vast woodland protected its members from the autumnal stripping until the very last possible moment - when the shaded forest floor would become inundated by an influx of conifer droppings - making the path as indistinguishable as the densely covered ground. These were just a few of the many species cohabiting in this dense forest outside of Eugene, highlighting the virtues of autumn in a way that only the Pacific North-West could. Though distracted by the beauty which lined the path and acres of forest beyond him, his hunger could no longer be ignored. A moan echoed from the cavern of his vacant stomach. Which each passing moment of increasing hunger, Bill’s mind began to play tricks on him, as he continued to walk aimlessly along the path to nowhere in search of his beautiful Isobel.
Hunger is fascinating. At this point I would eat just about anything to drive-off this lightheadedness. There are stages of being hungry, where the desire to eat increases, and in theory so do the options. Upon the first sensation of an empty stomach pronouncing itself, I usually crave my favorite dish. Visions of a poached, yet runny egg perched lightly on an English muffin, wedged between the two a thin slice of smoked salmon, topped with a decadently rich amount of hollandaise sauce. Thinking about this is making me even hungrier. Boy, I would settle for just about anything right now, minus the decaying animal carcass a mile back. Shit I’d eat Indian right now.
With each passing minute the probability of starvation increased. Bill was beginning to lose his mind. He walks for what seems to be forever, the trail becoming blacker by the second. As night falls, the temperature drops well below freezing with a sharp wind darting like a wolf between the forest’s pillars, emitting a high-pitched whistling that did little to alleviate our friend’s hunger-related migraine. The odds were not in Bill’s favour that cold autumn night, starvation and hypothermia wrestling with one another to claim his life, an empty stomach growling against the numbing sensation of frozen extremities, all the while worried not only for himself but for his beautiful Isobel. Had she gotten out of the forest alive, or had she delved deeper into the woods in search of Bill. He hopped that she was safe, but at the same time felt a little disappointed thinking that perhaps Isobel could easily find a replacement. Having very few friends throughout life harbors such feelings of despair and solitude. Can you blame him? The idea of positive thinking is new to Bill, where in years past thinking happy thoughts would have been a clandestine concept, Isobel’s recent influence has been a mentally rewarding one. He was now off-track, both on the trail and in a cerebral sense. He was now playing a game of survival with odds stacked heavily against him. The goal was to stay awake until the next day, when the afternoon temperature would be more conducive to slumber. He continued to walk at an impossibly slow pace. It was now dangerously cold. When the body begins to freeze, the drop in temperature has a hallucinogenic effect on the victim, where the internal thermometer fails to properly reflect the body’s core temperature, giving the person the impression that it’s warmer than it actually is. Many people who freeze to death are found either naked or in various stages of disrobement, identifying the mental damage that hypothermia can cause. Bill was starting to have strange thoughts concerning a whole slew of ideas, one of which was that either it was actually getting warmer or he was losing his mind. In this instance, the latter applies. To make matters worse, carrying nothing more than common identification meant that starting a fire was out of the question.
Were my entire head not absolutely frozen right now I’d have to laugh at the fact that having a fire at this moment would mean the difference between life and death. It seems as if the distance between the two is narrowing rapidly. I obviously do not have the ability to start a fire, so I am forced to stumble along, and hope to stay awake until daybreak. Fire. How amusing. An invention that once changed mankind so drastically only to be overshadowed over time by the likes of Edison, Tesla and Marconi, could go a bloody long way towards saving my frigid ass. Death is near.
Starving and frozen, Bill lied down at the side of the winding trail on a large moss covered rock. The moss was so great that it acted as a pillow of sorts, supporting Bill’s weary melon as he fought to stay awake, eventually giving in with a gasp of frustration. Fighting the urge to fall asleep was a battle lost. Bill was asleep almost instantly. Now the chances of freezing to death had increased two-fold, sprawled unconscious across a chilling rock with all extremities exposed, his core temperature would continue to drop steadily.
(check-back tomorrow for the finale - thanks.)
Bill had no idea how long he had been walking. He continued to struggle along the trail which varied in width and difficulty as it winded through the dense forest. Though it was likely midday, the tree-coverage blocked most of the sunlight, and despite the fact that many of the trees had shed their leaves as in Eugene, many would not. Bill had some trouble understanding why this happened each and every autumn. There was much he failed to understand about the world around him. While he could barely lift his head as he continued to amble along, amazingly he noticed that he was surrounded by an army of trees, enveloped by Spruces, Firs and Pines so many it would be impossible to count. The coniferous varieties were clinging with great valiance to their cones, almost as if being contained within this vast woodland protected its members from the autumnal stripping until the very last possible moment - when the shaded forest floor would become inundated by an influx of conifer droppings - making the path as indistinguishable as the densely covered ground. These were just a few of the many species cohabiting in this dense forest outside of Eugene, highlighting the virtues of autumn in a way that only the Pacific North-West could. Though distracted by the beauty which lined the path and acres of forest beyond him, his hunger could no longer be ignored. A moan echoed from the cavern of his vacant stomach. Which each passing moment of increasing hunger, Bill’s mind began to play tricks on him, as he continued to walk aimlessly along the path to nowhere in search of his beautiful Isobel.
Hunger is fascinating. At this point I would eat just about anything to drive-off this lightheadedness. There are stages of being hungry, where the desire to eat increases, and in theory so do the options. Upon the first sensation of an empty stomach pronouncing itself, I usually crave my favorite dish. Visions of a poached, yet runny egg perched lightly on an English muffin, wedged between the two a thin slice of smoked salmon, topped with a decadently rich amount of hollandaise sauce. Thinking about this is making me even hungrier. Boy, I would settle for just about anything right now, minus the decaying animal carcass a mile back. Shit I’d eat Indian right now.
With each passing minute the probability of starvation increased. Bill was beginning to lose his mind. He walks for what seems to be forever, the trail becoming blacker by the second. As night falls, the temperature drops well below freezing with a sharp wind darting like a wolf between the forest’s pillars, emitting a high-pitched whistling that did little to alleviate our friend’s hunger-related migraine. The odds were not in Bill’s favour that cold autumn night, starvation and hypothermia wrestling with one another to claim his life, an empty stomach growling against the numbing sensation of frozen extremities, all the while worried not only for himself but for his beautiful Isobel. Had she gotten out of the forest alive, or had she delved deeper into the woods in search of Bill. He hopped that she was safe, but at the same time felt a little disappointed thinking that perhaps Isobel could easily find a replacement. Having very few friends throughout life harbors such feelings of despair and solitude. Can you blame him? The idea of positive thinking is new to Bill, where in years past thinking happy thoughts would have been a clandestine concept, Isobel’s recent influence has been a mentally rewarding one. He was now off-track, both on the trail and in a cerebral sense. He was now playing a game of survival with odds stacked heavily against him. The goal was to stay awake until the next day, when the afternoon temperature would be more conducive to slumber. He continued to walk at an impossibly slow pace. It was now dangerously cold. When the body begins to freeze, the drop in temperature has a hallucinogenic effect on the victim, where the internal thermometer fails to properly reflect the body’s core temperature, giving the person the impression that it’s warmer than it actually is. Many people who freeze to death are found either naked or in various stages of disrobement, identifying the mental damage that hypothermia can cause. Bill was starting to have strange thoughts concerning a whole slew of ideas, one of which was that either it was actually getting warmer or he was losing his mind. In this instance, the latter applies. To make matters worse, carrying nothing more than common identification meant that starting a fire was out of the question.
Were my entire head not absolutely frozen right now I’d have to laugh at the fact that having a fire at this moment would mean the difference between life and death. It seems as if the distance between the two is narrowing rapidly. I obviously do not have the ability to start a fire, so I am forced to stumble along, and hope to stay awake until daybreak. Fire. How amusing. An invention that once changed mankind so drastically only to be overshadowed over time by the likes of Edison, Tesla and Marconi, could go a bloody long way towards saving my frigid ass. Death is near.
Starving and frozen, Bill lied down at the side of the winding trail on a large moss covered rock. The moss was so great that it acted as a pillow of sorts, supporting Bill’s weary melon as he fought to stay awake, eventually giving in with a gasp of frustration. Fighting the urge to fall asleep was a battle lost. Bill was asleep almost instantly. Now the chances of freezing to death had increased two-fold, sprawled unconscious across a chilling rock with all extremities exposed, his core temperature would continue to drop steadily.
(check-back tomorrow for the finale - thanks.)
Works of Fiction: Bill and Bel (1/3)
Since I have written quite a few short stories, I thought I would post some of them on the site. I have chosen to share some of the older ones to appease my fandom's voracious appetite for brilliant writing, while saving some of my newer, more polished work for a collection of short stories I plan on shopping.
I wrote the following short story in 2007 as a Christmas gift for my father, who when asked what he wanted that year chose a short story. A belt or sweater would have been far-less labour intensive.
The following story will be broken-up into three parts - with each part revealed today and the two days which follow. Enjoy.
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Bill & Bel (1/3)
The brittle auburn leaves and distant smell of an intentional, arson-free fire signal the advent of fall, a season suited for a town like Eugene. Fall is the most aesthetically pleasing season for those fortunate enough to avoid the confines of urban squalor, where nature’s palette is substituted for with insipid grays, creating a banausic environment that sucks the life out of its inhabitants. Over-run by concrete and brick, America’s metropolises have sucked every last ounce of joie du vivre out of its people, where grass and soil is replaced by uninspired boxes stacked one on top of the other. Not enough can be said about the benefits of living in a town where man and nature cohabitate without conflict. Places like Eugene offer a visual treat during the fall months when the town’s trees begin to prepare for the winter freeze by shedding their leaves, creating random arrangements of brilliant colours plastering the vast spread of parks and pathways. And fall they do. Concourses and outdoor markets are covered with broad brush strokes of warm hues, allowing nature’s litter to contrast the coming cold. The leaves are thin, at times even translucent, so that they crack involuntarily when you step on them. Fall is a fitting title, but autumn is a better word.
Autumn’s warming scenes and chilling air are best served with a side of romance. There’s something about the colours that demand accompaniment by a beautiful woman. Warm hues like those of the fallen leaves encourage people to consume in excess, an idea that relates well to love. Many restaurants subscribe to this logic, using reds and oranges to create a congenial atmosphere that persuades it’s customers to eat and be merry. The same way a bronze sun and bright-blue sky can raise the lowest of spirits on a balmy summer’s day, a typical autumn afternoon can help even the loneliest find some form of love. After countless years of uncertainty and despair, Bill had finally found his autumn beauty. Isobel stumbled upon Bill by accident about a year ago in one of Eugene’s lush parks, and for a lack of conversation, it’s amazing how quickly a bond developed. The pair became inseparable, using the Pacific North-West as their playground. It was not uncommon to find the two trailblazing the most remote of wooded areas, with Isobel leading the way and Bill keeping pace alongside, face painted with an expression of curiosity and anticipation. Regardless of the setting, the two grew closer with each passing day.
At first, so as not to rush into things to quickly, I slept on the floor, Isobel in her bed. It made perfect sense to me, and I was willing to take things slow to ensure that nothing jeopardized our perfect pairing. This is assuming that I had any say in that matter, which of course is assuming a fair bit. What’s that they say about making assumptions? Shit I’ve been waiting long enough to even get in a woman’s room, let alone her bed - was I ever eager to fall asleep next to Isobel. Patience is a virtue - this may be true, but having low expectations makes life easier, that way even the smallest things feel monumental.
He was so infatuated by this woman that if asked what he most admired about her, an extensive list of qualities would immediately spring to mind, with both examples of the common; she’s so smart, funny, beautiful, etc, with those sentiments he found to be something a little more unique, something that reflects how well he knew her. Questions like these are not typical. Generally those around him don’t ask such questions, in place posing rather banal queries on the condition of the gardens or the location of the remote. Regardless of these judgmental stiffs and the way they looked down their noses at Bill, his feelings for Isobel were deep-seated, and only a few shades from fanatical. Healthy/Safe? Yes. Normal? Not so much. She was certainly a catch. Any member of the opposite sex lucky enough to have five minutes of Isobel’s time would agree. A woman whose virtues were as profound and as many as the brilliance of autumn, Bill recognized how ‘soft’ he had become with Isobel by his side and he loved every minute of it. Shoulder length-cut a deep shade similar to that of freshly brewed Colombian, Isobel’s hair added value to her physical appearance like a coat of a neutral eggshell hue the night before an Open-House. Somewhere in her late 20’s, age was certainly a friend of Isobel’s rather than an enemy, with a face that hasn’t changed a bit since her junior year in high school. Her olive skin was a blemish free palette that is best suited for as little coverage as possible. Isobel looked even better naked then clothed, a secret Bill enjoyed keeping to himself. Long-story short; Isobel was a gorgeous woman who for some reason had many struggles with the opposite sex, something Bill was confused by, and at the same time relished as an opportunity to finally find any form of companionship where previous suitors have included a river and a hockey stick. Generally love tends to be a messier venture than eating an egg-salad sandwich on the subway, however in the case of Bill and Isobel things could not have been more peaceful. Bill knew very well that he could not let the best thing in an otherwise monotonous life pass him by.
On that cold Tuesday, one of autumn’s last days of the calendar year, Isobel drove about 10 minutes northeast of Eugene towards Roote National Park, an enormously large protected area of foothills, streams and forests which epitomized the beauty of the Pacific North-West. Winding roads pierced massive rock formations that outdate every living species on the planet, separating the driver from towering forests as dense as the laws of nature will allow. This was Bill’s favorite place in the entire world. He didn’t have to say it, Isobel knew. A combination of possibly the cleanest air in the continental United States and the remarkably random symmetry of the wooded areas had meditative effects on both Isobel and Bill, as they basked in isolation from the evil world which surrounded them. At the mouth of the massive forest, long, wild grass that bled the darkest greens shook furiously at its roots, almost as if it was fighting to flee towards the welcoming forest. If you were to bend over and somehow grasp a blade of the raging reeds, it would likely cover the hand in a decadent green pigment that would stain much like those bright –blue security fluids attached to valuable items at the mall in order to dissuade thieves. Perhaps these precious blades have an equivalent mechanism, marking those who dare tear the planet’s shag carpet for their own twisted pleasure – which of course nobody does. The grass was very green. The two had walked for about 20 minutes when both realized that it was probably far too cold and increasingly windy to be out on the trail, though Bill was eager to stay out. He refrained from arguing his point, instead agreeing with his Isobel to make a run for the car. Doubling back along the route would likely have been the best option, so instead Isobel led Bill towards the general direction of the dusty field/carpark by way of some challenging terrain. Never before had the woman’s adventurous nature put the two in harm’s way, so why would it now? Between the two of them, Isobel generally made most of the decisions, many of which worked out for the better. Bill can be a pretty accommodating guy.
If hiking was intended for pussies, the forests and trails would be littered with drinking fountains, first-aid kits and topographic maps depicting the location of the nearest public washroom facilities. Obviously the closest distance between point a) and point b) is a straight line, but what if that line intersects a monumentally large expanse of steaming mounds of shit? Do you still take the shortest route? Barefoot? This trail was far more difficult to traverse, with mossy stumps and broken branches strewn throughout the passage and an increasing elevation that could quickly change the day’s activities from a hike to a climb. Bill had run ahead roughly twenty yards to stoop behind a large pine and take a leak. Though Isobel had nary a problem with Bill peeing in front of her while out on a hike, Bill was a gentleman and chose privacy over exhibition every time. The wind’s torrential pace had picked up, reducing visibility on the path so that once Bill had sprinted ahead for nature’s calling, Isobel could barely see his silhouette in the distance. The darkness showed no hesitation in blanketing the forest, with the sun ducking behind a slew of dark gray clouds and the terrain becoming more hazardous by the inch. Unable to see more than a couple of yards in front of him, Bill soon realizes that he’s pissing on his leg. Steam escapes his soaked leg blanketing his torso and head with vapor clouds of urine. Embarrassed and in obvious discomfort because of his piss saturated right leg, Bill’s head rotated rapidly at the sound of Isobel’s voice, only to find that not only could he see his love, he had no bearing on where she was with her voice bouncing off the trees, distorting its origin. Almost instantly, an immense sense of fear consumed Bill. He was lost. Panic ensues. His immediate impulse was to run, and after but a few seconds, running at full steam for dread of the unknown, Bill struck a massive tree headfirst, with the impact propelling him down a steep hill littered with jagged branches and sharp boulders. Falling head over heels down a dangerous slope is one thing; doing so while completely bewildered and disoriented by the darkness is a shade more terrifying. Somewhere between the top of the hill and the place where Bill came to rest, he had smacked his head once more, this time off of a triangular shaped rock jutting out of the slanted hillside, creating a gash about the size of a quarter behind his left ear. He passes out.
(check tomorrow's post for part 2 of 3 - thanks.)
I wrote the following short story in 2007 as a Christmas gift for my father, who when asked what he wanted that year chose a short story. A belt or sweater would have been far-less labour intensive.
The following story will be broken-up into three parts - with each part revealed today and the two days which follow. Enjoy.
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Bill & Bel (1/3)
The brittle auburn leaves and distant smell of an intentional, arson-free fire signal the advent of fall, a season suited for a town like Eugene. Fall is the most aesthetically pleasing season for those fortunate enough to avoid the confines of urban squalor, where nature’s palette is substituted for with insipid grays, creating a banausic environment that sucks the life out of its inhabitants. Over-run by concrete and brick, America’s metropolises have sucked every last ounce of joie du vivre out of its people, where grass and soil is replaced by uninspired boxes stacked one on top of the other. Not enough can be said about the benefits of living in a town where man and nature cohabitate without conflict. Places like Eugene offer a visual treat during the fall months when the town’s trees begin to prepare for the winter freeze by shedding their leaves, creating random arrangements of brilliant colours plastering the vast spread of parks and pathways. And fall they do. Concourses and outdoor markets are covered with broad brush strokes of warm hues, allowing nature’s litter to contrast the coming cold. The leaves are thin, at times even translucent, so that they crack involuntarily when you step on them. Fall is a fitting title, but autumn is a better word.
Autumn’s warming scenes and chilling air are best served with a side of romance. There’s something about the colours that demand accompaniment by a beautiful woman. Warm hues like those of the fallen leaves encourage people to consume in excess, an idea that relates well to love. Many restaurants subscribe to this logic, using reds and oranges to create a congenial atmosphere that persuades it’s customers to eat and be merry. The same way a bronze sun and bright-blue sky can raise the lowest of spirits on a balmy summer’s day, a typical autumn afternoon can help even the loneliest find some form of love. After countless years of uncertainty and despair, Bill had finally found his autumn beauty. Isobel stumbled upon Bill by accident about a year ago in one of Eugene’s lush parks, and for a lack of conversation, it’s amazing how quickly a bond developed. The pair became inseparable, using the Pacific North-West as their playground. It was not uncommon to find the two trailblazing the most remote of wooded areas, with Isobel leading the way and Bill keeping pace alongside, face painted with an expression of curiosity and anticipation. Regardless of the setting, the two grew closer with each passing day.
At first, so as not to rush into things to quickly, I slept on the floor, Isobel in her bed. It made perfect sense to me, and I was willing to take things slow to ensure that nothing jeopardized our perfect pairing. This is assuming that I had any say in that matter, which of course is assuming a fair bit. What’s that they say about making assumptions? Shit I’ve been waiting long enough to even get in a woman’s room, let alone her bed - was I ever eager to fall asleep next to Isobel. Patience is a virtue - this may be true, but having low expectations makes life easier, that way even the smallest things feel monumental.
He was so infatuated by this woman that if asked what he most admired about her, an extensive list of qualities would immediately spring to mind, with both examples of the common; she’s so smart, funny, beautiful, etc, with those sentiments he found to be something a little more unique, something that reflects how well he knew her. Questions like these are not typical. Generally those around him don’t ask such questions, in place posing rather banal queries on the condition of the gardens or the location of the remote. Regardless of these judgmental stiffs and the way they looked down their noses at Bill, his feelings for Isobel were deep-seated, and only a few shades from fanatical. Healthy/Safe? Yes. Normal? Not so much. She was certainly a catch. Any member of the opposite sex lucky enough to have five minutes of Isobel’s time would agree. A woman whose virtues were as profound and as many as the brilliance of autumn, Bill recognized how ‘soft’ he had become with Isobel by his side and he loved every minute of it. Shoulder length-cut a deep shade similar to that of freshly brewed Colombian, Isobel’s hair added value to her physical appearance like a coat of a neutral eggshell hue the night before an Open-House. Somewhere in her late 20’s, age was certainly a friend of Isobel’s rather than an enemy, with a face that hasn’t changed a bit since her junior year in high school. Her olive skin was a blemish free palette that is best suited for as little coverage as possible. Isobel looked even better naked then clothed, a secret Bill enjoyed keeping to himself. Long-story short; Isobel was a gorgeous woman who for some reason had many struggles with the opposite sex, something Bill was confused by, and at the same time relished as an opportunity to finally find any form of companionship where previous suitors have included a river and a hockey stick. Generally love tends to be a messier venture than eating an egg-salad sandwich on the subway, however in the case of Bill and Isobel things could not have been more peaceful. Bill knew very well that he could not let the best thing in an otherwise monotonous life pass him by.
On that cold Tuesday, one of autumn’s last days of the calendar year, Isobel drove about 10 minutes northeast of Eugene towards Roote National Park, an enormously large protected area of foothills, streams and forests which epitomized the beauty of the Pacific North-West. Winding roads pierced massive rock formations that outdate every living species on the planet, separating the driver from towering forests as dense as the laws of nature will allow. This was Bill’s favorite place in the entire world. He didn’t have to say it, Isobel knew. A combination of possibly the cleanest air in the continental United States and the remarkably random symmetry of the wooded areas had meditative effects on both Isobel and Bill, as they basked in isolation from the evil world which surrounded them. At the mouth of the massive forest, long, wild grass that bled the darkest greens shook furiously at its roots, almost as if it was fighting to flee towards the welcoming forest. If you were to bend over and somehow grasp a blade of the raging reeds, it would likely cover the hand in a decadent green pigment that would stain much like those bright –blue security fluids attached to valuable items at the mall in order to dissuade thieves. Perhaps these precious blades have an equivalent mechanism, marking those who dare tear the planet’s shag carpet for their own twisted pleasure – which of course nobody does. The grass was very green. The two had walked for about 20 minutes when both realized that it was probably far too cold and increasingly windy to be out on the trail, though Bill was eager to stay out. He refrained from arguing his point, instead agreeing with his Isobel to make a run for the car. Doubling back along the route would likely have been the best option, so instead Isobel led Bill towards the general direction of the dusty field/carpark by way of some challenging terrain. Never before had the woman’s adventurous nature put the two in harm’s way, so why would it now? Between the two of them, Isobel generally made most of the decisions, many of which worked out for the better. Bill can be a pretty accommodating guy.
If hiking was intended for pussies, the forests and trails would be littered with drinking fountains, first-aid kits and topographic maps depicting the location of the nearest public washroom facilities. Obviously the closest distance between point a) and point b) is a straight line, but what if that line intersects a monumentally large expanse of steaming mounds of shit? Do you still take the shortest route? Barefoot? This trail was far more difficult to traverse, with mossy stumps and broken branches strewn throughout the passage and an increasing elevation that could quickly change the day’s activities from a hike to a climb. Bill had run ahead roughly twenty yards to stoop behind a large pine and take a leak. Though Isobel had nary a problem with Bill peeing in front of her while out on a hike, Bill was a gentleman and chose privacy over exhibition every time. The wind’s torrential pace had picked up, reducing visibility on the path so that once Bill had sprinted ahead for nature’s calling, Isobel could barely see his silhouette in the distance. The darkness showed no hesitation in blanketing the forest, with the sun ducking behind a slew of dark gray clouds and the terrain becoming more hazardous by the inch. Unable to see more than a couple of yards in front of him, Bill soon realizes that he’s pissing on his leg. Steam escapes his soaked leg blanketing his torso and head with vapor clouds of urine. Embarrassed and in obvious discomfort because of his piss saturated right leg, Bill’s head rotated rapidly at the sound of Isobel’s voice, only to find that not only could he see his love, he had no bearing on where she was with her voice bouncing off the trees, distorting its origin. Almost instantly, an immense sense of fear consumed Bill. He was lost. Panic ensues. His immediate impulse was to run, and after but a few seconds, running at full steam for dread of the unknown, Bill struck a massive tree headfirst, with the impact propelling him down a steep hill littered with jagged branches and sharp boulders. Falling head over heels down a dangerous slope is one thing; doing so while completely bewildered and disoriented by the darkness is a shade more terrifying. Somewhere between the top of the hill and the place where Bill came to rest, he had smacked his head once more, this time off of a triangular shaped rock jutting out of the slanted hillside, creating a gash about the size of a quarter behind his left ear. He passes out.
(check tomorrow's post for part 2 of 3 - thanks.)
Monday, November 8, 2010
Ruminations 5.0
My apologies for the lack of posts recently, but amidst work and writing for legitimate sources that people actually read, I have been a wee bit busy. Combine this with the fact that sometimes I would just rather curl up by the fire and write compelling and emotive teen dramas that focus on the hardships of being a young vampire - it's understandable why I sometimes allow a few days to pass between entries.
As a means of placating my rabid fan base, I return with a few points littered with the common vitriolic rage and angst you've come to love and yearn for.
I'm certain everyone has noticed the proliferation of smaller bottle caps during the last few years. These pathetic, flimsy lids are now used by several North American flat-water companies as a means of using less packaging, and as a result doing their part to lessen the environmental impact of plastic water bottles.
Ideally, an alternative to plastic water bottles could be found, considering it's an object that is surely not recycled enough for a variety of reasons, rarely reused by consumers and often left in the sun or the trunks of cars to depreciate the value and subsequently, the shelf-life of the bottle. Until a practical alternative is discovered for massive and mobile application, we are stuck with the plastic bottle.
The problem with these new bottle caps is that they are a royal pain in the ass to screw back-on the bottleneck. It often takes a half-dozen tries to turn the cap clockwise and actually have it follow the threading on the bottle. If I had a dollar for every time I threw a bottle in my bag only to find that I had not properly screwed the lid back on properly, I would be rich and not have so many tattered manuscripts of my collection of stories centered-around a mysterious teen heartthrob with a secret: he's a vampire werewolf!!!
Holy fuckin' run-on sentence. Yes I'm aware. I do occasionally proof-read items. Now for a Seinfeldian moment of reflection - What's the deal with 'centered-around'? How can something be centered, yet around? Am I missing something? Considering I'm such a literal person and a stickler for the incorrect usage of terms, I have even surprised myself today.
Does anybody trust little kids selling chocolate? I do not. Especially since these chocolates are typically 5 bones a pop for a generic, brand-less bar of shitty-ass chocolate and third-world almonds. I know you're gonna buy the new Air Jordans with the proceeds you collect from selling this garbage. Who do you think you're fooling? And where the fuck are these kids' parents?
In fighting the urge to make a generalization - I have failed, however more often than not, I will see some black or latin-american child no more then ten years old walking door-to-door selling these chocolates. I admire their courage and the size of their balls (metaphorically of course, unless one has a varicolcele or hydracele - look it up you ignorant bastards, but essentially they are inner-testicular growths), but always end up empathizing with these kids.
I guess what I'm saying is that I don't trust the kids or the chocolate, but at the same time I feel bad whenever I see these kids peddling their shit. The pity I feel for these children outweighs my dislike for the wares their selling - it just saddens me to see it. I'll be dammed if I ever purchase said chocolates, but I would not hesitate to buy the kid a San Pellegrino and smoke him a joint.
As a means of placating my rabid fan base, I return with a few points littered with the common vitriolic rage and angst you've come to love and yearn for.
I'm certain everyone has noticed the proliferation of smaller bottle caps during the last few years. These pathetic, flimsy lids are now used by several North American flat-water companies as a means of using less packaging, and as a result doing their part to lessen the environmental impact of plastic water bottles.
Ideally, an alternative to plastic water bottles could be found, considering it's an object that is surely not recycled enough for a variety of reasons, rarely reused by consumers and often left in the sun or the trunks of cars to depreciate the value and subsequently, the shelf-life of the bottle. Until a practical alternative is discovered for massive and mobile application, we are stuck with the plastic bottle.
The problem with these new bottle caps is that they are a royal pain in the ass to screw back-on the bottleneck. It often takes a half-dozen tries to turn the cap clockwise and actually have it follow the threading on the bottle. If I had a dollar for every time I threw a bottle in my bag only to find that I had not properly screwed the lid back on properly, I would be rich and not have so many tattered manuscripts of my collection of stories centered-around a mysterious teen heartthrob with a secret: he's a vampire werewolf!!!
Holy fuckin' run-on sentence. Yes I'm aware. I do occasionally proof-read items. Now for a Seinfeldian moment of reflection - What's the deal with 'centered-around'? How can something be centered, yet around? Am I missing something? Considering I'm such a literal person and a stickler for the incorrect usage of terms, I have even surprised myself today.
Anyways, where were we? Right, bottle caps. I appreciate the efforts being made by some companies to reduce their carbon footprints or whatever the fuck it is, but if it inhibits the efficacy of the product, there should be an eventual decline in sales as a result, and everybody wins. Everybody but the suits who drink San Pellegrino anyways.
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Speaking of San Pellegrino - oh how I enjoy the taste of your carbonated waters and delightful flavored drinks. Their Chinotto is second to none. The other night I stumbled upon an episode of Mythbusters on the Discovery Channel. It was a coincidence that they were discussing myths concerning deposits left by critters on the tops of soda cans, since my friend proposed the very same idea earlier in the week (if you think that's irony - stop reading this blog.) My friend seemed to think that some high percentage of soda cans have traces of rat urine and feces on the lids. I'm under the impression that drinking out of these cans may explain the bizarre taste of Mountain Dew, but leave it to the Mythbusters nerds to find the truth.
Truth be told, instead of sticking with the Mythbusters for the duration of the show, I flipped over to some reality show about fat people crying that really made me want Burger King.
Regardless of what conclusion the two nerds came to, I have now developed an aversion to drinking out of soda cans. I would like to point-out that several varieties of delicious San Pelligrinos can be found in cans, with a paper doily adhered to the top of the can to protect us from the nasty-ass bacteria left by a rat taking a crunch on your can of Faygo.
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Finally, something along the lines of my prior post concerning the death of UNICEF collections in Canada.Does anybody trust little kids selling chocolate? I do not. Especially since these chocolates are typically 5 bones a pop for a generic, brand-less bar of shitty-ass chocolate and third-world almonds. I know you're gonna buy the new Air Jordans with the proceeds you collect from selling this garbage. Who do you think you're fooling? And where the fuck are these kids' parents?
In fighting the urge to make a generalization - I have failed, however more often than not, I will see some black or latin-american child no more then ten years old walking door-to-door selling these chocolates. I admire their courage and the size of their balls (metaphorically of course, unless one has a varicolcele or hydracele - look it up you ignorant bastards, but essentially they are inner-testicular growths), but always end up empathizing with these kids.
I guess what I'm saying is that I don't trust the kids or the chocolate, but at the same time I feel bad whenever I see these kids peddling their shit. The pity I feel for these children outweighs my dislike for the wares their selling - it just saddens me to see it. I'll be dammed if I ever purchase said chocolates, but I would not hesitate to buy the kid a San Pellegrino and smoke him a joint.
Friday, November 5, 2010
Things Done Changed: UNICEF
The other night, while helping my parents hand out miniature bags of chips for Halloween, I noticed something beyond the lame costumes that was distinctly different than my experiences as a child. Amongst the 100 children who loudly banged at my parents door, was nary a single UNICEF box.
I recall walking door to door dressed as a robot in a box that once held a fridge and exhaust tubing on my limbs, bag in one hand, UNICEF box in the other. It acted as the perfect contrast to the greed of begging for and hoarding candies.
A 50-year-old Halloween tradition in Canada is about to come to an end as UNICEF has announced the cancellation of its orange box campaign.
After consulting with teachers and parents about its Halloween program, the United Nations Children's Fund said the time has come to put the cardboard boxes to rest. Apparently the resources required to count and roll the coin in said boxed is too great to preserve the program. According to UNICEF, in recent years, Canadians have donated an average of $3 million every Halloween through UNICEF's orange box campaign.
The annual loose change collection isn't worth the money that's amassed, said Evelyne Guindon, executive director for UNICEF Quebec.
"Coin is very labour-intensive," she said. "Rolling pennies is very labour-intensive, so obviously that was one of the things teachers reflected to us."
The decision doesn't mean UNICEF is backing away from efforts to get children interested in fundraising, said Guindon. Teachers will be given opportunities to organize educational activities, that include raising money for people in need.
Critics say the aid group has made the wrong decision.
Philip Robertson, an elementary school principal who oversees three schools on Quebec's Lower North Shore, says UNICEF is making a mistake in dropping the program.
"The kids feel good about what they've done," explained Robertson, "because UNICEF normally provides little educational units about why kids are bringing the orange boxes along with them when they're trick-or-treating, and what this money's going to be used for."
The program will continue in the United States, despite the fact that rolling American coins is as labour intensive as it is for their Canadian counterparts. I don't get it.
I recall walking door to door dressed as a robot in a box that once held a fridge and exhaust tubing on my limbs, bag in one hand, UNICEF box in the other. It acted as the perfect contrast to the greed of begging for and hoarding candies.
A 50-year-old Halloween tradition in Canada is about to come to an end as UNICEF has announced the cancellation of its orange box campaign.
After consulting with teachers and parents about its Halloween program, the United Nations Children's Fund said the time has come to put the cardboard boxes to rest. Apparently the resources required to count and roll the coin in said boxed is too great to preserve the program. According to UNICEF, in recent years, Canadians have donated an average of $3 million every Halloween through UNICEF's orange box campaign.
The annual loose change collection isn't worth the money that's amassed, said Evelyne Guindon, executive director for UNICEF Quebec.
"Coin is very labour-intensive," she said. "Rolling pennies is very labour-intensive, so obviously that was one of the things teachers reflected to us."
The decision doesn't mean UNICEF is backing away from efforts to get children interested in fundraising, said Guindon. Teachers will be given opportunities to organize educational activities, that include raising money for people in need.
Critics say the aid group has made the wrong decision.
Philip Robertson, an elementary school principal who oversees three schools on Quebec's Lower North Shore, says UNICEF is making a mistake in dropping the program.
"The kids feel good about what they've done," explained Robertson, "because UNICEF normally provides little educational units about why kids are bringing the orange boxes along with them when they're trick-or-treating, and what this money's going to be used for."
The program will continue in the United States, despite the fact that rolling American coins is as labour intensive as it is for their Canadian counterparts. I don't get it.
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Nonetheless, Halloween is an enjoyable time both for children and adults. It's common thought that adults use Halloween as a means of escaping from their daily ways. Women dress in whorish garb, while men mimic their douche-baggish role models who they criticize, but deep inside the recesses of their souls they love said douchery.
Two costumes I stumbled upon caught my eye:
The kid's facial expression seals it no?
Brilliant effort for this artsy fellow
The original work by Banksy
Corrections
The need for a fact-checker on this site has never been more apparent than now. My readers may remember a post from a little more than a week ago that was a retrospective of sorts.
The very woman who once referred to me as Doorchfall dropped me a line to let me know that it was in fact the Dutch word Doortrapt that means a person who has a penchant for deceit. Thank you Lia.
The very woman who once referred to me as Doorchfall dropped me a line to let me know that it was in fact the Dutch word Doortrapt that means a person who has a penchant for deceit. Thank you Lia.
Doorchfall is actually the German word for diarrhea. The similarity in the spelling of the two words is a lame excuse, as is the lack of a spell check program that filters for other languages. My apologies for the error. Don't ask me why I know the word for a bowel movement, but very little other German.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Advice For Men: 1) New Era Mods
This is the first of an endless barrage of installments in a new series of posts which will attempt to help increase the efficacy of everyday life for men. Being a man, albeit barely, I'm constantly searching for means to simplify my life.
Each article will identify an issue, the problems it may cause and the methods of simplification.
1) New Era Modifications:
As most of you likely know, New Era is a company which makes baseball hats. Their 59/50 line of hats are the official on-field cap of Major League Baseball and are available at most sporting goods stores and their flagship Toronto location on Queen West, just steps from McCaul ave. The caps, commony known as "full-backs", are fitted and based on fractions of an inch in hopes of fitting all head sizes (even Hideki Matsui's size 8.) In my case, I have a big-ass head which requires a 7 5/8th cap. My collection of hats fitted well when my hair was short-cropped, however I am currently sporting a super-lame variation of the Tom Brady, and my hats do not fit as well as before - leaving me with a dilemma.
Last year I purchased a San Francisco Giants hat because a) I like the colours and b) one of my favorite skaters, Brian Anderson often wears one and it looks pretty neat. Since I am a moderate bandwagon jumper and a major fan of Giants hurlers Tim Lincecum and Brian Wilson, I wanted to rock the SF again, but alas, I didn't fit well. Problem solved - I taught myself how to modify them.
Follow both my written and visual instructions, and you too can overcome a similar obstacle. The modifications cannot be undone, so be aware that once you cut your hair short, your hats will fit like Jules Santana - which is altogether another level of coolness and panache.
For this process you will require sharp scissors, a New Era 59/50 cap and hands. You may also find that hands are a useful tool for many other duties such as solo-sex and wiping your ass/nose/stomach (see. Solo sex.)
Step 1) Pick a hat, place it on your head and confirm that the circumference of your melon is exactly that of the equator. Once you've completed said task, grab your scissors and make the two cuts to the band on the inside of the cap (this band - once removed will give you that extra space, hence the enitre purpose of this post.)
In this case, I will use a ratty, old Yankees cap as a test model.
Here's a collection of some of Brian Wilson's better interviews - enjoy.
Each article will identify an issue, the problems it may cause and the methods of simplification.
1) New Era Modifications:
As most of you likely know, New Era is a company which makes baseball hats. Their 59/50 line of hats are the official on-field cap of Major League Baseball and are available at most sporting goods stores and their flagship Toronto location on Queen West, just steps from McCaul ave. The caps, commony known as "full-backs", are fitted and based on fractions of an inch in hopes of fitting all head sizes (even Hideki Matsui's size 8.) In my case, I have a big-ass head which requires a 7 5/8th cap. My collection of hats fitted well when my hair was short-cropped, however I am currently sporting a super-lame variation of the Tom Brady, and my hats do not fit as well as before - leaving me with a dilemma.
Last year I purchased a San Francisco Giants hat because a) I like the colours and b) one of my favorite skaters, Brian Anderson often wears one and it looks pretty neat. Since I am a moderate bandwagon jumper and a major fan of Giants hurlers Tim Lincecum and Brian Wilson, I wanted to rock the SF again, but alas, I didn't fit well. Problem solved - I taught myself how to modify them.
Follow both my written and visual instructions, and you too can overcome a similar obstacle. The modifications cannot be undone, so be aware that once you cut your hair short, your hats will fit like Jules Santana - which is altogether another level of coolness and panache.
For this process you will require sharp scissors, a New Era 59/50 cap and hands. You may also find that hands are a useful tool for many other duties such as solo-sex and wiping your ass/nose/stomach (see. Solo sex.)
Step 1) Pick a hat, place it on your head and confirm that the circumference of your melon is exactly that of the equator. Once you've completed said task, grab your scissors and make the two cuts to the band on the inside of the cap (this band - once removed will give you that extra space, hence the enitre purpose of this post.)
In this case, I will use a ratty, old Yankees cap as a test model.
N.B. This is most efficiently performed while NOT WEARING the hat - don't blame me if you cut yourself/detach your retina.
Make certain the cuts are sharp and clean, as this whole method is based on your ability to operate scissors and maintain the initial form of the cap. It is essential that the cuts are close, but not touching the seams which connect the bill of the cap to the body.
Step 2) Once you've made those two cuts, still using the scissors, delicately remove some of the stitching at the absolute base of the cap by firstly cutting the seems, then removing the stitching by hand or by pulling with the scissors several seems ahead. Follow me? Start at the rear of the cap where the New Era label is stitched into the cap.
N.B. There are two sets of stitching laid-into the hat - the one you were asked to remove above, and the one that the measured inlay is stitched into the hat with. The inlay features white stitching, and an effort should be made to keep this one intact, as it will help maintain the general form of the hat.
Step 3) Continue removing the coloured stitching from the hat until the interior rim is completely removable, which should be the case if your two initial cuts were well performed and the stitches came-out with minimal effort.
At this point, all that is required is minimal clean-up as far as neatly removing any residual stitching and generally cleaning of the modified area.
Congratulations, you are now the proud owner of a newly modified and purposeful New Era cap that can now be worn regardless of quantity of hair. You can thank me later.
N.B. One last helpful nugget of wisdom for my homies - take a minute out of your hectic day, bust a few helicopter whirls and send a picture of your tube steak to a girl you work with. It worked for Favre.
Make certain the cuts are sharp and clean, as this whole method is based on your ability to operate scissors and maintain the initial form of the cap. It is essential that the cuts are close, but not touching the seams which connect the bill of the cap to the body.
Step 2) Once you've made those two cuts, still using the scissors, delicately remove some of the stitching at the absolute base of the cap by firstly cutting the seems, then removing the stitching by hand or by pulling with the scissors several seems ahead. Follow me? Start at the rear of the cap where the New Era label is stitched into the cap.
N.B. There are two sets of stitching laid-into the hat - the one you were asked to remove above, and the one that the measured inlay is stitched into the hat with. The inlay features white stitching, and an effort should be made to keep this one intact, as it will help maintain the general form of the hat.
Step 3) Continue removing the coloured stitching from the hat until the interior rim is completely removable, which should be the case if your two initial cuts were well performed and the stitches came-out with minimal effort.
At this point, all that is required is minimal clean-up as far as neatly removing any residual stitching and generally cleaning of the modified area.
Congratulations, you are now the proud owner of a newly modified and purposeful New Era cap that can now be worn regardless of quantity of hair. You can thank me later.
N.B. One last helpful nugget of wisdom for my homies - take a minute out of your hectic day, bust a few helicopter whirls and send a picture of your tube steak to a girl you work with. It worked for Favre.
Here's a collection of some of Brian Wilson's better interviews - enjoy.
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