To the devil with ye, vile annum

Hey everyone, the final day of the year has dawned and is rapidly unspooling. I'd better write a final missive, one for the ages, so that a proper adieu is given to the year that was 2009. And what a year it was! Things happened, other things also happened, and all this happening amounted to a full year of things happening. Let's recall some of the best times: I remember well going to my local grocers, and as usual I made a bee-line for the place where pomegranates were most likely to be stored. Wonder of wonders, not a humble wicker basket held these arcane fruits but a gigantic cardboard box, so numerous were the pomegranates in their plenitude. I could not see clearly but for the tears which were amassing in great pools along my eyelids, and so quickly evacuating not an inconsiderable quantity of that saline potion which represents my salty emotions, I wiped my eyes clear and beheld all those many pomegranates with greed. I even bought one.

Oh what a day! But what of the many others? Well, there was that time that I was walking towards the pharmacy, as it was there that I would find a throat lozenge for my throat which was croaking and quivering, making it hard to properly enunciate the finer examples of my considerable vocabulary. My pace? Furious. My gait? Efficient and manly. If anyone had seen me, and no doubt many strangers were both alarmed and impressed by my speed and focus, they probably remarked, "My what a furious pace that man is keeping, at once efficient and manly." I myself was not ignorant of the distinguished qualities of my determined stroll, one foot after another quickly and without fail replacing its former in perfect form. Ah, yes it was a walking for the ages! But what sorcerer's enchantment was this, it turned out that, alas, I was not progressing towards my goal, that place wherein therapeutic lozenges were stored, but away from it! The world had been flipped, turned asunder, and I had been deceived by a cohort of the devil! As usual, a despairing hopelessness clouded my meager logical abilities, but then an angel of clarity descended and produced in my mind the idea that I need only to turn around, and by doing so I would soon be on the correct path. And so it was! In no time the lozenges were mine.

To conclude, 2009 was indeed a profoundly memorable year.

Egad! I don't know what to think anymore!

I've always loved Howard Bloom. For some reason, he just seems to make sense. In a world dominated by ridiculous pessimists, Howard can cut through a load of shit and still sound optimistic. These days however, Howard is starting to scare me. A lot.

Over the last ten years, he has started releasing articles that have to do with climate change, consumerism, capitalism and our role in the future. All that stuff with solar panels in space directing us energy, Mr. Bloom was there years ago. His recent articles are a far cry from The Lucifer Principal, which could either be the greatest book ever written, or the poorest. These days he's starting to make a great deal of sense, but there's a problem. In the respects that I must agree with him, I really don't want to.

His newest article should prove to be something that may drum up some form of discourse on Knowing,Doing.com

Article Here. Be warned, this blindsided me.

Thoughts, anybody?

Issues that require large banners

It is true that this morning I mistook a fragment of bellybutton lint for an insect. I'm not proud of this misunderstanding, and I'm feeling especially sheepish because when my eyes alighted on the small creature I wheezed in fear and pulled my hand back at an alarming speed. Alas, it was only the beginning of my embarrassment. The bug was small and black, and when I couldn't find its legs I speculated that the brute was deliberately trying to deceive me, pulling its legs under itself to appear like belly-button lint. "Foolish insect," I said aloud, "You've met your match this time." I then took one of my drum sticks and began constructing a simple rhythm on the cushion of the couch we were sharing, hoping my funky vibe would confuse it, forcing it to reveal its hidden legs (1-2-3-4-5-6) and scurry away. Fact: Soulless beasts cannot stand soulful beats. Of course such bravado merely cloaked my own debilitating terror, as I was certainly not this lint/insect's match.

Various scenarios raced through my mind: The bug would suddenly jump at me, biting, scratching and defecating on me until finally burrowing into my left eyeball to lay her eggs. Or she would take off flying and I'd lose track of her. Unbeknown to me, the clever strumpet had long ago made a home out of one of my pillows. From there she would dispatch her hoards of offspring to climb on and in me through the long, cold night. The bolder of the youngsters no doubt showing off by successfully navigating the gates and corridors of my sinus system. Here she would be waving on the threshold of my nostril, skilfully balanced on a long nose hair, only to disappear for a time, then suddenly reappear creeping out of my mouth. Restless dreams would plague me within. A few others, no less bold, but perhaps with no taste for public spectacle, would quietly sneak off behind my face, up the back of my neck and into my ears. No doubt the romantic ambiance of that waxy, dank cavern would encourage ravenous love making, and my dream-scape would be made even more inscrutable by the high-pitched shrieks of enraptured insects.

Woe betide me! But I resolved then and there to take action. My first inclination was to paint a message on a large banner that I would then dangle in front the camouflaged creepy crawler. What an action that would have been! My banner would hang mercilessly for a time, the bug's kaleidoscopic eyes soaking in the hard truths, the hard imperatives. "Bug Action Now! Action Now Bug! Bug! Now! Action! " No doubt that would have been awesome, at once expressing my forthwith intention to act on the problem and my commitment to insectival justice in our time. "413! uh, 350! hmm, 227 bugs per million! Justice against the arthropods!" What an action that would have been. But I wanted to do something more dramatic, something that would haunt my minute adversary for the remainder of her 17 days. I was going on a hunger strike.

At first all went well, 1, 2, 5 minutes passing without so much as a grumble or mumble from my tummy. "Let's do this Erasmus," I thought I heard my tummy say, but I was too focused on my action, too in the game to be certain of the distractions outside it. 7, 8, 11 minutes. It was then that I hit a road block. I was starving! My tummy ceased being a tummy and became a stomach, I was on my last legs, I had lost a lot of weight and was feeling so weak. Should I have kept going, hammering the nail in the coffin that was my action? Should I have martyred myself for the cause? Would my hunger strike have reached proverbial heights, declaring to any and all, "No more bugs!" I'd like to think that it would. I like to think that my bold action would have been noticed by someone, and that they would have said, "There's a guy who really tried to act on the bug problem."

Well, I'll leave such speculation to our future historians because in any case, just a few seconds shy of a full 12 minutes without eating, my hand made a dart for the little insect beside me. "It's full of life-giving protein," I reasoned. No sooner had I grasped the thing then I realized that its armored body was in fact soft and spongy. I dropped it in shock. Took a deep breath and said to myself, "Hang in there old boy, action is required." I picked it up and drew it close to my face. It was then that I realized my error! It was no bug, and something about its shape gave me cause to wonder, "is this of the bounty of my bellybutton?" I brought it to my tongue and realized at once that it contained oily flakes from that umbilical vestige. What folly! "Get back in there, you devious ball of lint, lest I am stirred to unleash yet another devastating action upon you!"

To be a bee, to be a paperweight

The sun has risen as have important thoughts in my mind. One is an echo of an intuition, perhaps I dreamed of it, that in a previous life I performed the duties of a paperweight. A half moon, something of a partial marble, I lorded over stacks of parchment. There my owner would perch me so to prevent my great enemy, the wind, from scattering them. I'm not sure but I suspect that this happened a long time ago because marking the pages with a succession of numbers had not yet occurred to anybody, so it was crucial that I lay atop the papers day and night, until that time that they were bound in some manner. I'm not able to recall the language of the missives - I was a paperweight for god's sake! - but it is safe to say that this was not a scrolling culture. Rather, independent and rectangular sheaves were the preferred medium, so my services were crucially necessary, especially when the stacks reached formidable heights such as two or three inches off the surface of the table. It was then that I would shine!

Though I could not see, I felt the presence of the others: the ink well, the small receptacle which held the writer's quill, a bag of pistachios. Occasionally eye glasses would be lain on the table. Myself and the others would wince in jealousy over the great prestige of the eye glasses, for really, if not for them where would the rest of us be? I would still be in some quarry or another, merged forever with the rest of the simple rocks and minerals. Thanks to the skilled lens grinder though, I too provided a function to the world. One time I was resting upon what I gather must have been a french translation of those Arabic folk tales known as 1001 Nights. The scribe was endlessly giggling and banging is fist against the desk, stopping only occasionally to partake (I suspected from his grunting and moaning) in the practice of onan. What else should we expect from that heathen celebration of sin? So I have a feeling that the years passed in this manner, I sitting atop a steadily growing stack of parchment, my comrades quill, inkwell and pistachio near by, our owner either slamming his fist down in mirth or masturbating, also in mirth.

The trail ends here. I have no further insights into the existence of an old paperweight. Ah, but what dreams. Were it not that I could provide such a function in present times. It would be of more value than my present labors. Currently I provide something of the services of a worker bee, endlessly excreting sugary beverages, cleaning excrement and carrying off the carcasses of my fallen colleagues. Occasionally I spot the queen and her arrogant court, always scuttling about the hive, always capriciously, and of course being just a short-lived minion, it goes without saying that I must stop what I'm doing and get out of their way. Once I was busy on a project, building a modest hexagonal cell to partake in the wonder our comb, when out of no where that beast of a queen shows up, plops her vast abdomen into my partially built chamber and lets drop - wow, what do you know? - yet another confounded larva! Another bastard for the colony! As if we didn't have enough already! The courtiers murmur some praise ("A most excellent birthing your majesty!") and her lordship saunters off without so much as a glance in my direction. Well, I can accept my lot, only because I know that in the life that comes after I might return as a queen myself, or better still, a paperweight.

Probably the least relevant thought in the history of the universe

What is up with the obnoxious drama of inanimate objects? Just this morning I was cleaning the kitchen and wouldn't you know it, when I tried to lift a pot off the teetering pile of glistening, pristine and flawlessly washed dishes, a glass fell, making an absurd spectacle of itself as it crashed on the floor. Could it have been any louder? No. Could the shards of broken glass have sprayed outwards at a greater speed or reached a vaster diameter? No and double no. It seems to me, and I've thought a lot about it, like, really scratched my head over the issue, that inanimate objects can be exceedingly dramatic at times. "Really, little cup, is the ferocity of your demise truly necessary? Couldn't you have broken with a little less fanfare? Something more in keeping with your supremely forgettable and infinitely replaceable existence?"

Of course it could of, but the arrogant little goblet had other plans. It knew full well that I had perhaps stacked the exalted pile of sanitized kitchenware just a tad too high, and that though at its core, the pots and plates, spoons and strainers were indeed arranged by an expert hand (my own) according to an expert design (my own), the pile was an inanimate babel, objects arranged so to convene with the heavens. Ah, but Newton's cursed formulae, his regulations for the right conduct of all matter, know of no exceptions and coyly tugged at my teetering pile. Gravity captured it in its droning grip which always tries to dispatch a wobbly wok, a careless straggler, to a useless oblivion. Then that little ass of a cup got the idea that a glorious jump and fall, followed by a spectacular disassembling, would impress his earthenware comrades. I for one am not impressed!

Why do objects with no pulse, with no complex of doggedly busy cells, insist on cracking the calm of our days and nights with their noisy, attention-seeking drama? Calm down idiotic objects! You cannot fool us into mistaking your final death spasms as life!

Fact: There are many things in the world

Last night I cleared away empty wine glasses and crumpled napkins which were the detritus of this year's esteemed Munk Debates, held at Toronto's lovely Royal Conservatory. The topic under "debate" went something along the lines of "Be it resolved, climate change represents the greatest challenge facing humanity." Yawn. The speakers at the event came from around the world, at least three of whom are no doubt making quite a living to speak in front of affluent and doubtless passionately concerned audiences such as this one.

Two panelists argued that yes, the rise in global temperatures warns of the coming end times, lest of course the wealthy and enlightened countries reach some sort of consensus and pledge their worthy names to a binding treaty. The other two panelists say nay, there are other equally if not more pressing concerns for the human community than pinning down the precise quantity of carbon molecules allowable under the lower rungs of the earth's several atmospheres. Human poverty was the major talking point for the nay-sayers, who emphasized that several billion of us have daily concerns ranging from whence to find a grain of rice and drop of water, how to avoid hacking machetes and murderous bullets and where to die in peace from easily preventable diseases. A majority of the world's population couldn't care less about the terrifying worries and bold predictions of well-sheltered, clothed and fed experts.

The one issue that struck me, as well as at least one other service staff attendant, was that the "debate" framed the issue as though yes or no were the only responses possible. This form of "debate" has its roots in the theological/philosophical habits of medieval monks (please note the clever pun). Back then, robed and bearded men thought that all that could be said about the world had already been said by the wise ancients. It was left for future generations to distill their arguments into invincible formal logic. When these monks gathered to debate, they showed their skill to the extent that they successfully parroted the logical skeletons that under lay whichever topic. The point was to follow as closely as possible the logic of the reasoning, and the most legendary orator was he who could dress the expected arguments up in the pomp and splendor of rhetoric. Nothing new was expected, nothing new was offered. Debates were mainly and merely exercises in formal logic.

So too the debaters last night were guilty of trotting out the well-worn issues readily found in the books they regularly publish. The highs and lows of the night's "debate" depended on the volume and quivering emotion evinced in the speaker's voice. Each side was guilty of that most modern of comic absurdities: Issuing forth statistical quotations as though these stood as "facts." Laughably, each of the four interlocutors would peer into their satchel of facts, bringing them out one a time, like a precious object in an Indiana Jones movie. The only truth contained in these exceedingly particular and ephemeral "facts" was that each speaker had his or her own favorites. It amazes to see intelligent human beings not blush at the irony.

The sooner the issue over climate change is recognized as having profoundly emotional, perhaps even spiritual, origins for those involved, the sooner these debates will quit with the asinine cliche and reach the blood and guts and carbon molecules of the thing.

Nonsense, in some sense.

I'll be making an appearance shortly. Sorry for the absence, there's been goats to shave.

Save us business men, you warriors for freedom

I long for the day when men of business are in control of everything. When that happens we can be sure that only the best goods and services will be available. When business men compete they always have at the forefront of their minds: "How can I do better?" And this competitive spirit, with one business man struggling to better another business man, will undoubtedly result in only the best quality goods and services for us consumers. Be gone vile governments, with your corpulent inefficiencies and bureaucratic waste! Let the humble man of the market in so that he might offer us something better. Thinking about a world run by men in the uniform of the suit brings a tear to my eye and a boner to my pants, so excited do I get by the thought.

You see, business men can only think about one thing: Quality. They wouldn't put to market any old piece of shit just to make money. They are guided by principles, indeed, the highest moral principles one can fathom in these faulty human reasoning devices we call brains. It's the sacred right to buy and sell, because ultimately life consists in just this. When I wake up in the morning I think to myself, "What goods and services will I sample today?" Sometimes I even think, "Perhaps I have a good or service that I might humbly put to market. Perhaps, if the demand for my product is there, I too can contribute to this heaven on earth of buying and selling."

But you know, human society is still far from perfect. Alas, many, many business men have their greatest dreams thwarted by obsolete notions of fairness and justice embodied by the nation state. The nation state checks their freedoms, constrains their ability to offer the best products possible. If only they could better serve the consuming folk, but no, governments will not allow it. Governments say, "The world is not your playground business men, it is not yours to manipulate like play-doh, not everything is about ledgers filled with black and red ink." But it is! That is why governments are on the downward slope to obsolescence. The time will come when they are represented by a skeleton in a museum, a museum that relies not on public endowments, but on the clever outwitting of one business man over another. What wonders will exist when packaged by the competitive market men? The great, unknown future will be one where men of business compete to their little hearts' content, filling, absolutely stuffing the market of society with unimaginable and necessary products to make life worth living.

Done been thinking about beans

It wasn't the first time I've been outwitted by a can of beans and I fear, alas, that it won't be the last. I've had some experience with the little bastards, I've opened my share of cans over the years. There have been failures yes, but also great successes. There were times when the cans opened as if by magic. Like Ali Baba I have learned secret commands. I've crept up to them, "Now I've got you, you beany little bastards!" - and with a murmur the container's feeble lid peels back like foil, exposing the simple legumes to the lights glinting from my greedy eyes. Other times haven't been so easy, such as when opening a can requires the full measure of my strength. At these times sweat pores out of my pores and I have to be careful not to let my body's salty brine from spoiling the beans. Most of the time, whether by good fortune or great effort, I do manage to open the can and then go on to commit all sorts of heinous acts with and to the beans. It's a free world, each man's beans are his own to do with as he pleases. I counter those who would say, "let the beans be!" with "Mind your own beans and keep your pathetic, undernourished opinions about the beans of others to yourself."

So it was that I with no idea of the struggle that was to come, took up a can of chickpeas and set about working its top free. At first everything went along smoothly, as events like this often do. I lept to the cupboard and found my trusty can opener, gave it a quick inspection to ensure this invaluable tool would yet again be capable of meeting the challenge. It's humble mechanisms seemed ready as ever to carry out my will, the small cutting wheel turned without a squeak, its pliers appearing fully able to grip the tin's lip without trouble. The tool glistened in the afternoon sunlight so brightly that tears formed in my eyes, I couldn't handle its gleaming nor its beauty. So without any sense of pending doom, I made for the chickpeas and sunk my tool's cutting wheel deep into its waxy metallic top hat. As usual, so far so good. I began to turn the key and the cutting proceeded along its circumnavigation.

It was then that I realized that I had tried to fly too high, my wings began to melt and soon I was plummeting past the descending rungs of hell into its most vile and painful depths. I was thwarted by logic, I caught a bad case of Zeno's Paradoxitis. With each turn of the opener's key, the cutting wheel ate into the distance between its starting point and its goal. Slightly smaller intervals remained with each twist so that eventually a slight fraction of a hair's breadth was all that was holding fast the tin's stubborn seal. But I was not able to snip the ribbon, because with every turn of the key, the wheel moved halfway towards its object, and though the distance became increasingly minute there was always half the remaining distance to cover first. No matter how small the gap, it had a halfway point, forever. Not even my trusty electron microscope (note accompanying image) could see an end to this interminable turning and cutting. After many days turning and cutting tiny distances, I cried out to the heavens, "Chickpeas be damned!" and in my confused rage squeezed the nasty tin to kill it.

Just then the top popped off! It clanged and clamored as it hit the kitchen floor, and the sound reminded me of the ringing of bells that mark momentous occasions. Streamers and confetti fell from the ceiling, and a parade of well wishers suddenly appeared, they were patting me on the back and congratulating me on my accomplishment. Many noted the supreme skill I had displayed carrying out my task. No matter. I had a chili to prepare and so with little further ceremony I dumped the foul garbanzos into the pot. Such are the wonders of this life.

All filler, precious little killer

Something hilarious is happening to the British art scene. As it turns out, Damien Hirst, arguably the richest and by that standard most "successful" artist who ever lived, cannot paint. Many, many people cannot paint, I happen to be one of them, but then all of us non-painters have not managed to hypnotize the world's high-art culture with our every move. Even if you think you've never heard of Hirst, you have. He's famous for taking the classic "ready-made" or "found object" concept to its extreme. How about his diamond-encrusted human skull? Or his pharmacy in the Tate Gallery, calling it - wait for it - "Pharmacy." I suppose spectators were expected to like consider the fact that like pharmaceuticals were like super prominent in our lives and stuff. By no means a lazy man, Hirst has produced innumerable similar installations, entire series of preserved animals, including his famous tiger shark which he blithely called "The physical impossibility of death in the mind of someone living." If he had asked for my help in naming the work I would have offered, "What's it called at the museum?" or "Preliminary remarks toward obtaining a refund."

One of Hirst's most celebrated approaches to art is his tongue-in-cheek take on the whole concept of artist's apprentice. Skinny dipping in the contemporary shallows, he literally phoned in his instructions to a team of fledgling artists who then painted according to his specifications. How these conversations went I can only imagine: "Well just splatter some color in the middle, yeah, then add the butterflies. There's got to be so many butterflies. It's a fucking butterfly party, yeah." Now, in his early 40s, the mighty artist has decided to crank it up a notch by actually painting something himself. And what this man has painted is crap. It would seem that the emperor of contemporary art is not only without his silken, one-of-a-kind embroidered robes, but is in fact wearing little more than natty, poop-streaked nut huggers.

True, so true. But what of more ordinary expressions of vacuous self-promotion? Recently, I found myself surrounded by a great herd of folk notable for their evident relative financial prosperity. Expensive clothes and lifestyles abounded, were on display and though no particular runway commanded attention, it was indeed a fashion show. Nothing wrong with that necessarily. It's nice to look nice. But as I floated among the currents at their impressively shoe-ed feet, it seemed obvious to me that very fine rules and regulations were being followed. It was not so much expressing wealth to standout, but expressing wealth to fit it. I thought that having money enabled more and better opportunities to locate and express one's individuality. Not so, like columns of soldiers the well-dressed wealthy displayed their matching uniforms. "Do these people collect Damien Hirst?" I didn't ask but now insinuate that I had.

To the dictionary: Pretension - 'Act of claiming or alleging.' Though by different means, both Hirst and these expensively dressed folk achieve a high level of pretension. They claim and allege that what they do and what they have stands as extremely significant, one for the ages, a monument to their ascendancy to the top of pile. When Hirst says, "Look at my fucking butterflies," I hear him alleging, "Everything's crap, but have you seen these choice turds I'm selling?" And when people with large quantities of expendable income (or savings) strut around in expensive clothing, exuding an attitude of "How does the world turn without knowledge of my wardrobe?" I think to my self, "How does the world turn so heavily laden with such idiotic twittishness?" To some it might make sense to value a person based on the clothes he happened to have noticed and purchased, but brand-name labels should not be given the same cultural value as literary works. As the blooming revelation of Hirst's mediocrity teaches us, you can fake it until you make it, but when you make it don't forget that you're also faking it.

Dismantling Democracy

It's time to dismantle democracy because obviously no one knows what it is. For some reason we (that's the Western "we") revere this political concept as the equivalent to freedom. Whenever freedom is in question, it is a challenge to democracy, and the word "Nazis" inevitably gets pulled into the equation regardless of the of the situation.


On the twentieth anniversary of the fall of the Berlin wall, the beginning of the end of the Cold War and the Soviet regime, the question of what democracy is becomes increasingly valid. The material shared by Batty and Erasmus during September discussing the protests in Washington against health care pose as the poster-child of western political and historical ignorance. And now that the American president Obama hasokayed the health care process, will these Americans now find themselves in an undemocratic situation? Has freedom been unfairly yanked from their grasp? Are they now slaves to their country?


The nearly forgotten Canadian Coalition discussion [link to follow] of this past winter was an event which challenged the taken-for-granted political and historical intelligence ofCanadians . As Canadians we revere ourselves as vastly more intelligent and politically aware than our southern neighbours, which doesn't say a whole lot. It also gives a country, where the majority of the population cannot name the first Prime Minister, more credit than it deserves (hint: he's on the ten-dollar bill, yes, that's the purple one).


The arguments you'd hear in the halls of one of Canada's top universities following this political debate were astounding. The disgust openly voiced by those supporting the Conservative government, identifying the dissatisfied Canadians who were questioning Prime Minister Harper's adequacy as nothing more than leftist pot-smoking hippies who simply couldn't deal with the fact that Harper was voted in and that's simply how democracy works, was excruciatingly ignorant. Yes. That is how democracy works. But not how a Constitutional Monarchy works. Guess which one Canada is.


And finally we have the Iranian protests following the summer election. To think that Westerners, especially Americans, have the audacity to claim that a country with rigged elections is simply not prepared for democracy. Does George Bush ring any bells? George Bush in 2000? Florida recount? Anything?! Yes - the Iranian situation is a fantastic example of inhumane andunhumanitarian behaviour. But can we safely deduce that part of the Western reaction to this has been clearly led by our safe assumption that anything Middle-eastern has been cleverly concocted to deny the rights of individuals while we sit in the Free West?


Now I'm not a political scientist. I hate politics. But I will try to give an accurate definition of democracy. Democracy is built around the freedom to have knowledge of who you are voting for ... but a democracy is also run by a tyrant. It's a "one-man" show and it doesn't mean personal freedom under a regime.


The Cold War is over and yet we continue to divide the world into two parts which contrast one another. But this continuation of duality is a figment of our imaginations. The world can no longer be divided in two - it's like a playground where one bully picks out its foe. It worked during the Cold War because the playground was equally divided out of fear - the smaller countries where threatened into giving their lunch money and cookies to the two superpowers. But once one of the bullies fell to the other, the playground has become a colossal mess. Some of the countries still hand over the lunch money, but they can't really figure out who to give it to. There are no longer two superpowers - there is a contest as to who will reach this status among the previously minor countries, while other countries have become bored with the whole game and are playing four-square and fooling around with the tether ball.


The west still insists on dividing the world according to democratic and undemocratic nations. But how long will it take for us to understand that perhaps what the west is advocating isn't exactly democracy, and that this definition of democracy is actually applying to other political concepts. The point is that we need to properly define what we are and what we want, and to cease concocting definitions when we find it suitable.

I thought it was a wink

So I was at "work" the other day, "working" among other things, when all of a sudden an aged, derelict man approached me. At first I didn't notice him. He shuffled up so quietly, like a stalking animal, and being that I was fully engrossed in my considerable labors, I remained focused on polishing the floor's square tiles with a soap-drenched mop. It wasn't until I heard his unique mixture of mumbles, grunts and words when I realized I was sharing a moment with a famous local crazy person. He is a very tall, very old man with a striking beard, which were it not atop the chin of 'ole Wacky McWackerton, would no doubt be cared for with fragrant oils in preparation for his duties as Santa in shopping malls and other shopping malls. But no, his beard does not smell of fragrant oils and because I do not have the nerves, guts or courage to lean up and with my nostrils drink in his earthy, rustic odor, I cannot with a clean conscience speculate as to what his gnarled, ragged beard stinks of. Suffice to say that it stinks, probably.

When I finally did gaze into his warm, blue eyes, which as always were flitting unpredictably as a hummingbird gathering nectar, I also noticed that a stream of coffee was working its way down the fine textures of his beard, collecting into plump droplets, losing their grip and falling away, way down to the floor. As fortune would have it, the mop in my hands was designed expressly for the purpose of cleaning such unwanted droplets, and so with each splatter of milky coffee, I was there to mop it up. For sometime we stood like this, a drop of his beard river falling like a shooting star to our feet, and there like a steward to the gods was I with my mop, doggedly wiping it away. All the while McWackerton was counseling me with his usual mixture of mumbles and words. It would go like this, "You know if Gretta would ghms, sdsdi sfdf.... (?)" with each sentence, though begun in good order, would trickle its way into oblivion, much like the lonely droplets of coffee which fell from his bobbing chin.

I thought that this interaction was leading nowhere, I thought, "Man he's crazy," and I had made up my mind to step around him and continue my mopping duties. Just as I made to leave I felt his surprisingly soft touch against my right hand, at first two fingers which soon scissored as though to grip me more firmly. The thing was, his grip was as gentle as a newborn's, in fact I've held the hands of a few infants whose tiny fingers appeared to reflect a desire to crush bones, so violently and aggressively did their miniature knuckles contract. His touch was of an earthbound angel, indescribably gentle, and were it not out of a fear (irrational as per usual) of contracting herpes or AIDS, I might have stood there with him for eternity, as his bony, chalk white fingers lightly played a tune against my hand. But then, as thoughts of vagrancy and disease began to throb in my mind and I made to pull my hand away, he held out to me a gift, a coffee mug. Behind him I could see where a similar mug was missing and realized that the 'ole madman had, probably with a similar delicate gentleness, picked it up and brought it to me.

Now I understood why he was speaking in tongues at me, why he was softly touching my hand, it was because he wanted to give me a present. Actually, it turned out that he wanted to give me the mug only for safe-keeping, it was actually meant for someone else. Try as I might I could not make clear who it was for, the beginning of each of his sentences starting off promisingly would invariably lead into an opaque mystery towards the middle, and in the end he emitted only the sound of winds through empty forests and worms burrowing beneath our feet. So he left me with the mug, a gentle and sincere smile, and what I think was a wink, as though to seal our secret. He shuffled out, his pants low around his buttocks, just like the young men who ape the culture of poor-urban America circa 1993. Bon voyage McWackerton, till we touch again.

His Name is Phillip.

The beats my friends have kept

I should be making music with my friends, of that there's no doubt. Out there with the fucking Orcas, gliding among the straits we sound meaningfully at each other, keeping time and caressing the melody. Life is so short, it's a wonder that music is possible. I wonder if all of the gods are offended. The divine beings suspect that we should be ashamed of our existence, our ancient ancestors wrote that we were profoundly failed beings. But it seems to me, and I'm indifferent to my error, that we are only meant to care for each other. And tight beats, tight music making is one of the quickest and bestest means to immortality. If you have to ask, you'll never know, said Louis Armstong.

It's hard to imagine that the nonsense of our time means anything. I'll be damned if Stephen Harper has any bearing on my life. The state of Canada can seep into the drain of oblivion for all I'm concerned. It's not my parents' fault that they lived here therefore it's not my ancestors' fault that I'm Canadian. I prefer to imagine myself as a being of the pale blue dot. I'm simply one of those of the earth. What significance are the tones of my language? Hundreds of languages have existed and they are translated. It's the modern world, children. What adventures exist? Only those which happen in our minds. And the adventure that exists in my mind involves the musicianship of my friends, my comrades. Once I suggested that our band be called "Not Now Later and the Some Other Time." It will always be later and some other time. I love you guys.

Orcas and wolves are always surprising. It's because we know so little about them. Seriously. Herman Melville wrote Moby Dick a long time ago, and one of the major themes he emphasized was the complete and endlessly deep ignorance that humans idiotically nurtured about the behavior of Sperm Whales. The mighty Sperm Whale is plagued by human idiocy. First of all, do you know why this wondrous "beast of the deep" is named as it is? It's because the merchant monkeys who raced to massacre them noticed that the oily white substance which served as a fuel for lanterns had the viscosity and coloring of human male sperm. Kill 'em all. Their heads are filled with fucking sperm, like. Today, at the cutting edge of the present, we know barely anything more than the mighty Melville. Don't fret, the Sperm Whale is nearly a memory, we've almost murdered the entire species, praise be to God. To hell with us.

My friends are great musicians. I would love to imagine that all the Gods have an interest in human music making. In this endless universe, isn't it amazing that this stranger "human", self named, chooses to create rhythms to mark the march of time? I don't know if it's amazing, but I know that my friends are. Let's kick it.

Uhhh....?

Fiery and incomprehensible sermons*

It's probably the case that I am not "replete with honor," whatever I intended that to mean. I mean, come on, how can one be stuffed full with honor? It's not like we're Turkeys. Anyway, I am further convinced that a person would be in error should they imagine that I was overflowing with honor for the following reason: I bought a homeless man a beer. Now before you get upset, dear reader, and rush to remark on the foolhardiness of my action, first hear my tale of how it was that I gladly brought an ice cold beer to this solitary man, this reluctant Tom Sawyer. My principle reason was this: He wasn't my mortal enemy.

So I was walking down the street - literally down it and not up it (there are only the two options strictly speaking) when I realized I would likely find him up ahead. By "him" I mean my mortal enemy. I knew to expect him because whenever I run into him it's almost always outside my local beer store. That's where he tries to part from me my heaps of cash. I've learned to anticipate him whatever direction I'm walking in. Even across the street (at a MacDonald's, another of his favorite places) I can easily spot him, his posture is always the same: Widely spread legs undergird a proud gut that overhangs his pants as a bluff does the sea. The confident orb of his blessed gut chimes in time to the music of the heavens, extending in flawless convexity to where his neck should be. There we are surprised to find not his neck but a noble chin, which begins cutting a miniature version of the same shape upwards to the top of his forehead. He looks like a grapefruit on top of a pumpkin, both of which are miraculously balanced upon the apex of his two perfectly straight, spreadeagled and sweat-panted legs. His arms hang at his side, his shoulders he holds back as though to showoff imaginary medals on his grimey and tattered uniform. I dare not quote from his encyclopedic face, except to mention that most of it's covered in a mat of stubble.

I can't imagine the complete variety of adventures this demon finds himself in but from what I've seen it's all about conflict for most of the day. He seems to approach everything with fearlessness and curiosity, he leaves no stone unturned and few passersby unharassed. He makes no bones about his intention to part us from our heaps of cash. He begs for and demands money using a range of techniques, but even at his most passive he exudes bravado and playfulness. I get the sense that most of us are indistinguishable to him as drops of rain. He is a cat that has died many times and is not afraid of doing it again. I've seen him do battle with fellow street folk, and though he rapidly seeks shelter from another's blows, he somehow manages to stand his ground and usually regains position after his temporary combatant has slowly drifted away. At times in a whispered mumble, at others like an opera singer, he chatters away at everyone and everything in sight, rarely without a cigarette, which he easily keeps teetering on his lower lip.

Most recently he's been plying his trade in a leg brace. Somehow he still manages his trademarked posture only with the added flair of crutches. He might have a neck brace as well but if he does it's kept hidden beneath the juncture at which the two orbs of his head and torso collide. While it is easy to appreciate his singularity and admire his unique way of living, one fateful evening I ran under his rails and he ran me over. From then on I do not hide my expansive dislike and avoidance of him. As far as I am concerned he deserves nothing less than my best flying elbow, my elbow is aimed at his temple. The universe has no time or place for such depraved selfishness, such unrelenting abuse and repulsiveness. Fortunately on this day, the one described several inches above, when I had foolishly stumbled into what was usually his territory he was no where to be seen. Like a stupid baby vulture I committed a mistake. I bite at noses and and get trapped in traps!

Well, no matter, it didn't matter, there is almost no empathy at all in the world for the struggles of baby vultures. Their vulnerability does not affect the profound morality of mankind, our development is too vast and penetrating to consider such natural quibbles. So it turned out that the idiot who pretended that they should speak about things they had no thought about was me. And I spoke anyway: "My nemesis, my hated adversary is no where to be seen. I won't hesitate in providing his replacement with the coldest, cheapest beer." And so I did. When I saw with my own eyes that my despised enemy was not present, I rushed into the beer store and greedily grasped for the cheapest beer available; only the most barely acceptable for my random beggar. And I ran in, and clasped the cheapest tall can of beer I could find. I paid for it, I thrust with a passionate eagerness my 2 dollar coin (Canadians are totally genius, we like deplore carbon footprints) into the cashier's palm. I exited the place where the government taxes vice, and strode up to this new homeless man with confidence and good will. "Would you like a beer?" I asked, and he answered: "Yes! Respect!" Respect indeed my dear troubled friend, respect indeed. Like a baby's first steps, the divine truths of human behavior reveal themselves.

*post title thieved from Mario Vargas Llosa

Chatter and natter and patter, oh my!

I remember well that lame speech foisted on us underachieving students about how carrying out one's routine chores was the precipice upon which a great and noble character could be built. The talk's dominant theme was the nasty though crucial task of gathering dog poop and the varied methods wherein this duty might be discharged. I remember feeling awkward for her, as she stood at the podium in front of throngs of her disinterested cohorts. Her noticeable lisp didn't help matters either, and you can imagine the difficulty we had in suppressing our laughter every time she uttered the phrase "pooper-scooper," or for the sake of accuracy, "pooper-schcooper." Yes, the memory is fixed in my mind, largely because even then I was amazed, my jaw hung to my knees in shock and disbelief, that what I was hearing constituted the best my cohort could offer by way of public oratory.

Where this promising young woman ended up I cannot say, and I sincerely wish that the best has happened to her and will continue to do so. Perhaps she now consults, maybe leading a community of toast masters in their quest to master toasting. If the eager, beaming faces of our teachers – not all of them, surely there were a few healthy cynics in their ranks (one can only hope!) – who enthusiastically offered her up as a paradigm of good student were then anything to go by, then I imagine more than a few have helped guide her cheery, accommodating personality towards ambitious goals and influential positions. From what little else I remember of this kind, soft-spoken, lisping girl, I can only hope that she is enjoying her life and the fruits that only schcooping poop can lead to.

Nevertheless, the sort of optimistic, nincompoopic nonsense that then earned her the acclaim of my junior high school’s teachers and administrators reflects the murky depths of lazy idiocy our culture has long been mired in. Ahem. That is to say, I cannot stomach for long the cheery chatter, optimistic natter and doe-eyed patter of asinine speeches. And when this morning a memory of this event clouded my already confused thinking and that young girl’s lisping platitudes about duty, diligence and cleanliness filled my mind, I rushed to represent my disgust by spitting on the floor. But being that I was inside my own living quarters and remembering well an element of the insights of her idiotic harangue, I held back from ejecting my foul saliva and instead swallowed it down, a lonely tear tracing its path beneath my eye, the tart saltiness of my spit offended me so.

Apparently it’s a Spanish proverb which holds that “honor and money share not the same purse.” Perhaps as I’ve none of the latter, I am replete with the former, and though I did not gain the enthusiastic plaudits of my teachers, I nevertheless have not sullied the world with vacuous speeches which return again and again into the minds of my listeners, who though less ambitious or aim-oriented, have not violated the world with unsolicited crap. In related news, Obama has heralded a new era of peace, indeed he has been given a medal for his peacemaking inclinations.

unreality

i remember the day
i first fell in love with unreality...
ephemeral spirits of unborn ideas
glowing in the semi-gloom of the attic in my mind.
one or two of these sinuous beings
tentatively coming into the hazy glow
long enough to half solidify into an evolving concept...
then hastily retreating back into the cobwebbed shadows,
leaving me with a newly opened void,
yearning to taste the unveiled mysteries that so recently
graced my mental palette once again.
to leave any one of them unexplored
would be denying my soul its ultimate indulgence:

to be fully immersed in the blissful occupation

of delving head first

into a fresh new adventure of the intellect...

why write?

something of the poet in me
asks by what right i inscribe these words?
from where does
the inspiration pour?
and for whom are these
words intended?
unable to answer
these minor quandaries,
i ponder if i might just
halt at this fault
or write on,
should i falter
on my halt.

but i write on for sanity's sake.

Shall I, most excellent patron, leave room for cream?

No, I am not a practical man. Wait a second. Whew, it would appear that I remain a man, if the state of my externally located gonads are any measure (I'm not sure they are). But to shape the noun more carefully with the adjective "practical" the phrase has no bearing at all on my present reality. Until recently I've been struggling to struggle at learning how to struggle towards a life of purpose. And all this redundant struggle led me to a job which is one half of a hair's breadth above that of an entry-level MacDonald's employee. And this after six years in one of my country's better universities. What happened? I thought that getting an "education" was to lead to better opportunities, give me an advantage over those who do not mire themselves in student-loan debt and wasted years of unemployment. Let's look at the facts then decide how it is this dismal, embarrassing and dead-end state of affairs came to be.

What did I "study" you ask, just kidding, I know you already know friends and mom. I studied "philosophy" and history. "Philosophy" is sort of about thinking, not how to think exactly, but about what others have thought thinking is about. I must admit that I enjoyed it a little bit, though as I wrapped up my "studies" I did have a sense that the treadmill I was on had not been plugged in and so, were it not for someone who pushed me to emerge from my extended chrysalis phase, I was in real danger of breaking my nose, the velocity of my inertia was so great. A few years in a dream like state, sort of emerging from my pupae, sort of making a home out of it, and I was once again at the gate of higher learning. "I demand to be made privy to the facts of history!" I yelled. Yes, history, the stuff practical dreams are made of. Knowledge is power and "studying" history promised me, like, super powerful guns and bombs that I could use to like, display my power. Yikes! I'm a fool, buffoon and tit all at once it now seems. So once more I stood atop an unpowered, dilapidated treadmill, which I mean to represent all the books I read and crappy papers I wrote, all of which amounted to a degree in, wait for it, history.

So finally, emerging after long last, I, an educated man, set out to to unleash my hard-earned perspective and subtle though devastating skills. But what was this?! All of a sudden (many decades says the historian) there are these fucking guys pretending they can conjure money out of thin air, and the economists did look upon their respected GDPs with dismay and foreboding. A recession! My "hard-earned perspective" and "subtle though devastating skills" went from a milk producing bovine to a pile of lapsed feces. By lapsed I mean to suggest that not even for fertilizer could this turd be put to good use. And so I am now waking to my mistake and failures. It's not so bad though, lots of people don't even get the opportunity to make such mistakes and develop such failures as I have. I'm not being playful either. An article in The American Scholar speaks of the "process of disintegration" in the humanities, and their gradual nullification in our culture. It seems we haven't been giving a shit about such things as "philosophy" and history for some time now. Who knew?! And by "our" culture I mean the United States and, look way, way up at us simple folk. Us well-meaning northern North Americans to the north; America's chapstick, belly-button lint and sun block; the great sovereign nation of Canada. The article is long and will not be read by anyone who might have read this. Leave that and similar impractical time wasting to those learned in The Arts.

All great things will end

When he was born it was written that he would die. That he would somehow elude death was never in the cards, not even a remote possibility. But even though I don't think anyone seriously imagined him living forever, as time passed and the puppy grew into a lanky adolescent and a vigorous hound into a venerable senior, an idea of his immortality crept into our hearts and took root. It happened right away, the first time we saw him wrestle with a gigantic tree branch, which though many times his size, he would unhurriedly drag into the open so that he could display it in his mouth. He loved branches between his jaws, that's for sure, and when we saw this puppy collecting his kindling we knew that he gathered them for the fire that would represent our love for him. There were trillions of branches.

He is a proud dog and will fight at a moment's notice. If I were in a war I would throw the feeble weapons put into my peasant's hands and instead pick up his leash. I would go to war with him guiding me. To test his mettle, I often tried to catch him unawares, sneak up on him and attack him with all my considerable might. But he would meet me with the soul of an ancient warrior and so we would do battle. I would always sincerely try to kick his ass but he only toyed with me, carefully gripping my wrists in his jaws but never to snap them. Then, after some time gauging each other's vitality and potency, we would lay on our backs, relax in the grass and take turns describing the shapes we saw in the clouds overhead. He would share his ideas about the world and anything else he might have with him. I laughed at the things he told me, and he smiled at me, because my laughter gave him such pleasure. Above all he has a fearless and limitless capacity for gentleness and love.

When he gradually became immortal he did not brag about it. He could have rubbed it in our faces, mocking our brief lives while he counted centuries as fractions of seconds. He basically kept everything the same, refusing to abandon us for the high reaches of the heavens, or wherever it is that beings like him while away eternity. Still, we could feel it in his presence which at once soothed and reassured us. Even when we didn't have food in our hands, he would allow everyone a moment to touch him, perhaps he would use his pleasantly rough tongue to give your hand a lick from time to time. His eyes see everything and disarm us of our embarrassment and regrets. He doesn't care about all that. My sweet comrade! My dear brother! My beloved friend! It is only now that I realize that your immortality is necessary because the world does not exist without you! You cradle the world in your paws, the universe is balanced on your powerful back. Though you may be leaving us, not one day will pass where you are not living with me. And when my mortal coil unwinds I will listen for your bark. "I may be done but at least he remains," will be my last thought.

United we sit Pt. II

United we sit; or thoughts on crappy satire

I saw the film In The Loop last night. It was touted as "by far the funniest big-screen satire in recent memory" by a reviewer at the New York Times. Being that I love satire I reasoned that I would love this movie (Now do you see how great minds work?) As I watched scene after bobbily filmed scene, I waited in vain for laughter to swell up inside me; my mouth gaped silently open, no laughter passed through its portal. The subject matter should have struck me as really funny. It tells of how insignificant politicians, their insignificant advisers and extremely significant communications directors might happen to stumble into international conflict. I guess it's insightful if one has a phobia of reading. I guess it might be funny if one has a phobia of reading. If In The Loop offers "by far the funniest big-screen satire" then perhaps film is incapable of depicting authentic satire. Then again there is always Spinal Tap.

A fat old philosopher used to say that you had to first realize that experiences of beauty derived from inside yourself, otherwise you'd be unable to appreciate what's beautiful outside yourself. He said we needed to carry beauty with us in this life, or we would be disappointed when we failed to experience beautiful things. Maybe something similar happened with me and that crappy movie last night. I had no humor in me so I failed to see it in the film. At one point one of the interchangeable "brilliant and ambitious" young policy advisers quips that another character's balls are so big they're like "the bottom two balls of a snowman." The other three people in the theater laughed at this but my brow remained furrowed, and I thought "that's as anatomically unsound a proposition as I care to imagine." While In The Loop will appeal to a sensibility which is already well aware that in politics as in everything else, people often blindly stumble into decisions which have far-reaching consequences, I would deny that the film captured the illusive tone of authentic satire. I'm willing to accept my wrongness on this issue though, really couldn't care either way.

The next great satirical film will have to be a documentary. I hope someone's taking the time to film all these so-called "Tea Party" gatherings, that would make for superb satire. You don't have to worry about writing or casting, just point your camera to the great swaths of enraged white folk who see in President Obama's government an evil plan to destroy their way of life. The evidence they have for this: A couple white guys on Fox News, and many more on talk radio, say so unrelentingly throughout the day. The reality of these gatherings springs as though from the mind of a Mikhail Bulgakov or Jaroslav Hasek or Joseph Heller or Rabelais; this is profound satire. Take for instance the image above which shows an old man perched atop his power chair, fist held moderately high in the air. But the farcical icing atop the idiotic cake? His reliable steed proudly displays a sign: "United We Stand." That's hilarious stuff. Most of the signs are equally ridiculous, appealing to the subtle analytical organs of the kidneys and spleen.

There was one bit of banter in last night's film which did cause me to smile. As various people race around chaotically putting together a meeting of the G8, a man says into the phone something like: "It doesn't matter that the invitation is late, the Canadians are just happy to be there. They're always surprised to be invited." As a Canadian, I know full well the great inconsequence of my country's place in the world. An election looms, and our apathy deepens. Do not watch this space for updates.

A time for action, a time for guts

Conservatives are pretty satisfied with themselves that they make sense of the world's complexity using deeply-felt principles. Though the principles may differ according to society and time, a conservative viewpoint is essentially a faith in timeless truths, whatever they may be. Down yonder in America, the modern conservative believes in the inviolable pillars of God, freedom and family. There are others, but these three are the source and wellspring for any politician who identifies him or herself as a conservative. This is why they don't give a shit about reason or morality. This is why they would rather private insurance companies "compete in the market," unobstructed by pesky outsiders who would force them to not bankrupt people for receiving health care.

It was impressive to watch the conservative men in Congress carefully sift Obama's words today, parsing their precise meaning at the moment when the illegitimate president's melodious phrases alighted on their hair-infested, aged ear canals (for correct ear maintenance please see a previous post.) Particularly impressive are the men who sit on the Republican side of that venerable American chamber, it inspires to gaze at their imperviousness to anything which is not their own fanatical dogma. "What are these old men thinking?" I wondered. Is it really just a matter of politics that some old white men see 30 million living without access to a doctor as a problem, while other old white men do not? That some old white men believe illness should not leave one destitute while others merely shrug before offering a silent prayer to the divine forces of the market? What accounts for this rigid dichotomy, when both sides see and interpret the same "facts" from profoundly different worldviews? Suddenly I realized what was really going on: Conservatives don't need to think, they've got their trusty principles and gut feelings to rely on.

What's even more amazing is that these unthinking politicians can instantly, using their own guts, intuit the gut feelings of their unthinking constituents! A terrific trick! Masters in the art of human extispicy, these old men don't even need to view the entrails of a dead constituent, but can gather meaning from them while the specimen still lives! And so they sat and did not clap, nay, they did not smile. They sat silently, convening with the viscera of those whose God, freedom and family they swore to uphold. "What's that left kidney of middle-aged homemaker and mother of five, Nancy Swarthmesson?" a veteran congressman asks (with his bladder, incidentally.) Her spleen whispered: "Obama's a red menace... beware his creeping socialism." Her gall bladder murmured: "His words cannot hide his fascist intentions... his way leads to death camps and Nazism." Her small intestines rasped: "We must stop him! Stop him soon, before his murderous government kills us all, God forbid!" Gathering the collected wisdom of Nancy's organs, her humble representative, that humble conservative, is at once insulated from the subtle persuasiveness of conciliatory argumentation. No, he will not support this communist affront.

Theme Song

I finally found it.
Yes, the theme song for this site/blog.
Alright; I'm taking the piss.

How does one consult?

As the search for a job continues, I'm often struck by the great quantities of middlemen who promote themselves as a necessary step in the employment process. A casual google search comes up with nearly two million relevant hits when I typed in "career consultation." Isn't that a sign of modernity, that millions of people have a career in advising people about their careers? I've spent a little bit of time looking at a handful of these consultants and am, predictably, not impressed. Some of the most vacuous claims imaginable are proffered as though they were not at war with logic and meaning.

Take for example the claim by Career Consultation Services to be a "full service career growth company." Ok, I get it, they offer a wide range of consulting services which "grow" a client's career. That's super, congratulations on profiting on your career growth advisory talents. Or how about Perfect Fit Consulting, which deftly notes that "each generation are different and the work-life balance are different among the different generations, and it is important that these differences be understood." Now that's a consulting firm with a difference! For a fee you'll get "high powered, intuitive advice" over at careerplanner.com. I'm struck by the fearsome beauty of high-powered intuitions, not least because I have not the foggiest clue what they are. Finding these barely intelligible claims is extremely easy, the entire field is filled with similarly confused and empty statements. So the question for me is: How can I get paid to make no sense?

The French philosopher Bruno Latour has written extensively about how technologies, theories and methods are made to appear integral - "obligatory passage points" - where what was not necessary previously over time becomes so. These career consulting companies and individuals are doing just that, making their "services" appear "obligatory" both for employers and employees. Just this morning I was made to fill out a questionnaire as part of an application for a waitering job. The questionnaire was produced by Assess Systems out of Dallas, Texas. There they harness the penetrating insights of organizational psychologists to "define the primary behaviors and competencies needed for success." As part of my questionnaire I was asked whether there are 50 hours in a day and 80 days in a month. While I don't understand it, I'm sure that my primary behaviors are being thoroughly scrutinized.

So won't someone employ me to write vacuous, deeply meaningless statements which can dupe both employers and employees to pay money for empty paper pushing and mouse clicking? How about: "Our needs-based analysis will enable you to grow your achievement capacities and ensure impactful solutions," or maybe, "Using our Competency Growth Indicators® our clients can develop their people, allowing them to navigate difficult shifts in strategic approaches to core-growth challenges." See? I can write absurdly meaningless, jargon-rich emptiness too. Won't someone consider me as a potential verbal-developmental systems-based needs analyst?

Unreasonable not to have considered global recession

It's official: The Canadian government has determined that leaving my previous job was "unreasonable" and so refuses to issue me employment insurance. Let that be a lesson to you! First consider the global economy before making a change in your life. Had I placed my finger on the fluttering pulse of Wall Street investment markets perhaps I would have made a more reasonable decision. So given the ramping up of my desperation I propose to use knowingdoing as a vehicle for advertising my employable talents and skills. Here's what I bring to the job.

To Whom It May Concern:

It is with arrogance that I apply for the position of anything I can get.

During university I spent considerable time sleeping in, procrastinating and finally rushing through what little work I was responsible for. Here I gained experience in barely completing tasks, putting things off until the last minute and cutting corners wherever possible. Not only did I hand in assignments at the last minute, but I rarely submitted anything according to the prescribed requirements. I skimmed the syllabus and ignored looming deadlines. Perhaps my most significant skill in this regard was the righteous indignation I would display when receiving my below-average grades. I did my best to make the situation as awkward as possible, thereby ensuring a palpable tension in class which worked to the detriment of all.

I pride myself on being late for everything. If there's a meeting in which I'm expected to participate, I promise to arrive halfway through it. As I loudly shuffle in, I will make as much commotion as possible with the intention of distracting everyone present. When asked by coworkers for help I will sneer and issue forth a stream of nasty invective. Asked by superiors I will be all smiles until they turn their backs, after which time I will curse them and display my middle finger. I am particularly good at putting in a half-assed effort, I can guarantee that my work will exhibit large and significant omissions, which someone else will be expected to correct. I am highly adept at passing the time playing sudoku and surfing the internet. I neither work well alone, nor in groups.

Personally I would bring to this position an unrelenting cynicism and willingness to actively sow seditious attitudes in my fellow coworkers. Unmotivated and irritable, I rarely listen to the words being spoken but read a deeper meaning in them, assuming that a request such as, "Erasmus, would you please photocopy that purchase order?" actually means, "Erasmus, I'm an idiot, you should be in charge." I am slovenly with outstandingly disgusting personal hygiene, I rarely bathe and brushing my teeth is taboo. If someone makes the slightest remark about the foul smelling odor wafting from my cubicle, I immediately take action, filing grievances and issuing formal complaints to my superiors. I regularly call in sick.

If you think I would make a good fit you are out of your mind.

Sincerely,

Erasmus Herzen

Remarks about ear wax, cotton swabs

I've spent a lot of time mastering the art of ear cleanliness. I'm no slouch where the cotton swabs are concerned, no, I wield them like a samurai's sword hacking away at the rich, creamy wax which daily accumulates in my ear canals. There are just no words to properly describe my skill. I used to trumpet the fact on my resume, bragging to the world, "behold, here is a man who knows a thing or two about proper ear hygiene." I often catch myself smiling at the thought of my inimitable ear-cleaning talents. I feel that all is right in the universe, that I've found my true calling. While my teeth may be caked in butter-yellow tartar, my nostrils overgrown with raggedy clots of hair, my nails frayed and caked with dirt and oils, I never worry about the state of my ears; they gleam and glisten like ceramic cylinders, at a certain angle the light which reflects from their sheer, unblemished surfaces can blind a person. Watch out ye who gapes at the angelic purity of my ears.

It's not just my severe standards which make me so great at ear cleaning but the style, the flick and twitch of my wrist which mark me as a true master of the form. Someone happening to watch the spectacle would be taken unawares, perceiving only a slight breeze as I deftly probed the folds and creases, spinning my swabbed spear like a cotton candy vendor at a carnival. Before they knew what had happened I would display the swab proudly, a large quantity of brown paste artfully gathered at its tip. "Can I try?" they would instinctively ask, and I would answer, "No! You fool, the harvesting of ear wax is for the seasoned veteran, not a wide-eyed fledgling like yourself. Give me your ear!" They would do so, the authority vested in my unique skills compelling them like a cobra hypnotized by the flitting notes of its charmer. Clasping their head in my hand, I would retrieve a fresh cotton swab from my holster and with not a moment's hesitation mount a frenzied attack on their wax-infested corridors. First one swab, then another, indeed a third I would employ to carry out the job, each collecting an equal share of moist, amber ear sap. The job done, the unexpecting patient would rush to pay me for this service, but would refrain after noticing my somber grimace, which states more clearly than words: "An artist scorns your filthy lucre."

In my dreams, cotton swabs march before me in a long procession. I can hear no music to keep them in time, yet they move in perfect order much like the walking hammers in a Pink Floyd video. Like scissors connected at a fulcrum they march along, one pair after another in a seemingly endless chain. I feel the emotion swelling up inside me, I stare in wonder at the profound functional beauty of these simple implements of ear upkeep. Suddenly I taste salt and I realize that I'm quietly sobbing, and for some reason this causes me to break into a terrible wail, the tears and snot flowing down my face like flooded rivers. Out of the depths of the dream silence my sobbing becomes increasingly audible, and as this happens I begin to wake. I am awake, and am sobbing, my pillow and blankets are soaked in tears and sinus mucous. Without a conscious thought I throw off the blankets and race to the bathroom. There, mounted as always on its special shelf is my home-made cotton swab box. I urgently but gently draw its lid open and look in rapturous joy at the abundant columns of neatly arranged cotton swabs. Carefully, I take one from its place, and though my vision is clouded by tears, I stare at it gratefully. I clutch the slender be-cottoned tool close to my chest and return to bed and there return to sleep, cradling my Q-tip like a child does a teddy bear.

Sorry about killing all of you

The massacre at My Lai in March 1968 has often been mentioned in these ramblings. It stands as an obvious example of how barbarity knows no bounds, is not kept at bay by abstract ideas of civilization and religion. American soldiers swept into the Vietnamese hamlet and destroyed everything and everyone; men, women, old people and children - even livestock - all were treated as "the enemy." For good measure "the enemy" was demoralized as much as possible before it was extinguished, thus rape before death in the case of the women, and better still, the murder of her children before the rape, before the death. That'll teach 'em to be the enemy! Oh, it was an excellent tactic, the American military was doing its best to keep Red China from taking over the world. Massacres, rapes and toddler beheadings are all in a days work when fighting these high-concept mega wars.

More than 40 years have passed since the carnivalesque slaughter so it is somewhat surprising that only yesterday William Calley, the only soldier actually charged and convicted (he served 3 years of house arrest) of anything related to My Lai, told a gathering of the Kiwanis Club in Columbus, Georgia that he was sorry for what had happened. It's the first time he's allowed this difficult admission to pass his lips. For years, in rare interviews, he has emphasized his role as that of a simple, duty-abiding soldier, "I was merely following orders," he would always say. Of course, he still says this but in his old age, as thoughts of his eternal life begin imposing themselves in his day-to-day, he's probably wondering, "hmm, will Saint Peter give me a tough time when he remembers I bayoneted that young woman after I raped her? I wonder if that'll work against me taking my seat beside the lord and savior?"

And how powerful is the idea of "sorry" even when it's apologizing for the annihilation of a village? "Oops, killed a community of folks over there. Sorry 'bout that 'n all." Apparently the old soldier, the old fighter, was given a standing ovation at both the beginning and the end of his speech. The audience was so impressed, so deeply honored that he would apologize in their meager presence that they jumped to their feet: "Thank you so much Lieutenant Calley! We'll never forget your valiant apology for events 40 years prior!" And how immensely manly William Calley is! Not only did he merely follow orders when helping guide his platoon of simpleminded barbarians against the villagers, but years later, he's got the massive testicles to say "sorry" for what has happened. That's a real man; that's a real American hero. It's a lesson to all men involved in contemporary violence: If you just wait out the storm, let some years decompose the decapitated corpses, then you too may have your chance to apologize for your actions. And you will be applauded for your manly bravery, your unflinching commitment to your principles and ideals. Praise you William Calley! Jesus awaits you in heaven, He can't wait to listen to your tales of warrior heroics. Just be sure to leave the nasty bits out!

Note: Lieutenant William Calley did not kill the children pictured.

Don't think, dumb is strength*

It's been sometime since I've last written, and so much has happened since then. Where to begin? In the first place I should mention my gratitude to the marketing firm which each morning sends me an email suggesting I enlarge my manhood. I try to keep the general status of my groin area on the low down, but these uncanny sales people over come any intuitive embarrassment in discussing the genitals of others. While the sun sits low in the eastern horizon, a steaming cup of coffee in hand, I weigh the pros and cons of purchasing penile enlargement medications. Is the treatment guaranteed? Are there any side effects? Can I use my credit card? In this day and age it's heart warming to know that there are still kind folks out there wondering about how they might help the lot of a stranger.

Another fantastic occurrence happened only yesterday as I was walking a dog. Sitting on a park bench were two disheveled middle-aged males drinking liquor from the bottle, their stolen bicycles laid against the grass. I was a little nervous. Would they pester me for money? Would they harass me, assault me and steal my empty wallet? Well, I'm happy to report that all the worst-case scenarios were just figments of my imagination because no sooner had the homeless drunkards spotted the dog, then they began suggesting ways to help the poor animal cool down in the atrocious heat. "Take 'er fer a swim, like," "Get a hose and spray 'er down eh," "She needs triple the water when it's so god damn hot, ya know." I was quite surprised. In their drunken stupors, with nothing to live for but the next chance to cook their brains with booze and drugs, their empathy for this animal remained in tact. And the whole time I was in their fields of vision, not once did they mock the tiny bulge of my groin region. Or ask for money.

Of the many other things which have passed before these observant eyes of mine, what else might I share with you, dear reader? I have it! While I'm sure you're pining for news about my ongoing battle with those miniature vikings, the fruit flies, instead I thought I'd bleat a few barks about something I've been seeing in the news recently. You know how in the United States, they cherish not so much the content of ideas as their right to think and say whatever they want? The right to say whatever one wants is guaranteed by the first amendment of the constitution, whatever that means. Anyway, as Obama's government attempts to reform health care, all sorts of "town hall" meetings have been sprouting up, where people gather to heckle speakers, chant retarded slogans and predict the coming apocalypse. Their right to freely express their feebly thought out ideas, their slander and their anger isn't enough though. Obama has already gone too far, they live in a police state now, they can feel it under their abundant and curvaceous flesh, in their guts - the location of the American god.

All that wasn't enough you see. It wasn't enough to derail these meetings with references to Nazism and similar deeply uninformed commentary, now America's sons are bringing their firearms to the show! How they love the idea of "firearms" it's like an arm except that it can fire bullets! Terrific! So at these meetings, especially the ones where the president himself is in attendance, a few brave monkeys paint their incoherent signs and arm themselves, because what debate can be had without weapons present? It started with a monkey who stood outside such a meeting with a leg holster (just like Laura Croft the Tomb Raider!), now there are other monkeys who are excited by the new behavior and are mimicking the first monkey. So now all sorts of weaponry are being spotted at these meetings, including automatic weapons. It's hard for me to express the profound stupidity of the people who do this and the society which allows it. It seems pretty hopeless to me. If a man feels that he needs his gun to protect himself from something which exists only within his skull, what solutions are there?

*Title is a lyric taken from Pearl Jam's Glorified G: "Got a gun, in fact I got two, that's ok man cause I love god."

'As Real as the Hand in Front of my Face' Part III

Of course, none of these events occurred, at least in this realm. Truly, this story was a cop out- a dream which happened a week ago. Everything about it was very real to me, and I woke up feeling nothing but terror and confusion. My heart was racing, sweat had perspired on my forehead, and each small detail and aspect of this dream was as clear and fresh in my mind as if it had actually occurred. It was as real as the hand in front of my face.

A dream can be many things, as real as life itself. For a period of my life, I dreamed on a daily basis, but recently, the only dreams that I can recall are ones which are highly real, or my problems seeping out through my unconscious.

For me, the unconscious mind is as conscious as the- well, conscious mind. Many times, I have awoken from a dream in which a friend treats me terribly, only to find that I am naturally cautious of that person for the remainder of the day. Some would say that this is a form of insanity. Perhaps. The ability to distinguish the real from the rest is something that most people have learned from a very early age. Personally, I like to have my moments of ambiguous clarity.

Would I ever tell this story as if it was true? Probably, but by the time I get to the zoo, I would hope that my listeners would be able to distinguish the nature of the story. And politely keep the truth to themselves so as not to disturb the other listeners.