Bill 66 update: Good news

“Thanks to public outcry” Ford has apparently yanked Schedule 10 from the bill. That’s the specific legislation which was to allow corporations to shit all over the Green Belt and Clean Water acts in the events these spectacularly rare tidbits of sanity threatened profits, which, granted, is only about 101% likely at any given moment,

So if you acted, congrats on your victory!

Of course if this is anything like every other similar event in the recent history of slimy Canadian politics, they’ll just slip the same atrocious corporate concessions into some other bill and work harder to keep it a secret and they’ll do this again and again until it squeaks through, while the people of Canada, some of the dearest hopeless impotent little darlings on the globe, bend over and take it!

Yeah I’m having a really rough morning. Sorry…

The Hilariously Non-Honourable Premier Ford’s Hilarious Bill 66

To Mr. Michael Helfinger (and others),

Bill 66 is an assault on the biosphere and a firm confirmation of war against humanity. You have no mandate from your electorate to pursue such a demonic agenda. How infinitesimally little sanity exists in this morbid circus you call government that I would have need to point out something so ridiculously obvious?

With all possible disgust,

etc.

You too can eek a scrap of democracy out of our otherwise-fake democracy! Just go to the Government of Ontario’s Feedback on Bill 66 Collection Hoo-Haw and cough up your own message of revulsion - or perhaps of praise if you maybe know nothing at all about the world; your choice! It all goes into the same digital hopper where it might actually get read by a human being?

Maybe?

Sorry, did I say human being?

My bad. I meant politician.

…And on the other hand: what we love to say:

“Sorry,” said the lady on the elevator, who wanted off at my floor, as I promptly stepped aside, letting her pass before I stepped aboard. I hit the button, rose a floor, and the doors opened revealing a new woman facing me.

“Sorry,” said she, moving aside.

“No problem at all,” I said. And it wasn’t. Neither of these women offended me. And I’m fairly sure that neither of them actually suffered any regret despite their claims.

Here at the social assistance office I leave my comfortable lobby desk hourly to run a quick patrol of the cube farm behind and there I commonly brush paths with others. “Sorry,” they almost universally say to me. I never apologize just for needing the same space as them. I tend to just say hello, or depending on the circumstance I might say, “Pardon me.”

I think that pardon me is what they actually intend to relay but clearly that one extra syllable is just too exhausting so sorry becomes the peculiar briefer alternative.

I’m sorry I needed a space so near to your own…

I’m sorry my existence is threatening to cause you the merest of possible inconveniences…

I suppose we feel the need to exercise the word sorry without having to suffer any overt guilt and so we use it frivolously and call the job done. We use it when we are about to use a door at the same moment someone else intended likewise.

We don’t use it when we (or our phones) make unnecessary noise in public places, distracting others from their endeavours; their reflection; their evolution.

We don’t use it when we treat each others’ valuable time as a spectator for our pointless other people’s bad behaviour stories while busily ignoring our own bad behaviour; something infinitely more valuable to pursue.

(If this sounds like I’m doing exactly that, I would suggest that I am reflecting on societal phenomena as opposed to feigning shock at another specific person’s failure to be an angel - but you may judge me as you wish!)

No, we use sorry instead of a kind greeting. I’m sorry we have to share! How awful!

I think I shall not go forward as inclined; responding to these sad overtures by shouting “Don’t let it happen again!” I think I will start responding to this misplaced obsolete gesture with another misplaced obsolete gesture which I'm much more fond of, by responding, “I don’t know!”    

That’ll be sufficiently weird.

The phrase we dare not speak!

Is it a real memory or a false memory? I am almost convinced it’s a real memory: that in the former era of my youth people would dare to say it aloud. And it was fairly common:

“I don’t know.”

Is anyone still reading? Or did I scare everyone away with these most vulgar of words?

I’m sure it used to happen over and over again. One person would ask a question. “What does a hen weigh?” or “Do you know what time the bus comes?”

And the other person would say “I don’t know.” And as astounding as it seems, this was socially acceptable. The first person would appreciate the second person’s honesty, and then immediately get on with their life, and pursue the course of action appropriate to this not-unexpected circumstance, the inquirer seeing oneself as a mentally competent individual capable of proceeding with their endeavour in a manner independent of the missing link, or else with another plan for discovering it.

As with other antiquated norms, I am not eager to let this go. I still like to think that it’s okay to ask a quick question on the chance that my associates might know the answer, before proceeding to Google if they don’t, or making due without the errant factoid. I am not ready to make Google my bestest friend.

But this rarely goes well. It seems to have become unbearable in this culture of (mis)information-bombardment to appear as less than all-knowing. And so “I don’t know” situations turn into a lengthy charade where the questioned imagines they see beyond the question and insists on solving an imaginary version of the problem, and then the asker must humour the asked so as to coddle a fragile ego, and no one gets to get on with their life.

“Oh - uh - you should bend your knees to pick up the hen.”

“Right, yeah. Well I don’t actually need to pick one up…”

“You could always put the hen on the bus instead of shipping it. It’s one price for the bus. It doesn’t matter what it weighs.”

“Well, I wasn’t really going t-”

“Or just ship it while it’s young, before it gains much weight.”

“Okay…. Thanks.”

I still tend to say “I don’t know” when I don’t know, and trust that the inquirer will not die from awkwardness, and that they feel welcome to ask further questions on the subject if there is still a chance I can be useful.

I may be alone on this but I still insist: It’s okay not to know everything.

Okay. Thanks for listening to my little rant. You can go get on with your life now.

Departing

Well, this piece got away from me… as some do. Oh well. I post it intact:

The Liaison’s funeral was not a big one. His influence manifested mostly through the wires to many locales beyond Scooterville. But I think that both his family and co-workers may have been surprised by the extent of outreach from the writing community. More than a hundred writers sent words of comfort or even flowers (and we accounted for a good third of the attendance). I was proud of sick boy’s moving speech at the event which helped to crystallize this for everyone.

His boss was a very sweet man who spoke very kindly of him. I was grateful for this brief insight into the other side of the Liaison’s life and said so later to the fellow, on the lawn, as we shook hands, both failing to hold back tears entirely. We’re likely to meet for a drink at some point.

The brother also spoke, of their childhood struggles for one thing, and it was very sincere and moving.

Then the final speaker was a soulless troglodyte named Pastor F.U. or thereabouts, who had never met the Liaison once in his life but who felt empowered to condescend to us with the usual outrageous doublethink concerning atheism versus faith and the inane ass-backwards idea that belief provides meaning in life.

I tried not to walk out. I reminded myself that I was here for the prime purpose of supporting the Liaison’s family. I thought carefully; realized I could not in any good conscience give permission to this hijacking, got up and walked out and waited in the parking lot to take my assigned passengers to the cemetery. I hoped very much that I had not caused a scene in any way; that I made no one other than the troglodyte uncomfortable. I did not want this event to be about me and my principles. Dog Whisperer, despite being an employee of a church, came to find me afterwards and issued firm support. She wanted to follow me out but her seating was trapped in essence. So that was a comfort to hear.

It can be immensely sad to reflect on the apparently-growing collective human insanity. It is not only the swiftly-deteriorating economic and environmental systems which point to impending disaster. It is the realization that almost nobody among the privileged societies which steer the world has any regard for truth, but only the addiction to the clinging to falsehoods derived from cherry-picked factoids, peddled by the world’s grotesquely-untrustworthy horde of priests, politicians and corporate-sponsored mouthpieces: whichever ones happen to peddle the particular bullshit which is most flattering, convenient or profitable to the ultimately self-serving and self-righteous listener.

We created a society wherein there is no requirement, regard or reward for truth (except in the field of science which cannot function without it - and look how the field of science is routinely maligned by the above perpetrators), a society riddled with problems which will not be solved because problems are not solved without truth.

But truth is so buried. The internet is surely 99% rubbish. And we’re so busy chasing our unfortunate addictions there is no time for the average person to unearth truth. We need specialists devoted to it. I am trying to do just that I suppose, but society does not include this in the ledger of currency nor afford a framework for accountability.

Where oh where are the people who can summon the courage to just want the truth no matter what it is? No matter how unflattering, how inconvenient, how unprofitable it might be? Are you out there? You’re certainly not in the youtube comment section; I know that.

And if you exist, where do you turn to for real news? for real authority? Where are the leaders or other powerful voices who only want to report truth without personal interest? Probably the Buddha, probably the real Jesus of Nazareth prior to being exploited and misquoted and misunderstood. Einstein of course. Likely Eckhart Tolle. Likely that dude who wrote the Four Hour Work Week! Read Tolle by the way, for goodness sake.

I’m not going to be falsely humble. I am a devoted adept of truth on my good days and frankly, even on my mediocre days. I was a self-identified Catholic who denied my tribe when I learned it untrue. I gave up my position as a climate-change denier when the truth became all-too apparent. I walked away from my sports tribes when I learned of their delusion. I have largely given up many instinctive tribal mind comforts having learned of their treachery. I even gave up my self-image as a good person, prepared to accept that I was an evil person if that was where the pursuit of truth led me - which it did - for a while. Somehow (through very fortunate circumstance) I was afforded a certain brand of courage that I can see almost nowhere else.

I wish I knew how to tell my story. I wish that people would know what I know: that the reward for this kind of courage is utterly freeing and joyful and transformative; transcending even, and that the fears which contain you will be revealed illusion! Where are the champions of truth to lead us? I appear not to have what it takes, nor where to find such a congregation.

Dispatches from the stupidest society ever: Global Citizen

My suspicions that modern North American society is breeding the stupidest humans in history migrated to near certainty quite a long time ago and for many solid reasons.

But still new frontiers in brainlessness continue to blow me away and make be beg louder and louder for Ford Prefect to please come along and whisk me away from this lunatic bin to some other galaxy.

This one has been on my mind for about a year and still leaves me paralysed with disgust.

Global Citizen has been one of the many groups who provide excellent efficient useful avenues for positive change and justice via legitimate petitioning and similar actions.

Then to my stunned disbelief they introduced a points system where every petition or similar action you take earns you credits toward rewards; namely draws for concert tickets so far as I have observed. I no longer read Global Citizen’s emails now, except to check up on them once in a while to see how their insanity levels are holding up.

Someone please please tell me how any petition could possibly hold any weight before an even slightly intelligent audience when it can easily be interpreted that its signers have been bribed to sign it?

I have asked Global Citizen this question through two separate channels and they have declined to reply.

I have also pointed out to them that there are probably one or two cretins among the ruling conservative elite and their scared-into-submission army of sheeplings who, in this brave new terminally-polarized dysfunctional world of fake news, are possibly clever enough to grasp the above implications and start patting each other on the back and gleefully concluding: “Oh look at the Lefty Lib-tards and their scams! All of this online advocacy is complete bullshit; see!”     

I see online advocacy as the only active remaining vestige of anything which validly resembles the illusion we call democracy and I see Global Citizen as being a very dangerous reckless threat to it.

After about a year I am still utterly aghast. And I can find no online discussion about this anywhere.

With a recent check on their web site’s FAQ page, hoping to see some kind of explanation for this nuttery, I see 40 FAQ items: the first 6 entries relating to the actual work GC does, and the remaining 34 entries concerning points and rewards.

I thought that the reward for advocacy was a better world?

Am I missing something? Am I the only one sane around here or am I terribly confused about this somehow?

If it’s me who is the insane one, I would like to know, please. That would be far more comforting to me than the feeling of being the last sane one left on a terminally fucked planet.

Is this rock bottom?

Look at me typing words.

My fingers are so slow that my mind is already paragraphs ahead of the sentence I just wrote and I've forgotten most of it already, so now the phrase Look at me typing words looks completely idiotic and irrelevant.

That's the real challenge of writing, isn't it? Not observation, contemplation, mastery of language, the translation of ideas into useful words, into mood and imagery, into effective storytelling. No it's this bloody impossible task of getting the sentences out of your wretched head and onto the wretched page before they fucking dissolve.


I'm pretty sure I'm fatter than ever before.

It's too warm in here for this sea lion biology of mine but I'm too lazy to navigate the hurdles: vacuum cleaner, bag of empty wine bottles, non-disposable grocery bags containing whatever stuff I haven't got around to putting away; cans of tuna and black beans perhaps. Maybe the guitar strap and hardware which I have still not installed and which must be somewhere... Too lazy to navigate these hazards and kneel down painfully and reach way under the desk to turn off the electric baseboard heater which I rarely use. I like it cool, or even downright cold and I have a duvet although I'm still just using the cover; which is of course just two bed sheets sewn together and with a zipper. The actual pocketed goosey thing is still in the closet with too many other things. It was two or three winters ago when I last used it despite the habit of leaving off the heat. I do just fine under a couple sheets.

I want to write in this space every day. I want people who struggle with a journey in their lives to witness my struggle and learn from it or garner support. Or not feel alone. Or maybe even reach out and say, Hey! Me too! Let's do this together!

But so many pieces I don't publish or don't even write. Sometimes for laziness. Sometimes for sleep deprivation. And many times for the sake of other people's privacy.

I once decided that what I had to say was too important to ever discourage anyone from reading my blog. And so friends have found it and some can identify the aliases of others and this compromise to anonymity leaves me handcuffed. I don't want any secrets for myself but some of my associates might. And some of the people I love most might not like me getting all mushy here.

So I'm fettered somewhat. But that is still no excuse not to write here every day.


Facebook is becoming a source of - depression perhaps? Am I susceptible to depression? I'm not very joyful these days despite the knowledge that I should be.

All the Trump stuff is just plain ghastly. The admission that I'm actually capable of wishing another human being dead - yes dead - assassination; bath tub slip; attack by a flying devil-hunting piano - I don't care. It's just a sad sad state to realize you feel that way about another human being.

It's not just him and all his ghastly intentions; it's what is coming out of myself and others; especially those who support the cretin for their own tiny reasons which seem so big to them, and are so indignant at our outrage because they can't see past their own noses!

Look at this impatience of mine! Look at this lack of pity! I know better than this. All my bad habits and non-mindfulness are piling up and getting in the way of everything.

Yet even in my sleepy self-critical malaise I know the answers. I know what momentum is available to me, to turn things around. Do I just need to hit rock bottom and then begin the rebound? Am I there yet?

My room is too cluttered and needs dusting. Stuff needs to be given away again. This should not be a daunting project! I know that a good friend even offered to help with that but I can't remember who, but why should I need help?

Messages to someone very dear have gone unanswered for two weeks and I feel fear from that, though I am almost certain the fear is irrational. I have no feeling that the fear is irrational. It is strictly an intellectual process. All I feel is the fear.

But to say, "Hey! I'm scared! You need to reply!" is to up the ante. What then if there is still no reply? Panic?

All I feel is the fear. But just seeing it on the page like this - makes it feel less real.

How disappointing. Look at all the fears I once defeated through consciousness. Yet this one I cannot or perhaps just won't.

Is it because that to defeat one's last fear is to dispel the myth of identity? Is that why? Because everything I have taught myself threatens to cure an addiction which I mistake for my very being? I am the one who loves hopelessly. That is me. That is 99% of my life. Loving hopelessly. If that goes away then what is left? Harmony? Oneness? The tough question is: Do I really want to know?

I once discovered such a surprising wealth of power in myself, at a time when my ego was soft and the realization was not a giddy one but a curiosity. Where is that power now? I really sense it is not far and has never been far.

Why not reach out?

Yeah, you're not gonna like this...

I kind of hope I don't pull the trigger on whatever the hell I'm about to write because it is sure to be impatient and rantie. Rantish. Whatever.

We have this adorable little shenanigandrum going on in good old Ontario where the All Powerful Army of Stupid is sending out spastic little uninformed parents of children to protest the province's plans to actually teach something useful in school: a little clarity around that super big deal we call sex.

First off, anyone with the first shred of enlightenment has come to realize that SeX is in fact the most boring, ubiquitous, everywhere-you-look, non-big-deal since breathing air, with every mammal on the planet robotically absorbed in it one way or subconscious other, most of their waking moments. Not to say that you don't need to be informed and smart about it. Just like you need to be informed and smart about breathing air. You don't mess around with water safety and you don't go wearing shopping bags over your head if you want your life to go well. Similar concerns around sex. And you also don't need to invent a shit storm of superstitions about breathing air: invented by religion and smooshed all over innocent deranged humans already mired in hang-ups and delusion.

And if you don't realize this then I am sorry, but you are lacking the shred. I have no patience to be gentle this morning.

Oh but no, no, no, FWG! You got this one wrong! Sex is WAY WAY a big deal because it can be beautiful and magical and wonderful if you do it right and all nasty-nasty-spoiled if you do it wrong and then it will fuck up your mind!

Nice try.

Wrong.

I went down that road for years and I've learned enough to see how fucked up I was on that road. Lots and lots and lots of things including sex can be beautiful and magical when you do it beautifully and magically with your beautiful magical chosen one or whatever stand-in suffices for the 99% of you following a relationship model that does not actually work for you. The epic jeopardy you all imagine is all in your heads. Your heads are not fucked up because of sex. Your heads came that way because you are human and by the way, there is a process for unfucking them if anyone is interested.

Let me get to the point.

The Parents Of The World have had the burden of sex education for some ungodly horrific eon now and have done the shittiest job of it in the history of shit. If anyone deserves to be fired from anything it is you. Good riddance.

And gawd bless Kathleen Wynne and the good teachers of Ontario (those many I've met are tres awesome by the way) for taking on this job.

I am sick to all fuck of year after year hearing about young gays and transsexuals killing themselves because they don't feel any love and don't understand that they belong in this universe every iota as much as YOU. Every time they are destroyed, a world is destroyed and so is my heart.

For once the Army of Stupid is not going to get their way. At least not in this particular dip-shit province at this particular time.

Thank heavens.

Thank you, Microsoft

So… Windows 8 is so super spectacular it actually knows everything I hate and gradually alters its processes to make my experience as awful as possible.

For instance, as soon as I turn on my laptop and enter my security password it immediately displays the latest Rob Ford update. Seriously. Every time.

 

It so happens I really don’t care about the latest RobFord particulars. I don’t care what he has to say. I don’t care if he sinks or swims. I don’t care if Robford donates $1000 and a balloon-poodle full of crack to every boy and girl in the western hemisphere. I don’t care if he grows two new heads and flies to Phaelon, sneezing sea monkeys the whole way, and gets married to Chewbacca. Even if I’m invited to the wedding, I still won’t care. And I certainly won't go. And I'll only RSVP for Chewbacca's sake.

I don’t care if robford lives or dies. Hell, I don’t even care if Toronto elects Keith Richards as their new mayor.

If you don’t believe me, here’s a picture of me not giving a shit:

 

Oops. That’s me in my thong. Stupid Windows 8.

V is for Vraisemblance

Welcome back to FWiG's April A-to-Z Odditorium of Forgotten English! Or -- welcome for the first time!

Vraisemblance: an appearance of truth; verisimilitude, a representation or picture. From French vrai (true) and semblance.

Example: "Society is a structure of human organization for which people utilize to leverage one another in satisfying their individual dark desires, while managing a vraisemblance to that of a creature made in their god's image."

Source: New English Dictionary (1928) William Craigie
Google hits: 70,000


Verdugo: a hangman or executioner, or an insult along similar vein.

Not to be confused with vertigo, which may very well be related given their common components involving an unhealthy separation from the ground.

A weight-bearing crane, which we call a derrick (as in oil derrick) is so named after infamous hangman Thomas Derrick of England's Elizabethan era, who not only executed more than 3000 convicts but who engineered, for his gallows, the frame and pulley system eponymous with today's cranes. Ironically, Derrick, in 1601, bedangled The Duke of Essex, who once, himself, had pardoned Derrick of the death penalty for the crime of rape; an event which had a prominent role in Derrick's originally being coerced into the hangman role.

Thomas Derrick was eventually succeeded by also-famous Richard Brandon, subject of macabre fascination and a loyal following, who received a £30 bonus for doing in King Charles the 1st and ever after feared for his own assassination. But he died of natural causes and was succeeded by Jack Ketch who was like the Kleenex of hangmen as the word ketch became the household word for executioner.

So there you have it, the holy trinity of England's gallowicious period.

Source: New English Dictionary (1926) William Craigie
Google hits: 15,000,000 (due almost entirely to the surname)


Vampirarchy: rulership by the overtly predatory.

I choose not to buy gas at Esso stations. They are brand outlets of Imperial Oil; subsidiary of ExxonMobil. Together they do alright with around $48 trillion in annual profits, largely through their exploration and production of fossil fuels and related enterprises such as oil refining, petroleum and convenience retail, natural gas processing, synthetic crude production and super-scale wildlife destruction. To get a context for the figure 48 trillion, simply imagine something you can't possibly imagine. And remember that's net profit. Not earnings.

ExxonMobil is the largest company in the world by both revenue and market capitalization and are referred to as "...one of the planet’s most hated corporations, able to determine American foreign policy and the fate of entire nations," in a 2012 article by The Daily Telegraph.

At executive board meetings, executives sing "The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow..." and remind each other that fossil fuels come from a magical bottomless cup and that life on earth doesn't actually require a biosphere to survive. Then they recite the Daily ExxonMobil Prayer which closes as follows:

"...another small oil spill for man, another great shitstain on the face of mankind. Oh Lord we have more than enough buckaneros to buy our way into heaven. Amen and pass the bourbon."

No, instead I buy gas at Shell because they give me air-miles points which I later convert into free, though entirely crappy, food at Boston Pizza restaurants. See how awesome I am?

Source: New English Dictionary (1928) William Craigie
Google hits: 700

Stop! Swag time! (Exxon Mobil always finds innovative ways to spill oil and kill people.)

S is for Sockdologer

Welcome back to FWiG's April A-to-Z Odditorium of Forgotten English! Sorry I got running late again. So far, we've been highlighting three words per day but I'm having difficulty with the letter S. There are just too many great words to choose from. I'll try to keep it brief!

Sockdologer: anything overwhelming or exceptional, such as an earthquake.

Not to be confused with proctologer, whose practices, one must suppose, might feel a little overwhelming at times...

Source: Slang and its Analogues (1890-1904) John Farmer, W.S. Henley
Google hits: 35,000


Squizzle: fire, as with a gun. To let squizzle.

The word gun comes from Old Norse gunnr (battle), which first became a given name in Sweden, 1891, generally as Gunnar for males and as many derivatives for females. There are currently around 34 thousand females in Sweden named Gun; about one for every million handguns in the U.S.A., which is in the process of changing its name to United States of Arms.

Okay, that was an exaggeration  There are only about 270 million guns held lawfully by American citizens and another 4.5 million operated by Yankee military and police. The number of criminally possessed firearms is incalculable but in essence there are about as many guns in the States as people. This is unprecedented in the history of the world and mind-boggling to some.

Source: Dictionary of Americanisms (1956) Mitford Mathew
Google hits: 80,000


Squantum: as described by the New York Mirror: "A party of ladies and gentlemen go to one of the famous watering-places of resort, where they fish, dig clams, talk, laugh, sing, dance, play, bathe, sail, eat and have a general good time... Care is thrown to the wind, politics discarded, war ignored, pride humbled, stations levelled, wealth scorned, virtue exalted, and this is squantum."

If you're looking for a quaint weekend getaway, I recommend the Emirates Palace Abu Dhabi resort hotel on the Arabian Gulf. A decent suite with five-star amenities will only run your family of four about $15,000 for an average weekend.

Or if flying out to the Middle East is not your bag you could always bunk in cozy Manhattan for the same weekend in one of The Plaza's 1-bedroom suites for as little as $40,300 U.S.D. (before tax and parking of course).

Source: Dictionary of Americanisms (1877) James Bartlett
Google hits: 532,000


Scurryfunge: A hasty tidying of one's abode the moment a visitor is spotted on the driveway.

This is my favourite obsolete word so far. It should never have been allowed to fall out of style. Scurryfunges are especially vital to dog owners because you never know when your knickers might have suddenly appeared on the kitchen floor.

Source: Maine Lingo: Boiled Owls, Billdads, & Wazzats (1975) John Gould
Google hits: 3900


Slubberdegullion: a slovenly person. From slobber and gullion (wretch).

Marshall Bruce Mathers III, known as Eminem, or Slim Shady, is an American rapper and all-around vile miscreant. He is the only so-called musician in history whose voice, image or the mere mention of his name will reliably induce uncontrollable vomiting from mine very own gullet. Impressively, he has sold more than 100 million records to some millions of so-called people, every one of whom had best never enter my home lest they be struck viciously on the head by yours truly and rolled back onto the street. Nuff said. Excuse me while I go vomit uncontrollably.

Source: Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue (1811) Francis Grose
Google hits: 448,000

And then FWiG answered the phone

Hello?

Hi. Somebody called me?

Is that right.

Yeah. Somebody called me from this number.

Not me.

905-628-9072?

That's my number.

Somebody called at 2:45 from your number.

Well. It wasn't me.

I assume it was about lawn care.

Well. This is a townhouse and the management cares for the lawns here; not the tenants.

So somebody wanted a quote maybe?

No. I don't think so.

Oh, no?

We're tenants. We don't care for the lawns. We wouldn't want a quote. Only the management would maybe want a quote and they have their own phone. They wouldn't use mine. So...

Oh.

So, are we done?

Maybe someone called the wrong number?

Yeah. I think that's it. I think I must have dialed the wrong number when I was making phone calls at 2:45.

Oh. Okay.

Are we done now?

Okay.

Goodbye now.

Bye.

Isn't it amazing the things that we human beings accomplish when we get together? It's these summits of massive intelligence such as this that prove to me that there is a Sky God smiling down at us from the glittery heavens. Only an omnipotent Sky God could possibly design such incredible creatures as human beings. We're just so fucking intelligent you know it had to be a fucking amazing God who put us together. I'm sure he spent an entire afternoon at it too. I'm sure he didn't just pump us out in between the oppossum and the dung beetle. I'm sure we weren't some kind of five-minute job. He must have really thought about us carefully 'cause we're just so amazing. Just look at us: Telephones... Lawn care... I just want to run to the nearest temple and sing a fucking Holy Hosannah or two. You know?

[Editor's note: Um... Can you maybe leave this in edit mode for now? Until we can have a little talk?]

Revenge of the Morons

Steve-o and I have been in a dispute with the landlord for two years over the living room window wich leaks a ghastly draft and drives our heating bills into the stratosphere. They continually fail to meet their endless promises and flat-out rejected any disussion over their liability for our elevated utility cost.

So at the end of December we gave notice that we were leaving as of January 31st and yes, that's only 30 days notice but too bad. The situation can not be tolerated for another 60 days and no further rent cheques are forthcoming because the last month's rent deposit is already in their possession.

They responded with an eviction notice stating that January's rent must be recieved by January 28th or eviction proceedings would begin.

For their sake, I hope that eviction proceedings take less than three days or else we'll already be gone.

In other words, they've said, "What! You want to leave! Well, no way! Under no circumstances are you allowed to leave of your own volition. You can only leave if we tell you to leave! And we are telling you to leave! So leave! Um... unless you want to stay. In which case, you may stay."

I have no intention of responding to them - except perhaps to suggest they take their act to the Monty Python people.

Attack of the reverse stalker

So I'm at the Williams Coffee Pub actually doing some productive writing for a change and I notice a woman who, if I'm not mistaken, is an independent movie director who I was introduced to once a long time ago. She's there with a fellow and a couple laptops.

When she disappears to go buy a latte, make a call or tinkle or whatever, I approach the fellow and ask if his coffee mate is who I think it is. He confirms and is keen to chat. He's an actor and comedian and the two of them are writing a script together. He's a prolific chatter and tells me all about the acting and comedy industry, even after Director Lady returns and I try to indicate I should get back to work and let them do likewise.

As I have told him about the Jammin' On The One improv comedy group in Toronto which I have attended and plan to continue to do so, he wants to know more. He asks if I'm on Facebook.

Yes.

He writes out his name and tells me to look him up on Facebook.

Jolly.

So after a bit of a battle I finally locate him. He spelled his first name "Richard" when on Facebook it's actually "Rich". Okay. Forgiven.

He accepts my friend-request the next day.

The day after that, I look up the Jammin' On The One facebook group and try to send an invite for him to join. After a long battle I discover why I can not make this work.

He has vanished. He is no longer my friend and he is no longer visible to me when I search for Rich McManiac-Comedian*

Apparently he had a change of heart and blocked me from seeing him on Facebook. He's treating me like some kind of stalker when he's the one who initiated everything.

Let me be clear. My feelings are not in any way the slightest bit hurt. I'm almost entirely immune from caring what others think of me; good, bad or otherwise. Every living person on earth is cordially invited to not want to be my facebook friend. Block me to your hearts content!

But:

Don't talk my ear off, request that I go to the trouble of looking you up on facebook and gathering info to send to you, so that you can peek at my profile, decide I'm not elite enough for your social-climbing purposes and then sever our connection without notice, leaving me to waste more time trying to fulfill your request in vain.

My time is worth more to me than gold, you thief. Don't steal from me. By stealing from me you reap the consequences of your actions. Your consequence? You now are forced to choose between career and family. You can't have both. Because if your career ever ignites, and you're doing stage shows - I'll be there. And I'll be wearing my steel-toe work boots. And I'll be jumping on stage with you and kicking you in the balls - which will probably be the funniest part of your show. Thus career blossoms; and children - not possible.

Knob.

* McManiac-Comedian not actual name.

AAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGHHHHH!

AAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGHHHHH!





AAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGHHHHH!

WHAT IS THIS?????????????

WHAT???



IS???



THIS??????????






The awsome beautiful JETS have beaten the vile hideous stinky stinky New England Stink-Patriots for the first time in forever and possibly the last??????



ON A THURSDAY????????



AND I FUCKING MISSED IT!!!!!!!!!



BECAUSE IT'S THURSDAY!!!!



NOT SUNDAY BUT THUrSdaY???



I'm opting out of next Sunday altogether. Opting the hell out. Not even gonna get out of bed all day.



AAAAUUUUUGGGGGGGHH!



Shoot me.



Someone please just shoot me.

Tag

Claudia Supermom passed this tag along in open invitation style. Yes, I’m accepting the tag. And yes, I’ve previously behaved as if these tagging things are annoying and that I’m too good for that sort of thing and only participate when cornered. And yes, I’m now participating of my own volition. And yes, that makes me an arrogant hypocritical pompous ass. Just wanted to be clear on that.

The legislation:

1. Link to the person that tagged you and post the rules on your blog.
2. Share seven random and or weird things about yourself.
3. Tag seven random people at the end of your post and include links to their blogs.
4. Let each person know that they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.

And now -- seven random (or weird) things about moi:

1. I hate the cartoon Charmin bears on the TV toilet paper commercials. The way they get all cutesy and shake their furry little asses at us. I won’t buy that damn product just because those commercials wig me the hell out. I assume these bears are only cutesy on TV and that in private they do horrid unspeakable things with each others feces. Sometimes I dream about them and wake up screaming.

2. I like Billy Bob Thornton. I like everything about him. I like his ugly toothy smile, his vulgar disposition. I like just saying his name. Billy Bob. Say it with me. Billy Bob. No, no. Say it like this, in one breath: Billibob. That’s right. Billibob! Fun, eh?

3. Christmas songs get on my last freaking nerve. Oh, they really do. Except for a very rare few that I really quite like. There are just enough to make one perfectly awesome Christmas album from them. I would pay dearly for such an album: If you make me this album I’ll love you madly forever and ever!

Happy Xmas/War is Over – John Lennon
I Saw Three Ships – Bruce Cockburn
Christmas Eve/Sarajevo 12/24 – Trans-Siberian Orchestra
Pachelbel’s Canon
Do They Know It’s Christmas – Band Aid
I Believe in Father Christmas – Emerson, Lake and Palmer
Step into Christmas – Elton John
Last Christmas – Wham
Christmas (Please Come Home) – U2
Run Rudolph Run – Chuck Berry
Feliz Navidad – Jose Feliciano (Sorry, Babs!)
Peace on Earth/Little Drummer Boy – Bing Crosby/David Bowie

4. I flooded my YouTube favorites menu with videos of kids getting hit in the head by balls. Soccer balls, basketballs, footballs, tennis balls, baseballs, giant exercise balls… you name it. I just want someone to come across my favorites menu and think I must be some kind of freak. Which – you know – I probably am. ‘Cause I really split a gut watching kids getting beaned out of nowhere and falling on their ass. As long as they’re not seriously hurt, that is. I’m just a freak. Not a monster.

5. I am not a monster.

6. I’ve had five broken bones in my life but all below the ankle. Both heels (tennis accident – don’t ask), and three toes – two, being slashed playing ball hockey on separate occasions, and one upon kicking the door of a van that belonged to a complete a** hole who much later was charged with the murder of his wife. Yeah. True story. Told you he was an a** hole.

7. I have witnessed with my own very eyes the most hideous flower arrangement ever to grace the earth. I nearly fell over. It belongs to Rockin’ Roddie. He served me a fabulous meal last night and fabulous wine – a ’95 Wolf Blass Premium Selection Shiraz that was to die for, then pointed out the monstrosity and asked what I thought. I couldn’t lie. Mostly because I was speechless – as in – dumbfounded. I just gave him a horrified stare.

Apparently an acquaintance of his is in the business and donated this work of art to a charity, throwing in a pair of lamps. Roddie liked the lamps and dropped a couple hundred for them, assuming that the flowering antichrist was the throw-in. When the – ahem – artist learned that his masterpiece fetched less than $500 he was a tad put off. Oh well.

Roddie didn’t want me taking a photo of it, assuming it would end up on the blog and Google Images failed to produce anything remotely similar so I’ve recreated the image through a little rudimentary photoshopping. It’s very very close to the genuine article. Sincerely. Enjoy:

I hereby tag... You. Just you. That's right. I know you're reading this.

FYI: Fwig is still alive

I apologize for my dreadful absence of late. Although, from what I've heard through the grapevine (out there in the physical world) few of us in my demented little circle of blog buddies have been very active of late. I hope Claudia Supermom is the exception. She's a trouper. The rock. Reliable. I trust there are many chapters in the kidlet chronicles to catch up on and doing so shall be a treat as always.

I know what my problem is. Too many commitments and not enough motivation. Why can't I maintain a doable agenda? I've got a calendar and a wristwatch. What am I missing? Why is it that the further I get behind in life the lazier I get? Is that how it is with everyone?

I know what Poetry Coach would say. 'Universal forces...' 'Retribution...' 'From he who hath little much shall be taken...' Veiled references to a malevolent super power...

[Sigh].

Why does everything have to boil down to the unbreakable grasp of the Devil with him? Why can't it just be as simple as a tweak in the work-family balance equation?

And who coined that hopelessly inadequate phrase anyway? Who the hell has work-family balance issues and not work-family-other work-art-spirituality-charity-societal bullshit-balance issues?

What in hell have we done to ourselves?

Thank god for technology though. It could have been worse. Technology, miniaturization, information sharing, robotics, mass-production... Thank god we can now accomplish everything we once did but with a fraction of the human effort. Thank god for all this extra time it's given us. Thank god for this life of leisure. All this meditation and learning and creative pursuit and sharing of ideas. All this freedom! All this transcendence!

Thank god we didn't just create more work for ourselves and bigger, costlier needs. Thank god we didn't just fall into mindless consumerism, materialism, social posturing, keeping-up-with-Joneses. Can you imagine if we cared about all that? Acquiring Lexuses and bigger homes and fantasizing that such would make us admired and not merely despised? Could you imagine what kind of hell on earth that would be? Wouldn't you just want to kill yourself?

Thank god we're a smarter beast than that.

Thank god.

Bourne Ulti-made-dumb

Note to director Paul Greengrass:

HOLD THE !#$#!&@ CAMERA STILL! WHAT THE @$!* IS WRONG WITH YOU!

Ahem.

This film is a triumph given it was filmed entirely inside a washing machine during the spin cycle. This film will be enjoyed by anyone fond of regurgitating their dinner and few others. It might also be tolerated by those with Terminal A.D.D. or those who for whatever reason love non-dimensional movies that begin and end with a single exhausting two-hour climax and nothing else.

I personally survived it by training my eyes on the dark corner of the theatre just right of the screen - much as you watch the shoulder of the road when some jackass approaches with his high-beams on.

Attention all buffoons of the world!

Particularly male buffoons.


I offer you a tip on how to be somewhat less a buffoon. It is this:


Upon entering a public bathroom, urinating and either washing your hands or not (preferably the former), do not - I say DO NOT - turn the bloody light off on your way out the door unless you first bend over - down, way way down - and peer under the stall partitions to ensure there are no shoes resting on the floor. For the presence of shoes is a clear indicator of the presence of feet - and by extension, all the other bits and pieces of a human being who just might be using the commode at that moment and who just might even be a poet of sorts and who just might be jotting in his notebook the foundations of a profound work of literature!


And he just might not be a magical elf or a coal miner or a bat or otherwise be equipped with infra vision or a mining helmet or fucking sonar!


I can't write in the dark, people!


This is the second time in just a few months this has happened.


Bloody buffoons.



FWG

The Rise and 'Crash' of the Academy

I’m stunned.

Several times I’ve rented a movie so bad that I gave up on it and turned it off midstream. Death Wish comes to mind as do Die Hard II and Die Hard III (I know! I know. I should have learned my lesson but I had rented them simultaneously. What can you do at that point?)

Crash - I did not turn off mid-way despite it being a terribly terribly bad - in fact incompetent - excuse for a film. One - because it was train-wreckishly fascinating. Two - because it deserved a chance to redeem itself. I had hoped that eventually things would roll around to the point where one or more characters actually showed signs of development (I’d take partially-developed even, if not fully) or to the point where a plot element hinted at having any kind of depth; any kind of significance beyond the painfully obvious.

Nope. The credits arrived and nothing had rolled around - except for a string of drool from my motionless vegetatative face.

I searched the DVD box for any mention that this was a TV show as opposed to a motion picture or that it had been a grade-4 school project (No offense intended toward nine-year-olds by the way. I realize many of you could have written and directed something far superior).

Crash was literally the worst movie I’ve personally seen in the 21st century. There’s likely worse but none that I’ve been fool enough to see. Crash was given the Best Picture Oscar yesterday.

I’m stunned.

Not at the appearance that the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences is some kind of conspiring ill-intentioned pack with a hidden agenda. No, that’s true of so many organizations. But that they’re suddenly clear and unapologetic about it. That they’ve willingly joined the ranks of the advertisers, churches and politicians in thinking they’re an ingrained enough institution that they can fly on obvious bull-shit and not be the target of outrage.

Either that or they’re all drooling idiots. But I’m going with the conspiracy theory.

Sorry for the rant.

FWG