The Annual [Christ] Mass Blog

So here we are again, Christmas time (actually it’s been “Christmas time” since about 10 seconds after the Jack O’Lanterns hit the porch) and it’s time to celebrate the birth of Jesus by rampaging through Wal-Mart looking for the perfect gift. Let me get one thing straight right now: I am not what most people would refer to as a “Good Little Christian.”

My Bibles (I own four) share shelf space with The Koran, The Autobiography of Malcolm X, The “Queer Eye for the Straight Guy” Companion Book, and “How To Catch Trout” (plus another 800 or so titles I won’t bother to list here).

I don’t say this to be glib. I have never prayed to anyone (except the first time I laid eyes on a Lamborghini Diablo VT Roadster), I haven’t been to church in decades, and I don’t believe in a God, but I still manage to view Jesus as being a pretty amazing person.

Jesus doesn’t need to be the son of a phantom landlord for us to appreciate Him (I keep the capital “H” out of convention, not conviction). He was a visionary, mortal, fictional, or otherwise. But no one made Martin Luther King Jr. a god, and neither Lech Walesa nor Vaclav Havel have ascended as far as I know.

Yet these men could also be credited with leading their people to the Promised Land. Lech Walesa never walked on water, but prying Poland and her people from the grip of Soviet Communism is a modern miracle indeed.

Martin Luther King Jr.’s “I Have a Dream” speech, delivered on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial in 1963, is derivative of The Sermon on the Mount, and more potent. Nobody really believes that the first shall be last anymore but most of us agree that stringing Black people up in trees isn’t a terribly good idea.

The point here is if we spent less time preaching the Bible and a bit more time actually reading it, we might be able to revert this whole ridiculous thing into a birthday bash again. One problem though, the more you read the more you learn. However, though the times have changed, people haven't. Imagine this conversation taking place between a man and a woman, anywhere, anywhen...


Mary: Hi there.
Jospeh: Hello.
Mary: I'm a virgin.
Joseph: Really? You're um... pregnant.
Mary: Yeah, I know. It's God's. I've been calling him but...
Joseph: So, you want to get married?
And scene...

Also, while we’re on the subject of fact- Jesus could not have been born on December 25^th.  Flip over to Luke 2:8, and you’ll see that the shepherds were “keeping watch over their flocks at night.” Anyone who is an expert on Middle Eastern farming and agriculture (which I am not, just so you know) could tell you that this little blurb means that Jesus was born sometime between April and September. 

The 25^th was co-opted by Popes to steal the thunder of Saturnalia festivities that dated back to Ancient Rome. Other possible explanations for December include the belief that because He was the son of God, He had to have been conceived on the Spring Equinox. What, if any, logic is behind this, I don't know. Let's not forget people also thoughts their gods were serial rapists. It is also because of Saturnalia and other “pagan” fertility rites that we have Christmas dinner, Christmas trees, Christmas presents, Yule logs, and mistletoe... and "mummers". WTF?

And (and this is a BIG and), ever see a picture on TV of all those terrorists the Americans keep not finding? You want to know what part of the world they come from? Yup, that’s right… Jesus was not white. Some might point to centuries of artistic depiction as evidence, but a million Elvis fans could be wrong. Besides, Botticelli and the boys never met Jesus! An artist’s depiction is what you get on the TV news when nobody took a picture. So what if he wasn’t white? I’m sure we’re all grown up enough to get past that one together. If you can’t, go back and read the book.

So what are we to do with an Arabic Jesus who wasn’t born on December 25^th?

For starters we could all lay off the Revelation of St. John for a while and try to think about being nice to people or not punching thy brother in the neck for taking the last Sponge Bob Square Pants interactive action figure.

I’m not saying we should stop buying toys or anything crazy like that. I just think that “Peace on Earth and Goodwill to ALL Men” is a pretty neat idea (not Jesus’ gospel of course, but it’ll do in a pinch) and might serve us well all year round. He would have wanted it that way. We all know how Jesus lost his cool at the Temple; can you imagine Him at the Mall?

Picture Jesus surrounded by a bunch of hectic shoppers, all of whom look as though if they had to spend one more hour shopping they’d wish it had been Santa Claus that was beaten, dragged through the streets, and crucified by Longinus and his Legion. I don’t imagine He’d enjoy it very much.

I imagine He’d want to know why we needed holidays to be thankful or think of our fellow Earth-ridden Mortal Compatriots. So this Christmas, be nice to people. And then on Boxing Day, keep doing it. 

Just remember: Messing with his birthday is one thing but God help us all if He ever comes across an Easter Egg hunt…BSC. 

This pic has nothing to do with Christmas but I saw it on INSURGENCY INC. the other day and just had to repost it.

Did you have a stroke? No, but she was damn cute.

Sometime between 10:30 and 11pm last night, as I was watching The Stumbler's Inn perform at The Biltmore, my left arm went numb and I dropped my beer. A second later, I went down with it. I never lost consciousness and was fine mere moments later. I was prepared to chalk it up to booze and keep going. That wasn't going to happen...

PART I: Tox

4pm -  Vancouver vs. Toronto, The Squarerigger Pub, West Vancouver.
Five pints, two glasses of Sleemans Original Draught and I march off to catch the 6:40 bus downtown.

The bus was crowded but not unpleasantly so and I got off at Burrard and Georgia. This was odd. I usually get off and Granville but just decided not to last night. It has no bearing on what happened later in the night but still weird.
When I'm going to The Biltmore, I usually take the Skytrain to Main and Terminal, then a bus or cab up to the club. If it's a nice night, sometimes I'll walk.
The Skytrain took on passengers at the Stadium/Chinatown stop. I looked at my watch. I had time. I bolted out the doors and they closed behind me.
The Keefer Bar is about four or five blocks from the station. I snuck over for a cocktail before sucking back the PBR at The Biltmore.

7:30pm - The Keefer Bar
One very strong (but freakin' awesome) cocktail
They were hosting a private party but the manager, Danielle, had a little fireside pow-wow going on the patio outside for non-private party people. My cocktail was great. I had a quick but nice chat with Danielle and a handful of customers before heading off. I catch a bus up Main to 7th and walk the last five blocks to The Biltmore.

8(ish)pm - The Biltmore Cabaret
Three cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon (and a secret double vodka and tonic, consumed upstairs while singing karaoke)

I like The Biltmore. I like it even more when friends are playing there. The "early show" last night were The Stumbler's Inn with Shiloh Lindsey and James Wood. I caught Graham Myrfield outside the club and he put me on the guest list. I said my hello to the collected "gang" inside and headed to the back to dispose of seven beers and one cocktail. I noticed the poster for last night's "Glory Days" party and Fan Death were playing. Score.
At this point in the evening, I actually started to pace myself, slow down, so that I could make it to see Fan Death play.
James was awesome. Shiloh was Shiloh (read awesome) and The Stumbler's Inn were kicking ass...
And then this...

Became this...

Continued tomorrow...
PART II: Detox - Cute Aussie nurses and bumming smokes from crazy people.

The words of the one of the best writers you never heard of...

Some people hear their own inner voices with great clearness and they live by what they hear. Such people become crazy... or they become legend.


~ Jim Harrison

The Jagermeister Warning Label

OH DEAR GOD!

The Twizzard of Oz

Read this entry only if you don't mind a few laughs (and a couple cringes) at the expense of your precious childhood memories. The following is a transcript of the drunk "Tweets" I sent while watching The Wizard of Oz about 2 o'clock this morning.

Bedtime movie: I was thinking "Third Man", "Touch of Evil". Went with "Wizard of Oz" but it's taped over "Hells Angels on Wheels", still manly.

Dorothy gets picked out of a pig sty without a spot of mud on her dress. I'm starting to think this movie might be fiction.

"Over the Rainbow" even straight guys can appreciate this as one of the best songs ever. Okay, 'some' straight guys. #garlandsadish

Just looking at that hat Miss Gulch is wearing... She might be a witch but with a hat like that you know she's an evil cunt.

Yeah, pissed drunk and doing colour commentary for Wizard of Oz on Twitter.

How do we know Wizard of Oz wasn't made recently? A hustler like "Professor Marvel" would have whored her out instead of sending her home.

Never underestimate my ability to ruin every childhood memory you might have.

Wow colour! Munchin suicide watch starts now.

Dorothy Gale v. The Ghostbusters: Dorothy, the next time someone asks you if you're a witch, you say YES!

Ding Dong... Certainly the cheeriest song about homicide ever written.

I'm glad I'm drunk and not high, otherwise the stunted ballerinas of the Lullaby League would be fucking with my head.

Glinda's high as a Kansas tornado... Smiling away... The trailer park prom dress. Pure valium. That's probably where Judy got her habit.

The Scarecrow explains BC politics: taking directions from a guy with no brain and a stick up his ass.

Another clue that the Wizard of Oz is fiction? No good looking young woman who left Kansas would be in that big of a hurry to get back.

Yes Dorothy! Lube me up! A man without a heart wants to be oiled up by a teenage runaway. Go figure.

Don't go with her Tin Man! She's just going to sell you for scrap to buy valium!

You wonder why Judy Garland got in so much trouble later in life when she considers two utter fuck ups she just met as the best friends she's ever had.

Okay, not a hanging munchin but a bird. More's the pity.

Ah the good old days, when cowards attacked little dogs and girls in gingham dresses instead of shooting up their high schools.

Poppy field makes them fall asleep and "snow" wakes them up? I don't have to ruin this one. It kind of speaks for itself.

The witch puppet on a string is more believable than all three Star Wars prequels.

Scarecrow's day at the spa looks like a TSA pat down.

Afghan peasants can shoot down a Soviet gunship but the people of Emerald City can't take out a bitch and her broom? Surrender Dorot...BOOM!

Wikileaks reports the Wizard thinks Dorothy is a whiny little cunt.

The Wizard looks like a Star Trek alien on stage at a KISS concert.

I suspect the flying monkeys are just a flash back to the poppy field.

Okay, I'll admit it; it's been over 30 years since the first time I saw this movie and the flying monkeys still scare the shit out of me.

*Note to palace guard: the guy at the FRONT does a head count to make sure the guys at the BACK should actually be there.

"Hurry! Please hurry! The hourglass is almost empty!" We'll be right there! Have to change out of our disguises first!

Looks like the wicked witch was actually Wiccan. Give her a bath and she dies.

It's amazing how quickly her loyal storm troopers turned on her. Looks like Nuremburg. Bastards, hang 'em all!

Wizard of Oz remake: Toto pulls back the curtain and Karl Rove is back there jerking off Rupert Murdoch.

If you pause the movie and look closely at the piece of paper the Wizard hands the Scarecrow, it's actually George W. Bush's Yale diploma.

If Dorothy had got in that balloon, the FBI would have found her head in a freezer in Oklahoma 10 years later.

That scene would have been better if they had munchins hanging off the balloon like the GI's and the Playboy helicopter in Apocalypse Now.

Valium-whacked bitch, if you told me 3 days ago I could've clicked my heels and gone home, I would've believed you. Thanks for the heads up.

Okay, movie's over. Just in case you missed the sarcasm fest, I'm posting it all on my blog when I wake up. Twizzard of Oz.#culturethug

Don't quote ME on that

I often steal the remark, "The most uncommon thing on the planet is common sense". The world seems consumed by a pity-party/hate-fest that doesn't show any sign of receding any time soon. This is alarming. But, it is not new. 

Was anyone actually surprised when it was revealed that Keith Olberman was a Democrat?

I know one person who wouldn't have been and really wouldn't have given a fuck either:

"So much for Objective Journalism. Don't bother to look for it here--not under any byline of mine; or anyone else I can think of. With the possible exception of things like box scores, race results, and stock market tabulations, there is no such thing as Objective Journalism. The phrase itself is a pompous contradiction in terms." 

Hunter S. Thompson, Fear and Loathing: On the Campaign Trail '72

The one thing that keeps some of us just above the fray, the pity-party/hate-fest, is the one thing we possess that others don't: the truth.

But that doesn't seem to help. The blind are blind are blind. But we knew this.

"Don't hate the media, become the media." 
Jello Biafra 

But we endeavour to carry on the good fight. Some are calling for a much more dramatic approach. I am still formulating mine. But as soon as I know, so will you. The dawn of the Culture Thug is upon us, well, me at least.

"This story shall the good man teach his son; 
And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by, 
From this day to the ending of the world, 
But we in it shall be remembered- 
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; 

For he to-day that sheds his blood with me 
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile, 
This day shall gentle his condition; 
And gentlemen in England now-a-bed 
Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here, 

And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks 
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day."

Henry V (IV.iii). 

A Broken Clock Is Right Twice A Day [unless it is digital in which case you're fucked]: How the "Information Age" is anything but

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by the "Internetz".

I have decided that people really are that stupid. And the "Information Age" sure as shit isn't helping much. For years I'd heard that, "cheap advice is seldom good and good advice is seldom cheap", but there is now so much advice out there that no one seems to be able to pick the music from the white noise.
We have lost our "grey area".
People either don't believe a word anyone tells them or will believe anything they are told. There seems to be fewer and fewer people in the middle anymore, the ones who actually look into things before dismissing or accepting them.
The whole TSA "Don't Touch My Junk" escapade was a set-up from the get go. Did no one wonder why this guy (a personal liberties crusader) just happened to be videotaping his trip through the security check? It is what was commonly referred to as a publicity stunt. Now we call it news. Balloon boys and White House party crashers seem to be the norm now and we are constantly bombarded by media from all angles. [Possibly] the next GOP presidential candidate has book deals, her own reality TV show and a daughter on Dancing With The Stars.
Add to this the Internet and the wheels start to come off. You needn't point out the irony to me taking a stab at the Internet, but thanks for at least spotting it. Anyone with a computer and access to the Internet can say pretty much anything they please and people will accept it. When you ask someone for the proof their opinion is based on, they send you a link to a YouTube video.
The greatest information tool ever created by humans and we use it for porn and spam. If you stop exercising a muscle, entropy sets in. Our minds, our curiosity, work under the same principle: we need to keep using them in order to navigate through this sea of obscene pap that is thrust upon us everyday with growing intensity. When the spoon-fed drivel starts being accepted as fact on faith, infotainment wins, and everyone loses. Especially the ones who are too ignorant to see it as a loss.

Baron S. Cameron, thy name is vanity [and unemployed]

Dear Friends,
It has come to my attention that having money and a legal source of income is somewhat of a necessity these days. To that end I have decided to promote and sell action figures. Please browse the catalogue below.

University Grad

BA Literature and History, UBC 2001 Model shown.

Advanced Professional Communications, Capilano University 2007 Model also available

Construction Worker

Rivendell Dreamworks, Courtenay, BC, Model

Wakefield Millworks, North Vancouver, BC, Model available

Gardener / Landscaper

Home Model shown.

Documentary Filmmaker 

The Poetic Voice (1999) Model shown here.

Video and Sound Editing Models not shown but also available.

Writer

Short Story Model shown.

Screenwriter, Research, and Editing Models also available.

Culture Warrior and Social Commentator

Radio BSC/BSCTV (Interviews) Model shown.

Hey, Dumbass! (Social Commentary) and The Aging Rockstar Reviews (Local Music) Models also available.

Photographer

Musician

Other models include:

Home Depot Hardware Dept.

Safeway Meat and Fish Depts.

Karaoke Host and DJ

and Just All Around Swell Guy.

So, if you or someone you know is interested in purchasing one of the above action figures (more of a rental actually, 9-5, Monday to Friday... that sort of thing) please feel free to contact me.

If you have a sense of humour and don't mind helping a guy out, please repost this blog.

Cheers,

BSC

Dear Sharron Angle

Did you really tell a classroom full of Latinos that the people sneaking through the fence in your political ad weren't Latino?
Did you really tell them that some of them look Asian?
Did you then say that the terrorists came from your Northern Border?

First of all, Nevada doesn't share a border with Canada.

Secondly...
Ms. Angle...
This is an Asian:

In fact, this Asian is Liu Xiabo, the latest recipient of the Nobel Peace Prize for his work to fight for democracy in China.

This is a Canadian:

In fact, this Canadian is Ken Taylor, the Canadian ambassador to Iran during the revolution. Working with the CIA, he put himself and his staff at great personal risk to help American embassy staff to escape from Iran.

This is a Latino: 

In fact, this Latino is Jose Rosales, a handyman, a handyman who sent most of his wages back to his family. This handyman was also studying to become a priest. This handyman, Jose Rosales, was killed by home invading gunmen when they raided the home of his employers. This Latino gave his life  to protect the White America you hold so dear. He bled red blood as he died.

Time for the Tea Party to sit down and realize that solutions come from answers, not ignorance.

Excuse me... I ordered the "Ordinary" madness

"Writing about yourself isn't as fun as talking about yourself"

~ Briana "Glossy" Loca

A-to the fucking-men, sister.

When Polonius tells his son, Laertes, "To thins own self be true," does that include other people? I mean, if your honest to yourself about yourself, do you need to share it?

As I progress with the notes I'm making before I start the real work on LA Woman, I need to decide how much honesty I, personally, can put on the page. The scope of the book has grown considerably, which was to be expected I suppose. The way I do things, these projects often swell, then get pared back down to a reasonable size. Which brings me back to honesty?

How much is too much? Where do we enter the realm of TMI? Just because I am willing to share something, should I?

And lastly, what are friends and family going to think when they read an undiluted account of the last year of my life?

Blargh

So... the Great Turkey Fuck-Fest is over for another year and I seem to really be into napping. I managed to avoid the obligatory change to my Facebook status telling the world what I'm thankful for because, of the 830 people who do their damndest to ignore my inane little posts, the vast majority of them know that simply being alive is good enough for me at the moment.
In the past few weeks, I have been to more non-pub/house parties than I have in several years. One of them was even a dinner party... at a real restaurant and everything. It felt good. I do realize that I am thankful for friends and family, not that it was ever in real doubt, just kind of popped in to my head a little stronger than usual.
Chasing my cock too often leads to chasing my heart. When it doesn't, the end result is often the same. Go figure.
I'm just starting to wonder if my calendar age can continue to be so completely at odds with my ability to refuse to grow up that one day I might just implode. Thing is, I don't like 38 year old stuff. I don't want a mortgage. I want to use my Blackberry to take pictures of hot club girls instead of sending spreadsheets or whatever it is responsible people do with their Blackberries.
I don't mind waking up on the floor of recording studios and strange couches. Getting cock-blocked by moms is a bit tiring after a while, but I still can't help but smile when I'm told (by a third party quoting a cutie way below my age bracket) that "even though [I'm] older, [I'm] still really cool and fucking hot." Jesus man! Who doesn't want to hear that? (She managed to arrive in her own bed unbesmirched, I might add.)
Time doesn't heal all wounds. Sometimes it creates a gap, like a ferry sailing in the wrong direction, that causes you to feel the swim is too far, too hard, to get back to solid ground beneath your well worn Converse.
A dear friend of mine is having troubles with "the guy she likes" and I'm not being patronizing. Over a year ago, chatting on Facebook at two in the morning, she asked me what is was like to be in love. How the hell do I answer that? I could tell her, because I most certainly know. But should I?
It was her and her feelings of being a little more lost, a little more alone, than feels comfortable that really got me thinking tonight.
I think it's time to go to more parties. Playing King of the Castle is only fun when that castle actually represents a kingdom, not "a pile of shit" as was lovingly pointed out by a concerned friend.
So here's to those friends: the weak, the strong, the subtle, the loud.
Love you all.

Dinner anyone?

And so it begins... again

2010 was supposed to be my year. It was all perfect... then it all went to hell and the road to hell is paved with good intentions. When I told people about what happened, one of them commented that it was a great story and should be told. I suggested the Battle of Stalingrad was also a "great story" unless, of course, you happened to be living there at the time.
My problem with telling the story is it would force me to be more honest about myself in my writing than I ever have before. It was then that I realized that until I came clean to myself about exactly what happened, this demon would be sitting on my chest for much longer than I could let it. So I begin to write the story. Not here. What it will be when it is done, I don't know. Maybe I'll just launch the manuscript into a bonfire and be done with it. Who knows.
Working title: LA Woman

Gifts

To forget and be forgotten: two of life's greatest gifts it can give. Unfortunately for most of us, remembering and remembrance are the prices we pay for our living sins. There is no heaven, no hell, and no final judgement. It is an ongoing process, in which, we built our own hells and prisons. It is not necessarily a sad or depressing process. It is more like the buzzing mosquito in a dark room: the constant reminder that there are forces at work, preying upon us, which we will never catch, stop, or otherwise interrupt from their unstated goals.

Some Warren Zevon lyrics to ponder...

Well, I went to the doctor. I said, "I'm feeling kind of rough..." 

"Let me break it to you son; you're shit's fucked up!" 

I said, "My shit's fucked up? Well, I don't see how!" 

He said, "The shit that used to work, won't work now!" 

~

That amazing grace, thought it passed you by.

You wake up every day, and you start to cry.

You want to die but you just can't quit.

Let me break it on down; it's the fucked up shit.

Hair-brained Year-long Project #18284-F: The dress

Okay.

I have decided I am making a dress (no, not for me, thx).

I've always liked fashion. But I can't sketch, stitch, cut, or sew.

I am starting from scratch. But with my library card, my passion for ridiculous ideas, and my mom's sewing machine, I'm giving myself one year, 365 days, to design and make a dress. Why? Why the fuck not?

You've no one but yourselves to blame: When asses grow fat, thought grows thin

Paris Hilton is not capable of world domination; well, not by herself she isn't. People love to jump up and down about how we shouldn't care about where she goes, who she goes with, and what she's wearing when she gets there. I agree. But there is one aspect to the train wreck that is Paris Hilton that most people overlook: themselves.
Paris was born rich. There's no denying that. As the great-granddaughter of Conrad Hilton, one could hardly expect her to be poor. She modeled as a child and then "grew up" into a life of leisure and took her tiara as one of America's socialites. Then something awful happened...
Someone out there, you perhaps, decided what she did was newsworthy. Suddenly the cameras couldn't get enough of this young woman, and, like any other capitalist on the planet, she decided to use her new glory for her own ends. Can you blame her? No. I blame you.
Keep this in mind if you keep reading today's little diatribe...

This coming Friday (October 1, 2010), I'm going to a live music show at The Anza Club in Vancouver. You probably won't be there. If you go out that night maybe you'll be in a little cafe with a loved one; if so, you get a pass. If not, you might be in a club somewhere listening to garbage music made by someone's computer software. Then on the way home to catch Jersey Shore, you'll listen to your iPod and complain, complain about Lady Gaga, Justin Bieber, Lindsay Lohan, Paris Hilton...
You have no one but yourselves to blame.
If you don't like the state of popular music turn off MTV. Turn off your ultra-mainstream radios. Turn off.
Then turn ON.
If you don't like what is being delivered to you, stop delivery. Get off your ass and search out something better. It's out there. I promise.
The band I am going to see this Friday can be shamelessly classified as Country Music (among other genres). How often do I hear people say they "HATE" Country Music only to add, "but I like Johnny Cash and Willie Nelson."? What you hate is bad Country Music. Find some good stuff. Right now you are sitting in the rain complaining about being wet. If you move, shelter can be found. I think some of you just like to complain.
Some people seek refuge in the old albums, Classic Rock, etc... I have no problem with these bands and their music has lasted because it was good. But how do you find new Pop Music that is good? Make Good Music popular.
We created Paris Hilton just as Frankenstein created his monster. Not everything we create has to be bad. Find good music. Buy the CD. Buy the shirt. Tell your friends. Give Good Music the ear it deserves.

First they came for the music lovers...

See you at the show... someday.

Guh...

This pic just floated across my Internet goggles...
Below is a new picture of "alt-model", Apnea - Amanda Pemberton to her friends and recent fiancee, photographer, Chase Lisbon. As far as I am concerned, Apnea's eyes have always been what set her apart from the other models in her field (despite the fact this tattooed cutie is amazingly flexible).
I'm reposting this pic because it caught me as different, another new look for this little chameleon. Looks as though she's channeling Pris (Blade Runner) in this one with some Harley Quinn (Batman) and Conan the Barbarian thrown in for good measure. Whether the ghosting was done during or post, I don't know but it certainly adds to the feeling this image provokes.
If you have some time (and you're not at work), swing by her blog. It's a fun collection of picture sets, cats, cookies, and travel stories.

photo credit: Nathan Appel

Kool Shit for Cooler Seasons: Viktor & Rolf Fall/Winter 2010

Designers have their Fall/Winter shows the previous spring. Got it? So these are from March of this year from the show in Paris. Yeah, I like bums and boobs, gazes and gams, etc, etc, etc... But I also love good clothes. These are my favs from this collection. Think of me of the Mr. Burns of fashion: I know what I hate and I don't hate this...

Viktor & Rolf: Fall/Winter 2010

(Paris, March 2010)

Drunk Video Version of Previous Post

What do you say that this Saturday we throw a bunch of bigoted pea-brains on a bonfire?

As the clock ticks down to possibly the dumbest idea in recent history, one can't help but wonder what burning the Quran could possibly accomplish in any positive sense. I watched a clip from an interview with one of this church's pastors replayed on MSNBC today. In the clip, the pastor said they just wanted to expose something that everyone already knew. Um... that's not exposure; that's exploitation. Somehow, the idea of deliberately pissing off a group of people (albeit small) just to egg this group into doing what the group are doing already doesn't seem to prove the point they wanted.
For me, watching two airplanes soar into the World Trade Center seemed to be evidence enough that a minute faction of radicalized Islamic fanatics wanted to rain death on the West. The idea of deliberately pissing them, and all Muslims, off just doesn't register with me as a terribly well thought out plan. The pastors of this church claim that the radical elements they are sending this message to cannot be reasoned with. The pastors of this church also stated that nothing and no one could dissuade them from going through with the book burning. This too sounds like radicalized religious zealots who "cannot be reasoned with".
The US needs to realize the road they are being led down by reactionary forces. Too many of its politicians (on both sides of the aisle) are trying too hard to merely get elected to govern a country that will lay in ruins if their governing is anything like their campaigning.
I'd be interested to see figures as to which has more members: Al-Qaeda or whack-job, splinter-Christian churches in the US.
Hope, however, is not lost. Also on MSNBC, I saw an interview with the pastor of a Tennessee church that had opened its doors to local Muslims building a mosque and community centre beside them. With the centre still incomplete, the Heartsong Church of Cordova, TN, invited their Muslim neighbours to use their church for evening prayers and feasts during Ramadan. When I first Googled this, Google News had over 6000 stories about the Quran burning and only 15 about the openess and tolerance shown by the congregation at the Heartsong Church. Go figure.

Mere survival

A dear friend of mine was lamenting her lot in life. Not in a pitiful or whiny way, but in the way people in their early-20s often think when the world jumps up and bites them in the ass. There is nothing wrong with someone wanting the world to be a fair place to live. I just don't know how far I should push my existentialist belief when it comes to dealing with her.

Life is not about mere survival; it is about living. But, to my way of thinking, one cannot live until they have freed themselves from the belief that life was, is, or will be fair. The only meaning to life is that which we give it.

Some may find this bleak. It isn't. Living without delusions is the freest and happiest a person can truly be. We just have to get there. My worst delusion is believing this is entirely possible.

BSC

Things that make you go "hmmm" right before you go "What the F***?"

At what point does a tactless thought actually become a crime? I've never been a big fan of hate crime legislation. Not because I love to dream racist, homophobic, or misogynist scenarios but because I believe that curbing such thought should be done through education and the occasional public flogging as opposed to legislation.

But is tact a qualifier of whether or not something is hate speech? Let us hope not.

For instance, there's a sick little bastard in me that would probably enjoy Justin Bieber being repeatedly kicked in the shin or held down while someone tattooed "KICK ME" on his forehead. Though it's probably not worth it to put it on his forehead because no one could see it with his combination Twiggy/Donny Osmond haircut. Now, I'm not calling for it to happen or putting out a bounty or anything but still...

Then there's Snooki.

I've decided I've wanted a Snooki bobblehead for Xmas. Doesn't have to be her real head. It can be plastic if that's easier and within the laws of your nation.

Does music soothe the savage beast?

I was lamenting the fact that I met someone this weekend who I was unable to contact again. Walking up the hill at about 1am this morning, my iPod was rattling my skull. I usually don't listen to my iPod walking up this hill in the dark; we have a bear and a cougar roaming about, and they, like I, do not like to be surprised. I was taking the risk. Did I mention I was really really drunk? My feet weren't quite dragging and my mind was racing thinking about her, it, them.

"60 Feet Tall" by The Dead Weather was bouncing around my head at full volume.
No bear.
No cougar.
A coyote dropped by for a visit. We spend a moment looking at each other. My music was loud enough for it to hear. It nodded and scampered off into the undergrowth.

*Turns out my Cinderella has a fella. Oh well.
The coyote and I have a plan.

photo by Ruth Swanson