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.