10. They’re not space aliens, they’re “Terrestrially Challenged”.
09. They’re not androids, they’re “Hydraulically Enabled”.
08. They’re not clones, they’re “Originality Impaired”, or, alternatively, “Genome Engendered”.
07. Its not a bug eyed monster, its an “Alternatively Beautiful Gender Nonspecific Being”.
06. They’re not space pirates, they’re “Alternative Shipping Practitioners”.
05. Homicidal artificial intelligence computers, hell bent on killing the space ship’s entire crew, are to be referred to as “Biologically Inimical Silicon Entities”.
04. Invasions from other planets are no longer referred to by such grotesque terms as “alien invasions”. Instead, they are to be referred to as “Enforced Interspecies Interaction”.
03. People capable of Jedi mind tricks may no longer refer to others as “weak minded”. Instead, they must call them “Intellectually Malleable”.
02. Alien species single-mindedly dedicated to the complete destruction of the human race are to be referred to as “Humanity Adverse”.
01. Human brains, kept alive in a saline solution, are to be referred to as “Cranially Dysfunctional”, or “Cerebrally Unfettered”.
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
Flinging Goo
When I was a kid, my best friend was a guy named John (we lived across the street from one another). John and I got along very well, but we occasionally butted heads sometimes. When we did, things usually got out of hand, because we are both stubborn as hell. One morning we were headed off to school, when we found a pile of goo. I’d like to tell you what the goo was, but I can’t. We had no idea what the goo was. All we knew was that there was some goo on some broken boards. The stuff was greenish white, very thick, but still liquid enough to flow.
Being kids, we decided to mess with the goo. We each grabbed a stick, and poked the goo, pulling up large blobs on the ends of our sticks. We decided that it would be fun to throw the goo, so we ended up throwing it at a nearby tree. After a few tries, the tree got boring, so I decided to throw it at John. I did, and got him a good one on the front of his coat. Naturally, he decided to get me back, and whipped a chunk of goo at me.
As a kid, I was fast – damned fast. Very few people could catch me. My speed was the only thing that kept me safe from bigger kids with a desire to pummel me for my sarcastic comments. So when John chucked his goo, I ran off, and easily evaded the UFG (Unidentified Flying Goo). This pissed John off, so he got some more goo and kept chucking it at me. And he kept missing. The more he missed, the angrier he got; there was just no way he was going to allow me to get away with getting him if he couldn’t get me back.
We weren’t very far from home yet – about 20 yards or so – so he went back home and went inside. I came back too, assuming he was just cleaning off his coat and would be back out soon. He came out surprisingly quickly – and holding a carton of eggs. I was immediately wary, assuming he was going to whip them at me. As it turns out, I was not his target.
His first egg smashed off the front window of my house. Turns out, if he couldn’t get me back by hitting me with goo, he was willing to settle for egging my house. I was immediately pissed off – the goo thing was between us, and it wasn’t fair for him to involve our innocent houses. Now, if I had possessed any fucking sense whatsoever, I just would have turned around and gone to school. John would have felt better, and dropped his desires for goo revenge, and he would also get in trouble later that night for egging my house.
Lacking that degree of common sense, I went inside of my house, grabbed a dozen eggs, and came back outside. We looked at each other from our porches, like two gunfighters trying to decide if the other guy was going to draw. I let fly, and cracked an egg off his house. Right off his porch, as a matter of fact, directly overtop of John. In the process, he was hit with some shell fragments and – you guessed it – some egg goo.
That was it. We each chucked our entire dozen eggs at the other guy’s house, covering the front in egg goo. Eventually we ran out of eggs, and decided that we had each had enough, and went to school. When we came back home, we had each quite forgotten about the egging incident. We were both dismayed to find out that our parents knew about the egging, having been put in the know by John’s younger sister.
So we each spent the next hour with a bucket of soapy water, cleaning off encrusted egg guts from the front of our houses. I didn’t mind too much, because I knew deep inside that I had won – we both threw eggs, we were both punished by having to clean the eggs, but only John got goo on his coat.
Being kids, we decided to mess with the goo. We each grabbed a stick, and poked the goo, pulling up large blobs on the ends of our sticks. We decided that it would be fun to throw the goo, so we ended up throwing it at a nearby tree. After a few tries, the tree got boring, so I decided to throw it at John. I did, and got him a good one on the front of his coat. Naturally, he decided to get me back, and whipped a chunk of goo at me.
As a kid, I was fast – damned fast. Very few people could catch me. My speed was the only thing that kept me safe from bigger kids with a desire to pummel me for my sarcastic comments. So when John chucked his goo, I ran off, and easily evaded the UFG (Unidentified Flying Goo). This pissed John off, so he got some more goo and kept chucking it at me. And he kept missing. The more he missed, the angrier he got; there was just no way he was going to allow me to get away with getting him if he couldn’t get me back.
We weren’t very far from home yet – about 20 yards or so – so he went back home and went inside. I came back too, assuming he was just cleaning off his coat and would be back out soon. He came out surprisingly quickly – and holding a carton of eggs. I was immediately wary, assuming he was going to whip them at me. As it turns out, I was not his target.
His first egg smashed off the front window of my house. Turns out, if he couldn’t get me back by hitting me with goo, he was willing to settle for egging my house. I was immediately pissed off – the goo thing was between us, and it wasn’t fair for him to involve our innocent houses. Now, if I had possessed any fucking sense whatsoever, I just would have turned around and gone to school. John would have felt better, and dropped his desires for goo revenge, and he would also get in trouble later that night for egging my house.
Lacking that degree of common sense, I went inside of my house, grabbed a dozen eggs, and came back outside. We looked at each other from our porches, like two gunfighters trying to decide if the other guy was going to draw. I let fly, and cracked an egg off his house. Right off his porch, as a matter of fact, directly overtop of John. In the process, he was hit with some shell fragments and – you guessed it – some egg goo.
That was it. We each chucked our entire dozen eggs at the other guy’s house, covering the front in egg goo. Eventually we ran out of eggs, and decided that we had each had enough, and went to school. When we came back home, we had each quite forgotten about the egging incident. We were both dismayed to find out that our parents knew about the egging, having been put in the know by John’s younger sister.
So we each spent the next hour with a bucket of soapy water, cleaning off encrusted egg guts from the front of our houses. I didn’t mind too much, because I knew deep inside that I had won – we both threw eggs, we were both punished by having to clean the eggs, but only John got goo on his coat.
Her Love Cuts Deep
Has she gone? I know not where, know not whether I can care
for where she goes or if she’ll lair in darkness or in light.
For when she’s near, she’s never here - always far away.
For her heart it had to wander, and her love she had to squander.
On another she’d grown fonder, beside him she did lay.
She is here - stands near the door, watch her eyes as they explore
the walls and windows, doors and floor - exits from our life.
Seeks for ways, escape the day, run there to her man.
All she wants is to be free of me for eternity
Away from here she wants to flee, escape it is her plan.
Does she know - is she aware that I really couldn’t care?
It’s her presence I cannot bear, her face I hate to see.
And once again I still my pain, keep it deep inside.
‘Cause if I did set it free, it would be the end of me
My cry for love my final plea, fading as I died.
Look at her - she smiles back, eyes so dead, so deeply black.
But all feeling they do lack, eyes that never smile.
I pull away, I rue the day, rue the day we met.
For on that day did I espy her face, my heart began to die.
Her love a thinly veiled lie, ensnared me in her net.
If I knew - had been forewarned, her love surely I would scorn,
Instead it cut me like a thorn, made my heart to bleed.
And deep inside the pain it cries, and batters at my soul,
The pain is strong, it must break free, tear itself right out of me.
From my body it would flee, my heart a dying coal.
I reach out - to touch her face? Or on her neck a tight embrace?
As if her end could then replace all that I had lost.
Could I then find my peace of mind, return then to the light?
Would her end return to me my love, my peace, serenity?
Or push me to insanity? My hands they grip so tight.
Turns from me - walks to the door, outside it has began to pour
how fitting now to tell her more, tell her now to flee.
“Run from here, and disappear, run now from my life!
Go now to your man so charming, but do you know it’s he you’re harming?
Do you find this fact alarming? Go and be his wife.”
Open door - she stops to stare, seems that she might just beware
of the message I would share, leave with her this night.
“Your love is dark, and tears the heart, leaves it there to die.
But you should know that by your leaving, even now my heart is heaving,
Ending now the years of grieving, returning with a sigh.
“Your new love - he soon will fear that his mind will disappear,
and his heart your love will sear, destroy it like a blight.
My heart is free, returned to me, free to love again.
You see, my pain is ending soon, but his is growing, is his doom,
Woven on your evil loom, you create his pain.”
By the door - she stops to stare, rainfall matting down her hair,
Asks me, did I ever care? Care for her love too?
And from my heart, a single spark, tries again to light.
Tries to turn into a fire, tries to prove that I’m a liar,
But dies there as a funeral pyre, loosing all it’s might.
Nod my head - I say my love was stronger than the sun above,
But you killed it like a dove, wounded by a knife.
She turns from me, I set her free, she walks into the night.
As she walks I feel the rain, wash away my fear, my pain
Makes me feel whole and sane, returns to me my life.
Monday, October 10, 2005
We're Gettin' Soft
Slowly, over the decades, we are getting softer and softer. We consitently identify elements our our existence that watch dog groups deemed dangerous, and we eliminate those menaces. Menances which, really, to be honest, were only dangerous to idiots and drunks.
Take larn darts. Now to most folks, lawn darts were just good, clean fun. Sure, once every few years, one would land on Uncle Charlie's foot and go right through. And you'd have to scrap the fucking barbecue to take Charlie to the fucking hospital again. But lets face it - Uncle Charlie was either an idiot or a drunk. Often both. Everyone secretly knew that Charlie had it coming.
So we banned lawn darts. I think this was a mistake. Ok, sure, the injuries were rarely fatal (and invariably, the instances that were fatal were usually taking out the exceptionally stupid) but the occasional foot maiming did serve as an object lesson to us kids. The lesson was this: never get so drunk that you become stupid enough to take a larn dart through the foot.
That lesson worked on me. I watched my idiot-stick drunken uncles get plastered and injure themselves with lawn darts. It really, really made me not want to become a drunken asshole.
But there is one loss that ecipses all others. That greatest of childhood toys, the clackers (alternately refered to as kerbangers). This was a classic. The toy consisted of two insanely hard balls (made out of some weird, space-aged glass/plastic hybrid), connected by a length of string.
The idea was to hold the plastic ring, and allow the balls to dangle loosely at the ends of the string (I was too young at the time to understand the humour behind the "dangling balls" reference). You would then set the balls in motion, swinging outward and then back towards one another. When they struck, they would rebound sharply with a loud clack (hence the name), and fly back upwards. By building up enough speed, you could have the balls strike each other twice each time, once at 6:00 and once at 12:00. This would look, and sound, very fucking cool.
There was only one problem. While you were learning, you would constantly fuck up. You would lose control of your balls (stop giggling) and they would fly about with the vicious speed of a cop-killer bullet. When these fucking balls slammed into your knuckles, it felt like you had just punched a steel girder. It hurt. Like fuck.
But we kept at it. Because it was important to be good at clackers. Kids who were not good at clackers were wussies. And no one wanted to be a wussy. Fuck, even some girls were good at clackers. As a guy, you couldn't let something defeat you if a girl was good at it.
As a child, Clackers taught me two important life lessons. The first was this: if you are willing to stick with something, and put up with some pain and discomfort, then you are capable of doing something that is pretty fucking cool.
The second was just as important, but less obvious. Clackers taught me that even a toy could fuck you up. They taught me that, even if there is an activity you really enjoy, it could some day turn on you, like an inconstant lover, and cause you more pain and misery than you had previously imagined existed.
I learned then that no matter how much I loved something, it had the capacity to hurt me. No matter how wonderful or innocuous a thing may seem, within it lay the seeds of your destruction. I learned that anything truly worth doing is worth doing with all your heart and soul, because to do otherwise risks pain and defeat.
I learned that, even when you do everything right, commit completely and utterly, and give it your all, sometimes, for some un-knowable reason, the balls still crush your fucking knuckles.
Take larn darts. Now to most folks, lawn darts were just good, clean fun. Sure, once every few years, one would land on Uncle Charlie's foot and go right through. And you'd have to scrap the fucking barbecue to take Charlie to the fucking hospital again. But lets face it - Uncle Charlie was either an idiot or a drunk. Often both. Everyone secretly knew that Charlie had it coming.
So we banned lawn darts. I think this was a mistake. Ok, sure, the injuries were rarely fatal (and invariably, the instances that were fatal were usually taking out the exceptionally stupid) but the occasional foot maiming did serve as an object lesson to us kids. The lesson was this: never get so drunk that you become stupid enough to take a larn dart through the foot.
That lesson worked on me. I watched my idiot-stick drunken uncles get plastered and injure themselves with lawn darts. It really, really made me not want to become a drunken asshole.
But there is one loss that ecipses all others. That greatest of childhood toys, the clackers (alternately refered to as kerbangers). This was a classic. The toy consisted of two insanely hard balls (made out of some weird, space-aged glass/plastic hybrid), connected by a length of string.
The idea was to hold the plastic ring, and allow the balls to dangle loosely at the ends of the string (I was too young at the time to understand the humour behind the "dangling balls" reference). You would then set the balls in motion, swinging outward and then back towards one another. When they struck, they would rebound sharply with a loud clack (hence the name), and fly back upwards. By building up enough speed, you could have the balls strike each other twice each time, once at 6:00 and once at 12:00. This would look, and sound, very fucking cool.
There was only one problem. While you were learning, you would constantly fuck up. You would lose control of your balls (stop giggling) and they would fly about with the vicious speed of a cop-killer bullet. When these fucking balls slammed into your knuckles, it felt like you had just punched a steel girder. It hurt. Like fuck.
But we kept at it. Because it was important to be good at clackers. Kids who were not good at clackers were wussies. And no one wanted to be a wussy. Fuck, even some girls were good at clackers. As a guy, you couldn't let something defeat you if a girl was good at it.
As a child, Clackers taught me two important life lessons. The first was this: if you are willing to stick with something, and put up with some pain and discomfort, then you are capable of doing something that is pretty fucking cool.
The second was just as important, but less obvious. Clackers taught me that even a toy could fuck you up. They taught me that, even if there is an activity you really enjoy, it could some day turn on you, like an inconstant lover, and cause you more pain and misery than you had previously imagined existed.
I learned then that no matter how much I loved something, it had the capacity to hurt me. No matter how wonderful or innocuous a thing may seem, within it lay the seeds of your destruction. I learned that anything truly worth doing is worth doing with all your heart and soul, because to do otherwise risks pain and defeat.
I learned that, even when you do everything right, commit completely and utterly, and give it your all, sometimes, for some un-knowable reason, the balls still crush your fucking knuckles.
Sunday, October 09, 2005
Happy Birthday Dad
I'd like to wish my father a happy birthday. I'd like to, but I won't. You see, my dad and I don't talk anymore. No, he's not dead. No, we didn't have a huge dramatic fight, where we angrily shouted phrases such as "you're dead to me" or "I have no son". It's rather difficult to pin down exactly why we don't talk anymore.
Well, that's not really true. I know why I don't talk to him. My reasons are clear to me. I just don't know why he doesn't talk to me. To explain: he never initiates contact with me. My parents divorced when I was 8, and after about 3 months of him coming to get me on weekends, he just stopped showing up. At first there were excuses - he was busy, or he had to go away, etc. Then he just stopped coming, and didn't bother phoning with an excuse.
He quite often left me sitting out on the front porch, suitcases packed and waiting. I was a patient kid, and I would sit there for hours, reading a book, waiting for my daddy. Eventually, my mother would try to get me to come inside. She'd tell me that he probably wasn't coming. She'd suggest that I could watch television while I waited. But I refused. You see, I wanted every last drop of my time with my father that I could get. Even when I could see his car driving up the street. If I was inside, I wouldn't see the car, and I would miss that moment.
So, I sat and waited. And waited. Sometimes for more than 4 hours. No car, no dad. No weekend visit. He went away.
When I turned 11, I found out that my father had sold me. My mother was getting remarried, and wanted to change my last name to that of her new husband. She contacted my father, and asked him to allow her to change my last name. Even though he hadn't seen me in 3 years, he refused.
So my mom offered him a deal: in exchange for allowing her to change my last name, he would no longer have to pay child support. He agreed.
He sold me.
When I turned 13, I decided to find my father. I grabbed a phone book, and looked up his name. There it was. His name, and his address, and his phone number. I was afraid. Fuck afraid, I was terrified. But I went to see him anyway.
I spent the next 22 years of my life trying to have a relationship with my father. I always went to visit him. In that entire time, he came to visit me exactly one time. I had just rented my first apartment, and I invited him over for dinner. He refused. His wife insisted he come over. He came over, and spent 20 minutes in my new place. He never even sat down. Then he left.
In my entire life, he has called me on the telephone me exactly twice. Two fucking times. The first time was when I was 16. It seems his daughter from his second marriage needed to borrow my button collection (yes, I collected buttons. The pin-on kind, not the kind that you use to fasten your shirt). I told him he could borrow it, and asked him when he wanted to pick it up. He told me I had to drive the collection over on my bike. I told him that the buttons were pinned to a large piece of canvas (about 5 feet long by 2.5 feet wide), and would be very hard to transport on a bicycle. He didn't care. So I rode the collection over on my bicycle.
The second phone call came when I was in my mid-twenties. He wanted to know if I knew where the remote control for his television was. I didn't. He said goodbye and hung up.
For me, the final straw came when I was in my mid-thirties. You see, I used to try and do the things he liked with him, in order to spend time with him. I didn't drink, but went to bars with him. I don't like golf, but I went golfing with him. I was used to being the one who initiated contact, who went out of his way to make sure he spent time with his dad.
One of the few things we both enjoyed doing was fishing. We used to go fishing fairly often. We'd head out for a weekend, or even a full week. I treasured these times. These were father/son times. No wife, no daughters. Just me and my fucking dad. They were the most precious times to me that I could imagine, because while we were away I could pretend he liked me.
Around my late twenties, my dad decided he would no longer go fishing. I asked him to go, but he refused. I begged him to go, and he refused. I demanded he go, he refused. That was it. No explanation. He just wouldn't go.
After about 5 years or so, I had stopped asking him. What was the point, I know the answer would have been no. So one weekend, I came over to visit. When I got there, Jude (his wife) informed me that he had gone fishing with my grandfather.
After decades of being abandoned and ignored, of being forgotten and made to feel unimportant, this was a new, sharp, piercing agony. I don't really have the words to explain how I felt. I knew my father didn't want me around. It hit me suddenly, a rush, a gut-punch. My father did not like me. He did not love me. He did not want me.
So, I sat down with him and tried to explain how I felt. Whenever I did this, both he and Jude would end up making me feel like things were my fault. I'm not really sure how they did that. But they were good at it.
I ended up telling him that I was leaving, and that I would not be contacting him again. I made sure he had my phone number. I told him that, if he really wanted to see me, to talk to me, all he had to do was phone me.
That was six years ago. He hasn't called.
Happy birthday, dad.
Well, that's not really true. I know why I don't talk to him. My reasons are clear to me. I just don't know why he doesn't talk to me. To explain: he never initiates contact with me. My parents divorced when I was 8, and after about 3 months of him coming to get me on weekends, he just stopped showing up. At first there were excuses - he was busy, or he had to go away, etc. Then he just stopped coming, and didn't bother phoning with an excuse.
He quite often left me sitting out on the front porch, suitcases packed and waiting. I was a patient kid, and I would sit there for hours, reading a book, waiting for my daddy. Eventually, my mother would try to get me to come inside. She'd tell me that he probably wasn't coming. She'd suggest that I could watch television while I waited. But I refused. You see, I wanted every last drop of my time with my father that I could get. Even when I could see his car driving up the street. If I was inside, I wouldn't see the car, and I would miss that moment.
So, I sat and waited. And waited. Sometimes for more than 4 hours. No car, no dad. No weekend visit. He went away.
When I turned 11, I found out that my father had sold me. My mother was getting remarried, and wanted to change my last name to that of her new husband. She contacted my father, and asked him to allow her to change my last name. Even though he hadn't seen me in 3 years, he refused.
So my mom offered him a deal: in exchange for allowing her to change my last name, he would no longer have to pay child support. He agreed.
He sold me.
When I turned 13, I decided to find my father. I grabbed a phone book, and looked up his name. There it was. His name, and his address, and his phone number. I was afraid. Fuck afraid, I was terrified. But I went to see him anyway.
I spent the next 22 years of my life trying to have a relationship with my father. I always went to visit him. In that entire time, he came to visit me exactly one time. I had just rented my first apartment, and I invited him over for dinner. He refused. His wife insisted he come over. He came over, and spent 20 minutes in my new place. He never even sat down. Then he left.
In my entire life, he has called me on the telephone me exactly twice. Two fucking times. The first time was when I was 16. It seems his daughter from his second marriage needed to borrow my button collection (yes, I collected buttons. The pin-on kind, not the kind that you use to fasten your shirt). I told him he could borrow it, and asked him when he wanted to pick it up. He told me I had to drive the collection over on my bike. I told him that the buttons were pinned to a large piece of canvas (about 5 feet long by 2.5 feet wide), and would be very hard to transport on a bicycle. He didn't care. So I rode the collection over on my bicycle.
The second phone call came when I was in my mid-twenties. He wanted to know if I knew where the remote control for his television was. I didn't. He said goodbye and hung up.
For me, the final straw came when I was in my mid-thirties. You see, I used to try and do the things he liked with him, in order to spend time with him. I didn't drink, but went to bars with him. I don't like golf, but I went golfing with him. I was used to being the one who initiated contact, who went out of his way to make sure he spent time with his dad.
One of the few things we both enjoyed doing was fishing. We used to go fishing fairly often. We'd head out for a weekend, or even a full week. I treasured these times. These were father/son times. No wife, no daughters. Just me and my fucking dad. They were the most precious times to me that I could imagine, because while we were away I could pretend he liked me.
Around my late twenties, my dad decided he would no longer go fishing. I asked him to go, but he refused. I begged him to go, and he refused. I demanded he go, he refused. That was it. No explanation. He just wouldn't go.
After about 5 years or so, I had stopped asking him. What was the point, I know the answer would have been no. So one weekend, I came over to visit. When I got there, Jude (his wife) informed me that he had gone fishing with my grandfather.
After decades of being abandoned and ignored, of being forgotten and made to feel unimportant, this was a new, sharp, piercing agony. I don't really have the words to explain how I felt. I knew my father didn't want me around. It hit me suddenly, a rush, a gut-punch. My father did not like me. He did not love me. He did not want me.
So, I sat down with him and tried to explain how I felt. Whenever I did this, both he and Jude would end up making me feel like things were my fault. I'm not really sure how they did that. But they were good at it.
I ended up telling him that I was leaving, and that I would not be contacting him again. I made sure he had my phone number. I told him that, if he really wanted to see me, to talk to me, all he had to do was phone me.
That was six years ago. He hasn't called.
Happy birthday, dad.
A Long, Long Time Ago...
A few hundred years ago, a travesty was committed. Foreign invaders swept across this land, raped women, engaged in brutality, germ warfare, and slaughter. They formed treaties, and then they violated those treaties just as soon as it suited them. It was a terrible, horrific time, and a stain in history.
As apalling as this event in history is, it is very important to remember something. This did not happen to anyone alive. It didn't happen to their parents, or their grandparents. It didn't happen to anyone that anyone living today knows. And yet some Aboriginals seem to be personally upset about the situation. To maintain a grudge centuries later doesn't make much sense to me.
Lets take a look at one of the invaders. A thousand years ago, foreign invaders swept across Britain. They raped their women, engaged in brutality, germ warfare, and slaughter. They took what they wanted, they killed those who stood up for their rights. It was a terrible, horrific time, and a stain in history.
A thousand or so years berfore that, foregin invaders swept across Britain. They raped, engaged in .... yadda, yadda, yadda.
Mankind has a long and bloody history of warfare. Countries invade other countries. Entire peoples are slaughtered. It doesn't do anyone any good to lay blame on the heads of people who were not involved. Should the British despise all Italians because the Romans invaded their country? Should they despise the French because of the Norman invasion?
So, there we have it: sometimes bad things happen. When, exactly, do we get over it? How long does it take for our society to move on. Should we be like the Serbians and Croations, despising and hating each other over something that happened thousands of years ago? Does that sound healthy?
I am not saying that we should all forget what happened.
My point is this: stop laying blame. It is not right - nor is it healthy - for an entire people to dislike another entire group of people for acts commited hundreds of years before their birth. If you are not the victim, then why should you feel like one?
Now, an apology: I understand that this is a deeply divided issue. There are many strong feelings and opinions on both sides of the debate. I respect those who disagree with me - and their opinions - even though I disagree with them. This post is not meant to insult or anger anyone. I just wanted to express my opinion and feelings on this matter, hopefully without alienating anyone.
Now, I ask an favour: please be calm. I invite and encourage (in fact, actively look forward to) comments on this issue. However, please do not respond in anger. If what I have said pisses you off, then please do me the favour of taking time to cool down before responding. I want to talk about this, but have no respect for flames or attacks.
As apalling as this event in history is, it is very important to remember something. This did not happen to anyone alive. It didn't happen to their parents, or their grandparents. It didn't happen to anyone that anyone living today knows. And yet some Aboriginals seem to be personally upset about the situation. To maintain a grudge centuries later doesn't make much sense to me.
Lets take a look at one of the invaders. A thousand years ago, foreign invaders swept across Britain. They raped their women, engaged in brutality, germ warfare, and slaughter. They took what they wanted, they killed those who stood up for their rights. It was a terrible, horrific time, and a stain in history.
A thousand or so years berfore that, foregin invaders swept across Britain. They raped, engaged in .... yadda, yadda, yadda.
Mankind has a long and bloody history of warfare. Countries invade other countries. Entire peoples are slaughtered. It doesn't do anyone any good to lay blame on the heads of people who were not involved. Should the British despise all Italians because the Romans invaded their country? Should they despise the French because of the Norman invasion?
So, there we have it: sometimes bad things happen. When, exactly, do we get over it? How long does it take for our society to move on. Should we be like the Serbians and Croations, despising and hating each other over something that happened thousands of years ago? Does that sound healthy?
I am not saying that we should all forget what happened.
My point is this: stop laying blame. It is not right - nor is it healthy - for an entire people to dislike another entire group of people for acts commited hundreds of years before their birth. If you are not the victim, then why should you feel like one?
Now, an apology: I understand that this is a deeply divided issue. There are many strong feelings and opinions on both sides of the debate. I respect those who disagree with me - and their opinions - even though I disagree with them. This post is not meant to insult or anger anyone. I just wanted to express my opinion and feelings on this matter, hopefully without alienating anyone.
Now, I ask an favour: please be calm. I invite and encourage (in fact, actively look forward to) comments on this issue. However, please do not respond in anger. If what I have said pisses you off, then please do me the favour of taking time to cool down before responding. I want to talk about this, but have no respect for flames or attacks.
Saturday, October 08, 2005
Lucky Me
I really consider myself to be a lucky bastard. I have so many amazing friends, and we have a great time. I also have fun almost every night of the week. On Mondays, I can look forward to the Theatre Nefarious improv classes. We have a great deal of fun, we learn and play, and afterwards we head out out for food and great conversation.
Monday nights are something to look forward to, because it's my "Friday" (I'm off on Tuesday/Wednesday). I don't do any one set thing, but I always make sure I'm out having fun. Same goes for Tuesday/Wednesday nights.
Thursday nights are another improv class, which again is a chance to get together with friends and head out for great company aftewards.
But the highlight of my week is definitely Friday nights. Friday is karaoke night with my friends. It combines singing (which I love) with intelligent and damned witty conversation (which I live for). Topics of conversation range from hydrology and quantum mechanics to the funniest way to mispronounce dirty words.
Last night was especially enjoyable. First off, we met a new friend, who was brought in by one of the regulars. At first I'm always a bit leery around new people, because my sense of humour tends to ... well, offend. But she fit in very well, and turned out to be as sick and twisted as the rest of us.
I also had a chance to have a good conversation with a friend of mine. He comes out to improv quite often, but he's a bit shy and taciturn. I was glad we had the chance to break past that barrier and talk.
We also had some great creative jam sessions. We jammed some great character work on a bizarre white-trash character I have been working on. We also came up with a great idea for a sitcom, and we're going to jam on it some more, work out some details, and see where things go from there.
Monday nights are something to look forward to, because it's my "Friday" (I'm off on Tuesday/Wednesday). I don't do any one set thing, but I always make sure I'm out having fun. Same goes for Tuesday/Wednesday nights.
Thursday nights are another improv class, which again is a chance to get together with friends and head out for great company aftewards.
But the highlight of my week is definitely Friday nights. Friday is karaoke night with my friends. It combines singing (which I love) with intelligent and damned witty conversation (which I live for). Topics of conversation range from hydrology and quantum mechanics to the funniest way to mispronounce dirty words.
Last night was especially enjoyable. First off, we met a new friend, who was brought in by one of the regulars. At first I'm always a bit leery around new people, because my sense of humour tends to ... well, offend. But she fit in very well, and turned out to be as sick and twisted as the rest of us.
I also had a chance to have a good conversation with a friend of mine. He comes out to improv quite often, but he's a bit shy and taciturn. I was glad we had the chance to break past that barrier and talk.
We also had some great creative jam sessions. We jammed some great character work on a bizarre white-trash character I have been working on. We also came up with a great idea for a sitcom, and we're going to jam on it some more, work out some details, and see where things go from there.
Friday, October 07, 2005
Just Wondering...
Please take a moment to check this out: Should Ash Stop Ranting?
After you vote, please check this out: Cold Turkey. This is an article written by Kurt Vonnegut, who is (IMO) the best living author, and one of the most intelligent people going. Read the article. Think about it. Enjoy the descent.
After you vote, please check this out: Cold Turkey. This is an article written by Kurt Vonnegut, who is (IMO) the best living author, and one of the most intelligent people going. Read the article. Think about it. Enjoy the descent.
Improv Warm Ups
I had a request to explain some of the improv games/warm-ups I had mentioned earlier.
Freak Tag: One person is it. They take on a physical characteristic and a vocal characteristic (i.e. walks like a freak and makes a weird noise). Something freaky. Think zombies. That person moves around the floor, never running, moving at fairly slow rate, and continues to hold the physical characteristic and the weird noise. They try to tag one of the other improvisers.
When tagged, the "Freak" is transferred, and the original improviser goes back to normal while the tagged improviser becomes the freak. They take on a new physicality and make a new noise. They should try to choose a physicality based on their own physical stance when tagged (ie if tagged in the corner, bending over and holding your hands up protectively, then walk around bend over with your hands held up).
Keep "passing the freak" around from person to person. At some point (probably when everyone is getting tired), the facilitator should yell out "Viral!" At this time, the Freak is now a virus. The person passing the freak stays as a freak, until everyone is infected.
Jeepers Peepers: Everyone stands in a circle, and looks down at the floor. The facilitator yells "Go!", at which point everyone looks up. They can either look to their left, right, or straight ahead. If you find yourself making eye contact with another improviser, you scream and fall to the ground. You can just repeat like this, or when you fall down, you are "out" until everyone has fallen to the ground.
Sevens: A quick energy builder. Everyone stands in a circle, and puts their right hand in the center. Everyone counts from one to seven very quickly, punctuating each number with their hand. Then again with the left hand, right leg, and left leg. Then do this again counting from one to six, one to five, etc., all the way down to one.
Freak Tag: One person is it. They take on a physical characteristic and a vocal characteristic (i.e. walks like a freak and makes a weird noise). Something freaky. Think zombies. That person moves around the floor, never running, moving at fairly slow rate, and continues to hold the physical characteristic and the weird noise. They try to tag one of the other improvisers.
When tagged, the "Freak" is transferred, and the original improviser goes back to normal while the tagged improviser becomes the freak. They take on a new physicality and make a new noise. They should try to choose a physicality based on their own physical stance when tagged (ie if tagged in the corner, bending over and holding your hands up protectively, then walk around bend over with your hands held up).
Keep "passing the freak" around from person to person. At some point (probably when everyone is getting tired), the facilitator should yell out "Viral!" At this time, the Freak is now a virus. The person passing the freak stays as a freak, until everyone is infected.
Jeepers Peepers: Everyone stands in a circle, and looks down at the floor. The facilitator yells "Go!", at which point everyone looks up. They can either look to their left, right, or straight ahead. If you find yourself making eye contact with another improviser, you scream and fall to the ground. You can just repeat like this, or when you fall down, you are "out" until everyone has fallen to the ground.
Sevens: A quick energy builder. Everyone stands in a circle, and puts their right hand in the center. Everyone counts from one to seven very quickly, punctuating each number with their hand. Then again with the left hand, right leg, and left leg. Then do this again counting from one to six, one to five, etc., all the way down to one.
Thursday, October 06, 2005
How to Stalk and Kill a Dog
In order to aid cats everywhere, Crystal has prepared a report entitled "How to Stalk and Kill a Dog".
Step One: Find a Dog. Preferably a stupid one. Luckily, all dogs are stupid.
Step Two: Wait until the dog is distracted. This is usually very easy. Items which distract a dog include meat, bright lights, shiny things, and feces.
Step Three: Once the dog is distracted, sit back and notice the large, sharp, rending teeth. Rethink the whole idea of attacking the dog.
Step Four: Screw up your courage, and run at the dog to attack. Think better of it, jump up in the air, turn around, land on your feet facing in the opposite direction, and run back to safety.
Step Five: Run for a second attack. Once again, change your mind, and veer off to the side. Accidentally run face first into a cardboard box at full speed. Peer over the edge as if incredibly interested in box contents. As if this was what you had meant to do all along.
Step Six: Run at the dog to attack it. Run past the dog. You are now behind the dog. The dog is grass, and you are a lawnmower.
Step Seven: You are now behind the dog. Attack the dog. Kill the dog.
Step Eight: Enjoy the dog's fear. Revel in it. See the white of the dog's eye? That's fear.
If you found this report useful, keep an eye out for Crystal's future reports "How to Stalk and Kill a Preschooler", "How to Stalk and Kill a Jehovah's Witness", and "How to Invest your Money Wisely in Today's Turbulent Market, Take the Proceeds, and Use them to Stalk and Kill a Fat Kid".
Fuck Red Bull
You heard me. Fuck Red Bull. I can't express my disdain for this drink. First off, people drink it because its popular. Its the current cool drink, the new Gatorade. People drink it when they don't need it, just because its a trendy thing to be seen drinking.
"Red Bull gives you wings". Fuck yeah, so did Daedalus. Red Bull contains caffeine. Which, I seem to remember, our medical community keeps telling us is bad, and should be avoided in excess. But Red Bull fans love to trumpet the caffeine content. It contains about as much caffeine as a large cup of coffee. And costs about $2.50 Canadian. You can get a large Tims for $1.30. So if its caffeine you're after, you can get it elsewhere, cheaper.
Red Bull tastes like ass. According to BevNet (a website dedicated to reviewing drinks for quality and taste - see below for links), Red Bull "...is truly painful to drink". The first time I had a Red Bull, I likened the taste to a liquified twinkie, mixed with sugar and a cock punch.
Red Bull claims to revitalize your energy and mind. There is some evidence to state that this might be true. There is also evidence which states this might be false. Many people love to mix Red Bull with alcohol ... because as we all know, when you drink, you want your booze to get MORE expensive.
Now, I think pretty much any doctor will tell you that mixing a depresent (booze) with a stimulant (caffeine) is, in a word, stupid. There is also medical evidence that mixing Red Bull with alcohol may be hazardous to your health (according to BBC News).
In many European countries (including Austria, where the drink was invented), you can only buy Red Bull at a pharmacy. Here, we have it available ... well, pretty much anywhere. Despite the fact that the manufacturers of Red Bull say that the drink is not recommended for children, they do nothing to prevent the sale of their drink to minors. Minors who are extremely vulnerable to slick advertising campaigns.
The Swedish National Food Administration has issued a public health warning after three people died after drinking Red Bull. Now as of yet, there is no direct medical evidence to indicate that Red Bull was a contributing factor. If there were, they would just ban the product. However, there is enough concern in their medical community to issue the warning.
Most concerned medical practioners admit that Red Bull, in moderation, is probably harmless. However, people who work out and people who mix the drink with alcohol at clubs are at risk. Excess amounts of the drink have been linked to health issues. Also, when mixing with booze, the stimulating effect of the caffeine tends to make people feel more alert than they really are, masking the effects of intoxication. Translation? You're drunker than you think you are. Which means some people drink more because they don't know how drunk they are. Risking alcohol poisoning.
The FSPB (Food Safety Protection Board) in Ireland investigated Red Bull after the death of a young man. Their conclusions were that Red Bull should be classified as a stimulant drink.
According to this report:
a) stimulant drinks should be labelled with an indication that they are unsuitable for children (under 16 years of age), pregnant women and individuals sensitive to caffeine
b) they should be classified with other beverages of high caffeine content
c) the consumption of stimulant drinks by children under 16 years should be discouraged
d) caution should be exercised in the consumption of stimulant drinks with alcohol
e) they should not be consumed in association with sport and exercise as a thirst quencher
f) they are unsuitable rehydration agents for use in sport and during exercise."
So, in summary, Red Bull:
1) Is expensive.
2) Is painful to drink.
3) In excess, is linked to health problems.
4) Should be avoided during exercise.
5) Should not be mixed with alcohol.
Wow, no wonder it sells so well!
LINKS
http://www.bevnet.com/reviews/redbull/
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/health/1435409.stm
http://www.bbc.co.uk/northernireland/consumer/red_bull.shtml
http://www.pulse24.com/News_Features/Health/20050228-01/page.asp
http://www.spiked-online.com/Articles/00000002D1AF.htm
http://answers.google.com/answers/threadview?id=92629
"Red Bull gives you wings". Fuck yeah, so did Daedalus. Red Bull contains caffeine. Which, I seem to remember, our medical community keeps telling us is bad, and should be avoided in excess. But Red Bull fans love to trumpet the caffeine content. It contains about as much caffeine as a large cup of coffee. And costs about $2.50 Canadian. You can get a large Tims for $1.30. So if its caffeine you're after, you can get it elsewhere, cheaper.
Red Bull tastes like ass. According to BevNet (a website dedicated to reviewing drinks for quality and taste - see below for links), Red Bull "...is truly painful to drink". The first time I had a Red Bull, I likened the taste to a liquified twinkie, mixed with sugar and a cock punch.
Red Bull claims to revitalize your energy and mind. There is some evidence to state that this might be true. There is also evidence which states this might be false. Many people love to mix Red Bull with alcohol ... because as we all know, when you drink, you want your booze to get MORE expensive.
Now, I think pretty much any doctor will tell you that mixing a depresent (booze) with a stimulant (caffeine) is, in a word, stupid. There is also medical evidence that mixing Red Bull with alcohol may be hazardous to your health (according to BBC News).
In many European countries (including Austria, where the drink was invented), you can only buy Red Bull at a pharmacy. Here, we have it available ... well, pretty much anywhere. Despite the fact that the manufacturers of Red Bull say that the drink is not recommended for children, they do nothing to prevent the sale of their drink to minors. Minors who are extremely vulnerable to slick advertising campaigns.
The Swedish National Food Administration has issued a public health warning after three people died after drinking Red Bull. Now as of yet, there is no direct medical evidence to indicate that Red Bull was a contributing factor. If there were, they would just ban the product. However, there is enough concern in their medical community to issue the warning.
Most concerned medical practioners admit that Red Bull, in moderation, is probably harmless. However, people who work out and people who mix the drink with alcohol at clubs are at risk. Excess amounts of the drink have been linked to health issues. Also, when mixing with booze, the stimulating effect of the caffeine tends to make people feel more alert than they really are, masking the effects of intoxication. Translation? You're drunker than you think you are. Which means some people drink more because they don't know how drunk they are. Risking alcohol poisoning.
The FSPB (Food Safety Protection Board) in Ireland investigated Red Bull after the death of a young man. Their conclusions were that Red Bull should be classified as a stimulant drink.
According to this report:
a) stimulant drinks should be labelled with an indication that they are unsuitable for children (under 16 years of age), pregnant women and individuals sensitive to caffeine
b) they should be classified with other beverages of high caffeine content
c) the consumption of stimulant drinks by children under 16 years should be discouraged
d) caution should be exercised in the consumption of stimulant drinks with alcohol
e) they should not be consumed in association with sport and exercise as a thirst quencher
f) they are unsuitable rehydration agents for use in sport and during exercise."
So, in summary, Red Bull:
1) Is expensive.
2) Is painful to drink.
3) In excess, is linked to health problems.
4) Should be avoided during exercise.
5) Should not be mixed with alcohol.
Wow, no wonder it sells so well!
LINKS
http://www.bevnet.com/reviews/redbull/
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/health/1435409.stm
http://www.bbc.co.uk/northernireland/consumer/red_bull.shtml
http://www.pulse24.com/News_Features/Health/20050228-01/page.asp
http://www.spiked-online.com/Articles/00000002D1AF.htm
http://answers.google.com/answers/threadview?id=92629
Wednesday, October 05, 2005
Dry Humping
Improv, like other kinds of performance art, can be horribly bad, mediocre, or fucking fantastic, and anywhere in between. Now, the same can be said of a play or a scripted comedy show. But there are differences. When a sketch show goes wrong, you can usually find a reason. A bad script. Bad direction. Horrible acting. What have you. But if you have a good script, good actors, good direction, and plenty of practice, odds are you will have a good performance. Improv does not work like that. You can have all the elements of a good show – great performers, lots of practice, good direction, and a wonderful audience – and the show can still tank. It happens. The problem is, if an improv show sucks, people want to know why. They take the tools that work with a sketch show, and try to use those tools to diagnose an improv show. And that simply does not work.
In a sketch show, you might say a line that upsets the audience. The line might have been meant to be funny, but as it turns out, it wasn’t. After the show, you can say “You know what? That line is not working. Lets retool it, or take it out”. That works. Because the next time you do the show, you can tweak the line until it works.
People try to take this diagnostic tool and apply it to improv. If someone says a line that flops, someone after the show might say “You know what? That line did not work. You should not have said that line”. That does not work. For several reasons. First off, that line will never be repeated. No two improvised shows are the same. Therefore, identifying an element of one show and trying to tweak it is silly, because it will never be used again.
Secondly, you are criticizing a performer, which can make them feel bad. Now sometimes, its worth hurting someone’s feelings if doing so will improve their performance. Seeing as we have established that criticizing a decision doesn’t help, the note is therefore not really worth upsetting the performer over.
To put on a good show, you require a number of different elements. First off, you need good performers. People who are committed to the show, and have put their time and effort into being a part of this show. You need good direction. You need an audience, which means you need to advertise. Improv is quite often too incestuous, with the “audience” consisting of other improvisers who are waiting to take their turn on stage (and the friends they have brought).
There is one other thing that you need for a good show. It’s an element that I feel is commonly ignored. When done properly it increases the likelihood of a good show, and when done poorly it detracts from the performance. That element is the warm up. A warm up can make the difference between a good show and a great show, or a crap show and a good show. Yet, warm ups are usually haphazard and poorly thought out, if prepared at all. It’s a “last minute” thing, when it should be carefully crafted and prepared.
A good warm up loosens the performer, gets them in a positive mind set, and prepares them for play. It loosens inhibitions, it primes the creative pump. A bad warm up puts people in their head. It causes them to think too much, question and doubt. No matter how good you are, no matter how practiced and prepared, if you are in a negative mind space before a show, chances are you will not perform up to your best standards.
If you think of an improv show as sex, then the warm up is foreplay. Yes, you can have good sex without foreplay. However, the chances of having great sex is better if you have had good foreplay. Foreplay prepares us for what is to come.And just like sex, dry improv is not much fun for anyone.
So, having said that, I’d like to identify some of the more common warm up styles that I feel do not work.
The “Show” Warm Up: Sometimes, an facilitator will have everyone warm up by running through the show format before the show commences. I feel this is a bad idea. First off, you should not need to run through a show format just before the show. Your performers should have had enough advance practices to be familiar and comfortable with the format before performing in front of an audience.
Secondly, you are draining ideas away. If you do a scene during a warm up that would have made a great scene on stage, you have eliminated that great scene from the actual performance. If you take scenes from a practice and use them during the show, you are not really improvising. Also, the scene will seem hollow and false, because it is not real, it is not natural, it is not spontaneous. It is, in effect, rehearsed. It is not improv.
Lastly, it is not uncommon to have a great warm up “Show” and a mediocre or bad actual performance. And it really sucks as a performer to know that the great show you put on in the basement will never be seen by an audience, while the crappy show you put on afterwards had people watching it.
The “No Warm Up” Warm Up: No warm up is a bad warm up. You show up, you sit and around and gab, and then BAM – you have to go from conversation mode to performance mode. I am sure that there are a few people who can do this successfully, but they are few and far between. Most people need to warm up. If you are running a show, and feel you can perform without warming up, don’t be an egotist. The group needs a warm up. If you are running the show, then you need to provide a warm up.
The “Intensive Analysis” Warm Up: this is potentially the worst form of warm up imaginable. Here, the facilitator runs an intensive workshop, and gives frequent and strong notes. This is wrong. How wrong? Wrong, wrong, wrong. Now, I realize that method of instrucction this can make for a great workshop. It just makes for a fucking awful warm up.
When a person is intensely examined and critiqued, they tend to get into an introspective analysis mode – a state we sometimes refer to as being “in your head”. The performer becomes stuck in “thinking” mode, and is not free to play and have fun. When an improviser is performing, ideally his/her actions and thoughts will flow naturally, without introspection. If the performer is stuck “in their head”, they will be second guessing him or herself, and therefore destroying any spontaneity he/she may have been able to bring to the show.
So, I’ve spent some time talking about the ingredients for a bad warm up – but what makes a good warm up good? A good warm up should be prepared, thought out, crafted – tailored to the individual needs of the performers. Games designed to let people have fun will be more likely to stimulate their creative juices.
There is no one set warm up that works for everyone. The person leading the warm up should ideally be aware of the likes and dislikes of each performer. If someone hates doing the warm up called “George”, then doing that warm up before a show will put them in a negative mind space. But if everyone loves doing “George” and has a fun time when playing that game, then it becomes a great pre-show warm up.
In general, “fun” warm ups are the ones to consider. There are warm up exercises that are fun to play, and fun to watch. Warm ups such as “Freak Tag” work well. Any game or playful exercise that helps the performers have fun and enter a positive mind set will likely improve the quality of the show.
My ideal pre-show runs something like this. For an 8:00 pm show, call time is at 7:00 pm. This is for two main reasons. First off, there are some people – we all know them – who are always late. No matter what time you give them, they show up 20 minutes afterwards.
Secondly, when you get a group of performers together, they are going to spend the first 15-20 minutes just shooting the shit. This is true even if they were all together the night before. Performers are social creatures, and they like to socialize. So give them the time to do so. If you deny them this socialization time, they will resent you for it.
After a 15-20 minute bull session, I then initiate beginning warm ups. Simple activities designed to get people into a group mind-set while still allowing them to chat and socialize. Clap focus is a perfect example of this, as are pure stretching and physical warm up exercises. I will run this portion of the workshop for about 5 to 10 minutes.
At this point, I move on to a good concentration exercise, such as “Threads” or “Red Ball”. My goal now is to monopolize my performers attention, to force them to concentrate completely and totally on one thing. I find this clears their minds of their day-to-day thoughts, and essentially shakes the Etch-a-Sketch. I find that about 5 minutes of this is perfect. Too much, and you start to annoy the performers.
From there, I move into fun games. Games such as “Freak Tag”, “Slow Motion Samurai” and “Jeepers Peepers” are fun, involve a great element of play, and usually will put people in a positive mood. I run these purely fun games for 10-15 minutes.
About 5 to 10 minutes before the show starts, I end the warm up. This gives people a chance to level out, and perform any pre-show rituals, relax, go take a leak, whatever. Just before the show begins, I do a fast and quick energy builder, such as “Sevens”.
Now, does this guarantee a good show? Fuck no. In improv, there is never a guarantee of a good show. That’s part of its beauty and magic. But no matter how the show goes, I know I have done what I can to make it better than it might have been.
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
Seven Deadly Sins II - Pride
About a year ago, I did a seven part series based upon the Seven Deadly Sins. I did this while I was relatively new to the Photoshop world. Honestly, I was never particularly happy with what I created. I have always meant to do the series again, but was waiting for inspiration.
Tonight, I saw a new piece of stock art that gave me the inspiration I need. This is the first in my new series, Pride.
Tonight, I saw a new piece of stock art that gave me the inspiration I need. This is the first in my new series, Pride.
Some Class Action
What a great improv class today. Gary taught, and we did some hardcore work with scene reality. We decided to ground ourselves, do real scenes based on real people in real situations. We stopped worrying about being funny, and worked on being real in the scene.
It worked great. Every scene was, at the very least, interesting. We had some stirring scenes, and some funny things. But the humour arose naturally, from natural situations, and was therefore all the better.
Of course, it makes sense upon retrospection. All of the people I was working with are funny in real life. They don't memorize jokes or anything - they're just naturally funny. Put these naturally funny people in natural situations, and they can end up being hilarious. Naturally.
It worked great. Every scene was, at the very least, interesting. We had some stirring scenes, and some funny things. But the humour arose naturally, from natural situations, and was therefore all the better.
Of course, it makes sense upon retrospection. All of the people I was working with are funny in real life. They don't memorize jokes or anything - they're just naturally funny. Put these naturally funny people in natural situations, and they can end up being hilarious. Naturally.
Monday, October 03, 2005
A Visit from Peeves
In life, there are small things that annoy us. These things tend to be referred to as "Pet Peeves". They really are like pets, because they are small, insignificant things that we tend to take in, nurture, and cling to. I would like to list some of my pet peeves here, in no particular order.
PEOPLE WHO INVENT WORDS. In my job, I am constantly recommending restaurants, hotels, Broadway musicals, etc. I read many reviews, and am constantly exposed to fake words. Examples? Well, how about "foodie" to describe someone who likes food? Or "luxe", when what they mean to say is "deluxe".
A note to the writers who use these words: Lets face facts, you imbecile. The English language is large enough and complex enough to express any thought your anencephalic cranium may be capable of generating. There is absolutely no need - none whatsoever - for you to invent new words. Doing so is at best lazy, and at worst, evidence of imbecility.
GRAFFITI. Why is it that only mouth-breathing, chromosome-lacking fuckwits engage in the act of bathroom graffiti? Every time I read graffiti in the can, its always inane statements such as "Fuck you", "James is a Fag" or - in the case of where I work - "Poop". Yes, seriously. Someone wrote the word "poop" on the wall in the bathroom.
Come on, you freaking trolls. If this is all you have to say, then leave the Sharpie at home, ok? Why is it that I never read any intelligent and witty graffiti? And no, "Here I sit, broken hearted, paid a dime and only farted" is not witty. Especially when its not a pay toilet. Fuck.
I guess that intelligent and witty people can come up with better mediums in which to share their thoughts and ideas. I suppose that, if the medium is the message, then in this case, I suppose that the words written on the wall of a shitter are indeed in their proper place.
PEOPLE WHO INVENT WORDS. In my job, I am constantly recommending restaurants, hotels, Broadway musicals, etc. I read many reviews, and am constantly exposed to fake words. Examples? Well, how about "foodie" to describe someone who likes food? Or "luxe", when what they mean to say is "deluxe".
A note to the writers who use these words: Lets face facts, you imbecile. The English language is large enough and complex enough to express any thought your anencephalic cranium may be capable of generating. There is absolutely no need - none whatsoever - for you to invent new words. Doing so is at best lazy, and at worst, evidence of imbecility.
GRAFFITI. Why is it that only mouth-breathing, chromosome-lacking fuckwits engage in the act of bathroom graffiti? Every time I read graffiti in the can, its always inane statements such as "Fuck you", "James is a Fag" or - in the case of where I work - "Poop". Yes, seriously. Someone wrote the word "poop" on the wall in the bathroom.
Come on, you freaking trolls. If this is all you have to say, then leave the Sharpie at home, ok? Why is it that I never read any intelligent and witty graffiti? And no, "Here I sit, broken hearted, paid a dime and only farted" is not witty. Especially when its not a pay toilet. Fuck.
I guess that intelligent and witty people can come up with better mediums in which to share their thoughts and ideas. I suppose that, if the medium is the message, then in this case, I suppose that the words written on the wall of a shitter are indeed in their proper place.
Sunday, October 02, 2005
The Crystal Report
So, Crystal and Ayla are getting along well. It took Crystal all of about 6 hours to decide that Ayla wasn't going to eat her. So she's stopped hissing at the dog, and she stopped hissing at me, but she's still biting. She's bitten me three times, pretty hard. As long as I can keep her away from the knife drawer, I think I'll be safe.
Today, I actually caught the dog and cat fighting. Well, by fighting, I mean that Ayla sat there while Crystal abused her. She's such a good dog. I was watching TV, with Ayla sitting on the couch next to me and Crystal on the back of the couch. She saw Ayla's ear twitch, and leapt about 8 inches through the air, pawed Ayla's ear for half a second, then fell into my lap. Ayla retaliated by licking her. I think that Crystal would actually prefer to be bitten - loving her is a much better form of retaliation.
As I promised, here are some pictures of Crystal. You tell me if she looks evil or not.
Better Late than a Jackass
A long time ago, in a blog, far, far away, Laura (of Daxohol fame - check the links section, I'm too lazy to hyperlink here) asked me some questions. I was supposed to answer them. I did not. I am answering these questions now.
Q. We all know you’re a jackass, what is your proudest moment of jackassedry?
A. Well, I'm not too sure about the jackass thing. Asshole I can accept, but jackass (considering that the dictionary defines a jackass as "A foolish or stupid person; a blockhead")? I admit to being an asshole, but I am niether stupid nor foolish.
Now, for my proudest moment of "assholery", I'd have to say the honking incident. I was stopped at a red light, in the left turn lane, waiting for the light to change. The moment that the light changed, I shifted into first. This process took about 1 second. The car behind me honked their horn.
I got out of my car, and walked over to the man behind me. The light was still green. I walked up to him, and leaned against his car. Here is our conversation:
ME: What?
HIM: (Slightly nervous) What?
ME: What do you want?
HIM: (Getting annoyed) Move your fucking car!
ME: You honked at me to tell me to move my car?
HIM: The light's red now you asshole.
ME: Hmmmm. I guess if you hadn't honked at me, we would be gone by now.
I then returned to his car while he yelled obscenities. But he didn't honk again.
Q. We all know you’re somewhat of a diva, what is your biggest pet peeve?
A. Diva? Jeez, I guess I wasn't aware of the way people perceive me (Diva: Tempermental and conceited). Well, I do have a lot of peet peeves. My biggest one is deliberate stupidity. When people seem to cling to idiocy out of sheer stubborness. You can read more about that elsewhere in my blog.
Q. We all know you’re a fan of the animals, what is your favourite and why?
A. Dogs. Hands down. Dogs are the physical personification of love. If you have a dog, you are loved, period. Ayla (my dog) is perhaps one of the single greatest dogs I have ever encountered. Even people who don't like dogs (whats up with that?) like Ayla.
Q. We all know you’re Simpsons fan. Who is your favourite character?
A. Well, first off, I'd have to say I love Family Guy more than the Simpsons. The Simpsons, as great as they were, have lost their edge, and now just recycle plot lines over and over. However, to address your question, Mr. Burns is my favourite. I've always been a big fan of unapologetic evil.
Q. We all know you’re an artist, who or what inspires you, if anything?
A. I don't really know what inspires me. All I know is, I can do nothing of worth unless an idea comes to me. I can't make them come to me, they just come when they come. However, when I have a good idea, I know it.
Q. We all know you’re a jackass, what is your proudest moment of jackassedry?
A. Well, I'm not too sure about the jackass thing. Asshole I can accept, but jackass (considering that the dictionary defines a jackass as "A foolish or stupid person; a blockhead")? I admit to being an asshole, but I am niether stupid nor foolish.
Now, for my proudest moment of "assholery", I'd have to say the honking incident. I was stopped at a red light, in the left turn lane, waiting for the light to change. The moment that the light changed, I shifted into first. This process took about 1 second. The car behind me honked their horn.
I got out of my car, and walked over to the man behind me. The light was still green. I walked up to him, and leaned against his car. Here is our conversation:
ME: What?
HIM: (Slightly nervous) What?
ME: What do you want?
HIM: (Getting annoyed) Move your fucking car!
ME: You honked at me to tell me to move my car?
HIM: The light's red now you asshole.
ME: Hmmmm. I guess if you hadn't honked at me, we would be gone by now.
I then returned to his car while he yelled obscenities. But he didn't honk again.
Q. We all know you’re somewhat of a diva, what is your biggest pet peeve?
A. Diva? Jeez, I guess I wasn't aware of the way people perceive me (Diva: Tempermental and conceited). Well, I do have a lot of peet peeves. My biggest one is deliberate stupidity. When people seem to cling to idiocy out of sheer stubborness. You can read more about that elsewhere in my blog.
Q. We all know you’re a fan of the animals, what is your favourite and why?
A. Dogs. Hands down. Dogs are the physical personification of love. If you have a dog, you are loved, period. Ayla (my dog) is perhaps one of the single greatest dogs I have ever encountered. Even people who don't like dogs (whats up with that?) like Ayla.
Q. We all know you’re Simpsons fan. Who is your favourite character?
A. Well, first off, I'd have to say I love Family Guy more than the Simpsons. The Simpsons, as great as they were, have lost their edge, and now just recycle plot lines over and over. However, to address your question, Mr. Burns is my favourite. I've always been a big fan of unapologetic evil.
Q. We all know you’re an artist, who or what inspires you, if anything?
A. I don't really know what inspires me. All I know is, I can do nothing of worth unless an idea comes to me. I can't make them come to me, they just come when they come. However, when I have a good idea, I know it.
Saturday, October 01, 2005
Just When You Think ...
Well, today taught me that I am still battling sleep apnea. I'm winning the war, and most of the battles, but every now and then apnea musters up its energies for a massive assault. And they almost always happen on Saturdays.
For about a year, I was always very tired and drained, and found it difficult to get the energy up to do anything. However, I would also get very bored, very easily, and would force myself to go out. Saturday was always the one day I would rest. Most of my friends would be busy, working, away at the cottage, etc., and there are no improv classes to go to on Saturdays. So Saturday was usually my stay home and rest day.
Well, my body got used to that, and I guess my body considered Saturday to be rest day. So even now, about 3 months after getting my CPAP (a machine which helps me breathe at night), on the odd occasion my body insists on shutting down on Saturdays.
Today is one such occasion. I woke up (after the alarm beeping for about 15 minutes) and realize there is just no way I can get out of bed. I want to get up, but the energy isn't there. Morpheus has me firmly in his embrace, and even after a night of fun, the selfish bastard still wants to cuddle.
So, I called in to work, and went back to sleep. Luckily, I think they understand the situation where I work, and I feel that they are supportive. I finally got up around 1:30 pm, feeling like I could use about another week's worth of sleep, but even when you are exhausted there is only so much sleeping you can do.
I went online to check email and my blog (I admit to being egotistical enough to want to see if anyone has commented) and discovered that one of my coworkers (who was nice enough to give me a great little kitty) had brought the cat to work that day expecting me to pick it up. Now, the last thing I felt like doing was going out, but I didn't want to inconvenience my coworker, so I headed off to work.
When I got there, I found out that she had just been kidding - the comments in my blog were joking. She felt bad, but I told her not to worry about it. I wasn't kidding either, I wasn't at all upset. I have played my fair share of pranks on people in the past, and I know what its like when one has unexpected side effects.
After we straightened things out, I went off to her house to pick up the kitten. I have the kitten now. Her name is Crystal ... yes, after the cat in my poems. You see, they have things in common. Crystal in the poem kills off her brothers and sisters one by one. Crystal (my kitten) is the only survivor of her litter. I am reasonably sure she was not directly responsible for this.
The thing that cemented the name in my mind though was the attitude. The first thing Crystal did when she saw me was hiss at me. The first thing she did when I picked her up was bite me. She's feisty.
So, now we're getting to know one another. My dog Ayla is going bat shit. She wants so desperately to run over and lick and play with the kitten. But she is also smart enough to know that she can't do that yet. I'm serious. She sits around staring at the kittten, her tail wagging, but she leaves her alone while she gets used to her new home.
When I first introduced Crystal and Ayla, Ayla was going nuts. I said "Ayla, be gentle", and she immediately calmed down. She sat patiently, and waited while I brought Crystal to her. And she mustered all of her self control, and only licked the kitten once. The first in what I am certain will be a long lifetime of head-to-toe lickings for that cat.
I will end up by posting a few pictures of Ayla with Powder (a cat that I used to have, but one I lost in a break up). Ayla loved that cat so much, I am excited to see how she and Crystal grow and play together.
I will, of cours, take some photos of Crystal and post them later.
For about a year, I was always very tired and drained, and found it difficult to get the energy up to do anything. However, I would also get very bored, very easily, and would force myself to go out. Saturday was always the one day I would rest. Most of my friends would be busy, working, away at the cottage, etc., and there are no improv classes to go to on Saturdays. So Saturday was usually my stay home and rest day.
Well, my body got used to that, and I guess my body considered Saturday to be rest day. So even now, about 3 months after getting my CPAP (a machine which helps me breathe at night), on the odd occasion my body insists on shutting down on Saturdays.
Today is one such occasion. I woke up (after the alarm beeping for about 15 minutes) and realize there is just no way I can get out of bed. I want to get up, but the energy isn't there. Morpheus has me firmly in his embrace, and even after a night of fun, the selfish bastard still wants to cuddle.
So, I called in to work, and went back to sleep. Luckily, I think they understand the situation where I work, and I feel that they are supportive. I finally got up around 1:30 pm, feeling like I could use about another week's worth of sleep, but even when you are exhausted there is only so much sleeping you can do.
I went online to check email and my blog (I admit to being egotistical enough to want to see if anyone has commented) and discovered that one of my coworkers (who was nice enough to give me a great little kitty) had brought the cat to work that day expecting me to pick it up. Now, the last thing I felt like doing was going out, but I didn't want to inconvenience my coworker, so I headed off to work.
When I got there, I found out that she had just been kidding - the comments in my blog were joking. She felt bad, but I told her not to worry about it. I wasn't kidding either, I wasn't at all upset. I have played my fair share of pranks on people in the past, and I know what its like when one has unexpected side effects.
After we straightened things out, I went off to her house to pick up the kitten. I have the kitten now. Her name is Crystal ... yes, after the cat in my poems. You see, they have things in common. Crystal in the poem kills off her brothers and sisters one by one. Crystal (my kitten) is the only survivor of her litter. I am reasonably sure she was not directly responsible for this.
The thing that cemented the name in my mind though was the attitude. The first thing Crystal did when she saw me was hiss at me. The first thing she did when I picked her up was bite me. She's feisty.
So, now we're getting to know one another. My dog Ayla is going bat shit. She wants so desperately to run over and lick and play with the kitten. But she is also smart enough to know that she can't do that yet. I'm serious. She sits around staring at the kittten, her tail wagging, but she leaves her alone while she gets used to her new home.
When I first introduced Crystal and Ayla, Ayla was going nuts. I said "Ayla, be gentle", and she immediately calmed down. She sat patiently, and waited while I brought Crystal to her. And she mustered all of her self control, and only licked the kitten once. The first in what I am certain will be a long lifetime of head-to-toe lickings for that cat.
I will end up by posting a few pictures of Ayla with Powder (a cat that I used to have, but one I lost in a break up). Ayla loved that cat so much, I am excited to see how she and Crystal grow and play together.
I will, of cours, take some photos of Crystal and post them later.
Friday, September 30, 2005
My Pledge
Like most of us, I am a work in progress. I try to identify areas in my life that need to be improved, but at the same time, I don't obsess about it. To help me remember, here are a few things that I want to work on:
1. Be happy. You wouldn't think I'd have to tell myself that - hell, that anyone would have to tell themselves that. I believe at my core I have a happy nature (as is evidenced when I get drunk), but I take things too seriously. I am too affected by the crap that life piles on my plate, and I get angry and upset too easily. So, I'm going to try to be happier, and learn to let things go.
2. Be nice. Yes, ok, I admit, I tend to be an asshole. Its not out of any desire to hurt or attack, it just seems to be my nature. For the most part, I don't mean to be, but my behaviour seems to give that impression.
3. Lose Weight. Ok, yes, once again, me and 58% of the world. I have done it in the past, I can do it again. I quit smoking, which was pretty hard. I can do this.
So, thats it for now. I'm sure there's a lot more about me than can use tweaking, but hey, that's enough to work on for now. What, you saying I should work on more? That pisses me off, it really does. Fuck you. No, fuck you! I'm going to go eat a pound of wings.
1. Be happy. You wouldn't think I'd have to tell myself that - hell, that anyone would have to tell themselves that. I believe at my core I have a happy nature (as is evidenced when I get drunk), but I take things too seriously. I am too affected by the crap that life piles on my plate, and I get angry and upset too easily. So, I'm going to try to be happier, and learn to let things go.
2. Be nice. Yes, ok, I admit, I tend to be an asshole. Its not out of any desire to hurt or attack, it just seems to be my nature. For the most part, I don't mean to be, but my behaviour seems to give that impression.
3. Lose Weight. Ok, yes, once again, me and 58% of the world. I have done it in the past, I can do it again. I quit smoking, which was pretty hard. I can do this.
So, thats it for now. I'm sure there's a lot more about me than can use tweaking, but hey, that's enough to work on for now. What, you saying I should work on more? That pisses me off, it really does. Fuck you. No, fuck you! I'm going to go eat a pound of wings.
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