halloween is based on the weather

She knows my rule. She knows all my rules. A while back we got into a fight and she complained that my rules were obnoxious and contradictory, so, I went through them and sure enough she was right. So I edited out the ones that were incredibly unfair, as well as the ones that were contradictory. And last night she hinted that she wanted to go steady with me and I gave her the book and she read it and I knew she read it because she never replied.

It wasn’t a nice weekend. It wasn’t kiss the pretty girl weekend. It wasn’t hang out with your best friend weekend. It wasn’t stand by your window watching the air grow stale kind of weekend. It wasn’t eat a taco in the park weekend. But I did have a goodnights rest. Yes, yes.

There are many benefits to Halloween I suppose, but we all know what they are. How North America gets away with what it does is amazing. Being an avid reader of the blogosphere gives me the twisted idea that the public actually supports it, but its obvious that they do it because they get paid to, or because they like the attention. If you cant be Batman may as well been the Joker, or as a matter of fact, yourself, because there is nothing scarier than that sorta thing.

So how about Halloween? Lets reminisce a tad. Back in the day, growing up here in Ottawa one had to pick his Halloween costume based on the weather. You had to figure out how to dress up, stay warm and at the same time still look like a Mutant Ninja Turtle instead of a Fat Albert. So one day I was Jake Blues of the blues brothers because I could put long Johns under my suit, one day I was a hobo because I could wear lots of clothes at one time, and then one Halloween was really warm so I dressed me up as a woman. It was that Halloween that I understood the skill it takes to walk in heels.

Wait, it wasn’t on Halloween. It was in April.

Amazing.

Some of you are not photo junkies, and thats cool, but that doesnt mean that you can’t have your pics on here. What I would like to do is have a little Halloween gallery so here’s how you can participate: email your Halloween pics to daneatkinson@hotmail.com and bam they will end up in my dealie. Hope you had a Halloween.

forgotten when i see your face

A wise man once said: if you have a good blog, you probably have a bad job. if you have a good web site, you probably have a dull life; if you have a good job you probably have a bad blog, and if you have a bad site you're normal.

Canadians across the country should be ashamed of what has occurred in Kashechewan. For two years its 1,900 residents have been under a non-stop boil-water ban and nothing has been done to better the situation. As a Canadian I feel utterly ashamed at both my lack of knowledge of, and concern for, such communities. According to Phil Fontaine, the leader of the Assembly of First Nations, there are currently some 100 First Nations communities that are in a boil-water situation, 40 of them in Ontario alone. It is completely unacceptable.

Can you imagine the uproar were Torontonians, Ottawaians, or Vancouverites faced with this sort of situation? I can assure you that the response to it wouldn’t take two years.

Lastly, shame on members of Parliament and pundits for turning this into a partisan issue. First Peoples routinely get the shaft no matter who’s in power, so stow the finger pointing unless it’s directed at ourselves.

To the following; I am not a Jesus freak. On detrimening humanity, religious traditionalists have always restrained the advancement of science. Yet we can credit monks with being the first chemists, the first geneticists, the first keepers of academia. Generally monks, those truly devoted to the spiritual life, had no inner conflict with wine making and gene testing and alchemy.

If a religious belief is strong then why be afraid of encroaching data that proves its falsity? Those who claim to be of unshakable faith and yet are terrified of technological or scientific advancement show the weakness of their religion and tremble on the fringe of doubt. The bible says that man was created in the image of God. But what we see are hundreds of thousands of versions of God created in the image of men (mostly men, these days, though somewhere in the past God could be feminine). A loving God, a mean God, a homophobic God, a racist God, a God who thinks those caught in the Tsunami were fated to hell, a God who thinks stem-cell research is evil because it destroys life yet condones the necessity of war.

No God-fearing Republican is fighting to limit research on nuclear weapons, the destructive powers of which shaky logic suggests are necessary for our country's self-preservation. The bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki purportedly saved lives by ending the war. The lives of developed full-term humans, with memories and families and sufferings and joys, are worth much less than a collection of blastocytes.

See, blastocytes cannot be hated because they have no memories. Blastocytes are not lesbians, blastocytes are not Muslims, blastocytes are not bleeding heart liberals or tree-hugging environmentalists. Blastocytes therefore are made in the image of women and men the same way God is made. The blastocytes being used for research are of course all white Republicans, and they must be protected and saved and inserted into white mommy placentas.

Religion is an art, an expression of our creative will bring forth awareness of the spiritual unknown. I do not hate religion. I cannot hate religion. Art is my religion, and when I can make it, I'm a believer.

But I do hate the arrogance of those pretending to know what God thinks--so often exactly as they themselves think--and I see these kind of people as being unfully formed and prone to the most destructive kind of hatred.

If the same people who think that war is necessary--that it will save more lives than it will destroy--think also that stem cell research is evil though it can be used to find cures of diseases and save the lives full-term humans (humans with memories, families, joys and sufferings) the ONLY way they are able to validate their argument is to fall back onto the hazy philosophies of religion. And because religion is an art, they can interpret it any way they wish, and use it to trick or treat the less powerful or less aware public.

(Oof, I predict a barrage of hate mail--why is it, anger motivates people to write more than love or appreciation?)

Tell me why the road keeps turning when everything you want is straight ahead and everything I thought worth learning is forgotten when I see your face.

the shadow without substance

One evening, at quarter-past nine, the usual hour for closing. Sharon was at work, she had spent several hours dealing with clients and she was making a elaborate station of her closing register. Suddenly she stood staring, and uttered two little quick gasps. She had just experienced something she had not so easily remembered in her waking life until now.

"What's the matter?" asked her co-worker closing shop along with her.

Brushing her hair, instantly the found voice attracted her gaze. She went towards her uncertainty, glancing back over her shoulder. "Did you hear that?" she uttered a little sobbering cry, as she clung to her sweater. Her mind went on a monotonous journey. Her gaze following it while her lips pouted sullenly. The snubbed, hurt feeling grew and grew, her heart beating violently. Terror, a lurking beast, had leapt out upon her from some ambush of the mind. Terror such as she had never felt before. When she told me, time seemed to have slowed down so that moments stretched themselves into minutes.

I will not tell anybody exactly what is in my small mind, I've developed cunning and began to fish for information. It is not easy, to be asked irrelevant questions. But on ghosts, witches, or various other manifestations of the supernatural, it is only fair to warn the unwary that this is unsatisfactory due to the lacking in that of completeness which, nowadays, is considered your time's worth. Such topics are strange to begin with but I do not consider it my buisness to fill up the spaces in between the lines for it is beyond my realm of understanding. The following is open to those who care to read.

I dreamed a dream. It was about this time, shortly after I began to have dreams, formless and incoherent to this waking memory. In them, or rather after them, I was conscious of loving something of feminine beauty and freshness of young girlhood, and of somebody loving me as I wanted to be loved.

I had met no girls who were grown-up or nearly grown-up. Perhaps, one might suggest, my busy little mind had materialized her out of some picture once seen and subsequently forgotten. Perhaps I had already created the ideal, of which, during my adolescence, I was to go vainly in search.

However that may be, I was conscious of a friendship, the incidents of which always just eluded my memory. I knew that sometimes I was drawn into a heaven of warm arms, and fresh girlish kisses covering my upturned face. Somehow, I could not remember her face--only just in glimpses which went out like sparks. And there was a fragrance about her, too--like a summer garden at night after a shower of rain.

It was all very puzzling to my small mind. I knew that I was not remembering somebody I had known when I was little, for these vague impressions had not started until I came to the Hillside. The experiences were recent and continuous; I knew that they would go on happening.

Having nobody in whom I felt that I could confide, I hugged these vague memories to myself. It was my secret, but, at the same time, a bit 'scary'. It made one go a bit chilly and caused one's eyes to water when one thought of it. For although I knew that I had nothing to fear, I was well aware that this friend did not belong to the same world as I.

I enjoy more than anybody else the venture of conventionality. I have my disappointments; at most, but to my unduly imaginative eyes I am in a world beautiful for its simplicity of architecture that is a palace with fairy stories. The Hillside is a place between two dilapitated buildings. In it remains the garden, the small ring park that grazed the estate, all as splendid as anything I had seen, even the seaside. It would be hard to say when I first began to associate this 'friend' within this place all the while. Something drew me there to play, and gradually I was not playing alone. This feeling was very nice at first, until I stopped playing and began to think about it. Then it seemed all wrong that there should be somebody there whom I couldn't see. At that I would take fright, like some little wild thing at the sound of a man's foot-step, and run panic-stricken through the thicket to the friendly cedar on the lawn, which was overlooked by the long row of windows at the back of the house. The cedar was always 'home' when I played one of her rare games like hide-and-seek. It was 'home', too, in this queer game--which was something more than a game--that I played by myself.

But this was not the only sort of experience with which I was provided. Sometimes I felt the presence of two people there--two people who were tremendously real except that I could not see not hear nor touch them. I was not more afraid on those occasions than on the other, although I always left more quickly. I knew, nobody wanted to hurt me. The sensation was the same that I experienced in the presence of grown-ups who wanted me to go so that they could talk in private. Being a sensitive little boy I was quick to detect when my father and mother wanted to talk privately and knew instinctively when they were going to tell me to run.

At five or six years old one learns things without realizing them. Instinct; they call it. It is there without much development of reasoning. Thus I discovered, without thinking it strange, that there was never any other presence there.

"Can you dream about what isn't really there?"

"Of course you can," said Sharon briefly.

I was sure she had not understood. "Sometimes," I explained, "I dream about you... but you're really there. Well, can you dream about anybody who isn't there at all?"

Of course you can," said Sharon. "Why, I dreamed of a big monkey the other night."

"But there are big monkeys."

"Nothing like the one I dreamed about," said Sharon definitely.

Sometimes I think, perhaps she isn't real, after all--only just a make believe, the lovely, pretty lady who brought love and warmth and colour and perfume into my dreams. But next morning I awake comforted, with more dim and rapidly-fading memories, and warm as if fresh from the embrace of her enfolding arms.

recital left me in a strange mood

I am sewing a pineapple costume for Halloween. A yellow balloon body, and a spiky green hat. In northeastern coastal towns or yore, when sailors returned from long voyages to exotic locales, before the inventions of the telegraph and telephone, they put pineapples on the doorsteps of their friends and relatives as gifts that signalled their safe arrival. These fruits, much smaller than what we are used to seeing today, became a symbol of prosperity. So much so, that trendy furniture of the time was carved with pineapple motifs.

Can you imagine, a drizzly October evening in a gloomy town interrupted by the burst of a tiny pineapple? It is split nine ways amongst all the family members. You get only one bite, but the tang and the sweetness is almost enough to quench your sensual needs for the rest of your gray childhood.

"That’s a lot of pressure," I said.

"Okay," said Sharon, "It doesn’t have to be perfect."

"It’s still a challenge."

"There are pumpkins all over town; it’ll be easy to find one."

"I don’t mean it’ll be a challenge to find one, I just mean it’ll be hard for me to actually get one."

She didn’t understand, so I explained: "I’ve been feeling depressed lately, and when I get depressed, I procrastinate like a motherfucker."

Sharon is subject to depression too from time to time, so she was sympathetic, and tried to be encouraging. "Don’t be down," she said.

"That never works," I laughed. "You can’t just tell someone not to be depressed, you know better than that."

"It was worth a shot."

I roamed through town in a half-hearted attempt at finding the perfect pumpkin to carve. On the way I passed by a Church. Outside the entrance, a sign read: Organ Recital 4 p.m. FREE.

"Free organ recital? Cool."

A loud pipe organ sometimes makes me want to strangle somebody, but if I’m in the right mood, there’s nothing better. It was nearly 4 o’clock when I saw the sign, so I decided to take a chance.
Two mild mannered Christians stood by the "suggested donation" box. I didn’t give any money, but they smiled and welcomed me just the same. My feet echoed as I walked down the aisle, and even though the church was empty, I still felt self-conscious about it. I lifted the latch on the worn wooden door of a pew near the front, and sat on a musty, maroon cushion. It was dead silent. I closed my eyes. The drone of the city was muffled and distant. Occasionally the rumble of a truck or a car horn snuck through, but the only thing I heard otherwise was the persistent high-pitched ringing in my ears. The longer I sat, the more it began to feel as though I had a seashell on each ear. I heard someone lift the latch on the door of a pew across the aisle. I opened my eyes to look.
It was an elderly woman in a grey trench coat, with grey hair to match. She was talking to herself. I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but she appeared angry. She decided not to sit down, and instead walked to the front of the church, muttered for a moment, then turned left and went into an area I couldn’t see, but looked off limits. A moment later, she emerged, still muttering, bobbing slightly, and turning side to side as if looking for something. God, I suppose. Eventually, she walked back down the aisle, and headed out the door. God is not here right now.

Suddenly, the organ pierced the silence. A fugue of musty air blew through the pipes and woke every ghost. It began in the upper register, chasing its own tail for a few minutes, before layering on a thick blanket of midrange, as if the organist had a dozen hands. When he finally dropped his foot on the low notes. I got a free massage.

It was a fairly long piece, and the silence afterwards made me think the recital was over. It wasn’t. The first piece made my head buzz so much, though, that I was afraid a second song might loosen my fillings, so I left. The recital left me in a strange mood. Removed is the only way to describe it.

I forgot to get a pumpkin.

making a fool out of fearlessness

The terrible thing about blogging, I've found, is the loss of revision. I seldom spit out something I can proudly give my real name to without lots of corrections and stewing and crossed out lines and tiny illegible scratches in the margins and wonderfully satisfying crumples of paper or data bases growing around me.

This place is a mess of false steps, and so awful to me, is the fact that once I've posted I cannot erase or go back and change because somebody has already read it and it's time to move on to the next post.

The immediacy of blogging fills me with apprehensive stuttering almost as badly as the act of speaking. "No, that's not what I meant, and that's not what I meant either. What I meant was this...fuck, no, that's not right either." When I can't think of the right word, I stop mid-sentence and clam shut. Or I get defensive and angry. The blanks where subject and verbs should be, where meaning should be, are more numerous than the articles and prepositions surrounding them, a mad, mad lib.

I wonder if at some level, learning has hampered my wit. When I have the luxury of time, being given a limited series of notes from the past few days, I've already carefully chosen and put together ingenius. Put on the spot, instead of hovering, I can proceed with confidence because the next measures in time are predetermined. I have practised for hours and months my plan of attack, and even my emotion and mood are pre-selected and manipulated to serve a performance. I have this trick into sounding improvised and natural, but it is anything but.
During the period of practice I find a solution or interpretation through experimentation, which means that I go through many pieces the wrong way before I find what I like. I don't think that I am creative in the same way that I've seen other people be creative--I've never been able to come up with something entirely new, only work with what is already in front of me. The way I produce and find myself is through making lots of mistakes and tripping over my feet. The only thing that makes me creative is my fearlessness of making a fool out of myself.

In private, with no one watching.

But the stimulus for keeping this up, here, (the only place I can improvise and still have some leeway with the amount of time between words before there is a noticeable stammer), is my effort to redeem myself of the foolishness of the other day's post. Sometimes I dread it, I think, "Oh god, do I have to try and look stupid again?" More often I think, "I know I can do better, because that sucked, and if it sucked, that means I know how to be better." After all, it's really not a huge sacrifice. Though it should be. To be good. And also, when you don't have time to think about it, it's more like life than art, which is the point, but it's an often ugly one. I can't revise events, not even in my mind if I write them down accurately which ends up serving memory too correctly for the soft filter.

Writing is revising.

So what is this, exactly?

i can make the world explode with my mind

The weather has been grey and wet these last few days but for some reason I’ve really liked it. I was walking through the office building when I dropped into a book sale to get a book. As usual I didn’t have anything in mind but in the end I got a nice copy of Canada and the Two World Wars at a bargain price. The reason why I had ultimately bought the book was that of resilience in understanding why we as Canadians fail so miserably to understand why we had fought in the mud and blood and died for a cause we so seemed to have forgotten. I hope to have a better understanding and greater appreciation for Remembrance Day in the end.

I once got cornered by a drunk Asian guy—at least I think he was drunk. He sat down next to me, held out his hand and told me his name. I didn’t catch it.

"What do you do?" he asked.

My all time biggest pet peeve question a person can ask, and he wasted no time getting to it.

"Nothing," I replied.

"Nothing? That’s good," he said, then went on to tell me about how he developed an internet blabbidy blah web based thing-a-ma-bob, with his college roommate.

I might’ve been impressed if I knew what the hell he was talking about.

"I ain’t never been much fer book lernin’" I said. "I just blog."

Night time. Sometimes I don’t know what to say. Day time. It takes approximately one hour for me to get up and get to work. Sometimes when I get there I go bananas with the dangerously easy-to-use coffee/espresso/cappuccino machine and drink two coffees and six espressos. Why? Because it was there. My legs bounce like jack hammers under the desk as I work and sort of sweat and sort of just radiate because I’m a coffee achiever! YOWZA! I CAN MAKE THE WORLD EXPLODE WITH MY MIND!!! I work close enough to Sharon’s workplace that I'm able to eat lunch with her practically everyday. It's a much-needed break from the harsh deadlines and assistant interfering that ensues throughout the rest of my day. I wouldn’t know what I’d do without the moments time.

Notes to self: like a rat in the wall knawing on cardboard for its nest.

A little over a year from today I had started writing about a man who lives in two spaces of thought, neither of which is known to be true. Each is an escape from the other. Once is increasingly mundane, and one is increasingly violent. A little Jekyll and Hyde like, but it is not his personality that changes, it is his environment. All of it sort of happens in front of the laundry, so say.

Stuck from the onset with questions of which point-of-view I should use, and stalled for hours on the very first sentence, I spat out four different beginnings with three different men. I knew that I needed an end before I had the right beginning. That's how I always write short stories: knowing the ending, it's a matter of getting to it fast and decisively. But I have a feeling it's different with novels, where speed isn't essential and often detrimental. I've never had the patience for description and detail, same goes with developing my age old idea of creating a comic book. I mean look at the thought of it, day after day, night after night of carpal tunnel madness. I think of mood setting as being in the order of the words, not in the insertion of adjectives. Just a whole lot of pain. Do I write like I read? Well, when I read, I impatiently skip over anything that threatens to pull into "...and beyond the central square, above the rows upon rows of right-angled structures occasionally punctuated by a lone steeple, one with the knowledge of its existence could imagine that he could make out the outline of the mountain, but even with this knowledge, the purple line of haze could be attributed to a thin cloud. A visitor without the knowledge of the mountain could not imagine it, and would not even be able to instinctively feel its presence..." I read that, and it just sounds like "blah, blah" in my head. I disliked writing it as much as I dislike reading it. Maybe the blah blah was the whole point. If I ever make a novel, it will be two pages long because I don't know how to read or write.

I have now scanned the first page of mostly every book in my collection, which is a stupid thing to do. Sharon says I need an outline. I wince. I just need a beginning, that's all. We are both right.

I’m excited enough by my birth to plan a future. I am sorry, but I am becoming less and less aware of the audience. This I say, but like all my passions, and directives, and codes to live by, it will be im-profoundly short-lived.

the rain is the calm before the storm

The long-awaited trial of Saddam Hussein begins nearly two years after his capture. In Baghdad with the ousted Iraqi leader defiantly questioning the validity of the court before pleading not guilty. He refused to confirm his identity telling the presiding judge: "Who are you? What is all this?"All eight defendants pleaded not guilty to charges of ordering the killing of 148 Shia men in 1982. If convicted, they could face the death penalty. Full Story...

Yup, it’s quite a farce. The trial of Saddam Hussein started today, lasting a little over three hours. It produced little of note and was adjourned until the 28th of November. Let me begin by saying that I believe that Saddam Hussein should be tried for his crimes, but by the ICC. I firmly believe that, despite assurances made by the current Iraqi government that the judiciary is both impartial and capable, the proceedings can too easily be manipulated by those currently occupying the country. Saddam Hussein is in US custody, that in itself should speak volumes.

There is little doubt that the United States is concerned about Hussein openly talking about the relationship between the Reagan administration and his government, something that would surely receive attention were an impartial court to hear the case against him. Therefore, the validity of the proceedings must immediately come into question. Given that he’s been in US custody for two years one can only speculate as to what has been discussed and/or arranged. Beyond that, the propaganda that his trial provides the Bush Administration with regards to domestic support for the war, especially amongst a crumbling conservative base, is crucial.

So much will be left out of public eye. So much will be left unaccounted for. And while vengeance and punishment will be served, nothing close to resembling justice will be grazed upon.

The rain is the calm before the storm. It is relative calm, which is to say, I'm about to jump out of my skin and have a break down in about 30 minutes. Tomorrow the same shit is going to hit the fan.

I feel like I'm in a war with myself and the randomness of existence. These tired metaphors of what people use when they cannot think of anything original to say. That’s me.What I'm feeling I cannot express here and I would never think of describing the smallest detail in this space, of trying to explain or justify the validity of my unbalanced state of mind or the fucked up situation I’m in.

I'm just trying to stave off reality for a little longer by writing this, as I’m prone to do. I started to write a blog post about freedom, faith and self-realization, you know, just get out some of the philosophical crap that's running around my head as I sit at home alone. It was going to be very short and... bam bam bam, take that bitches... but then it started to get way too long and academic because I had too much to say and too much to qualify, so I deleted it.

There are those people who like to say, 'look who I know!' and then say a bunch of names of famous theorists, philosophers, historians, etc and explain them all to you so you know that they know what is. It's a game that academics like to play. It distinguishes the learned from the unlearned. It posits the speaker as a respectable and superior person and they know it. On the other hand, there is nothing wrong with talking at length about interesting, important and intellectually challenging and stimulating ideas. Even though a lot of it is just coffee house philosophizing, discussing intellectual matters with an intellectual is better than sex. Learning IS it's own reward. This post is boring compared to what I just deleted, but I'd feel like I straight up wasted my time if I didn't post something. So.... bam bam bam... take that bitches.

...or something like that.

convenience factor the newest addiction

Well, no one seemed to give a hoot that I went and saw debatably one of the best concerts of my life. I’m sure most people would rather be concerned with being frightened by the spooky or curious! Although my current mental capacity is barely capable of bloggercizing, I will do my certain best to put interesting say for you to see in order for reaction.

I’ve sent in my photos of Matt Good to none other than, Matt Good, and by comparison to some other fan based photography that I’ve seen (especially from the capital music hall show), mine appear to be mellow, other than that, all but trash (I blame zaphods lighting). Everybody please feel free to comment on the photographs on the Chairman of Rock, maybe even trysome of his music. To this day I have no idea as to what his cryptic comments refer.


left, right, left...1, 2, 3... 1, 2, 3...

The other day, while walking downtown I counted the number of people that I saw walking. Keep in mind, I only live a seven minute walk from the office to nearest bus station, and it was a Friday. I counted 37 people. Does anyone want to take a guess as to how many of those people I saw either talking on or playing with a cellphone? 5? Higher. 10? Higher. 20? Higher. I saw 24 people doing just that very thing. For those of you keeping track, that's just under two-thirds of all the people I saw.

Earlier on in the week, I was in the city library studying in a "white noise room" or a room where you are allowed to talk and interact with people (just as I am now, actually), and I timed how long it was between cellphones ringing somewhere in a room that might have contained 15 people. The longest gap between cellphone rings was only 12 minutes. The average over a two-hour period? Roughly 3 minutes. 120 minutes, 40 cellphone rings. That's not even counting the people who were making outgoing calls.

I guess my point is that cellphones have turned into the newest addiction, the newest cigarette. I'm not going to sit here and say that the radiation from a cellphone causes brain cancer (although it hasn't been proven wrong) because that's just hearsay at this point, but I am going to say that many people do not need to use their cellphones that often. Yes, I understand the convenience factor involved with owning a cellphone, but you can't honestly tell me that two-thirds of people on their way to and from need to use their cellphones while walking. That's bull-shit.

Many people might wonder, why does this bother me? Am I jealous because I can't afford a cellphone? No, I can't afford one, true, but I also don't want or need one. My problem with cellphones is that most people use them in the same fashion as they use a New Era Yankees cap, or a pair of Nike Shoes, they use them to tell other people how important and cool they are. "Look at me, I'm talking on a cellphone, aren't I a social butterfly? Don't you want to be my friend? Let’s trade our fucking numbers like trading cards with chewy bubble gum" It all goes back to the fact that we (as a society) are attention-starved, we need to quench our thirst for social acceptance because our society suffers from an irreparable self-esteem problem.
My advice is, turn the damn cellphone off and try getting to know yourself and learning to love yourself. I'll use a Fight Club proverb about now....You are not your cellphone! Let us start afresh. No more spooky photos or drivel to scare off the company. Let me ask, what are you doing for Halloween?

the famous copacabana room

I’m here at Zaphods last night in what some may call the famous Copacabana room to see Matt Good perform his free acoustic show. The place if full of many of whom I’m sure are all but familiar with the old line that if you can get a hundred monkeys in a room banging on typewriters after a while someone will write Shakespeare (ensuring human rights in this case). But when you get two hundred bloggers in a room banging on cameras and beer bottles you get a fucked up network where no one can think or be creative for that matter. Matt Good said he even got distracted. Damning actor/comedian Dave Chappelle for his smart aleck red balls take.

Between songs he voiced his opinion, one for example, that we were laid into over the concerned effectiveness of Live8 and as he openly criticized their altruistic intensions. Some like I, remember we just couldn’t keep our mouths shut after seeing madonna prance around in her $2000 dollar designer suit with equally expensive jewelry while roping her arm around the neck of a former victim of famine. "There won’t be snow in Africa this Christmas," she said, "...where the only water that flows is the tears of the children." The efforts struggled seem appreciative and supportive until a translator was told to communicate to her that she needed to clap and smile because the camera was on her and the whole world was watching her confusion and culture-shock.

I also read an article where several people attending Live8 concerts had no idea what it was about, one person quoted saying “Yeah, about, starving in, Afghanistan, right?” We’d like to think more people are aware of the issues, and hopefully people were motivated to make personal efforts to initiate change, but for the most part, I think people probably just enjoyed a good rock show, almost a lot like this one hosted by Matt Good along with Amnesty International.

As for my photos, they did not turn out as well as I had expected but I was all the more thankful to be present at the concert in the very least. It might as well be. After a few songs and jokes about playing next to BareFax (the strip bar next door), we bid a fond farewell to the irrepressible Matt Good, and that was the weekends happy ending.

After a quick wander through the streets with my girlfriend Sharon, squeezing past those with droopy eyes in skimpy outfits, people in the cold with tight fitting suits and oversized sunglasses, maybe a C-list celebrity, a suicide girl, and a guy who looked so out of place that he must’ve been famous, I was reminded that glamour is rarely glamourous up close—especially when you’re not drunk. I wished Sharon goodnight when she found the bus home and I ran into a ol’friend named Sam right there after whom says to me, “...you look a little mopey.”

After a moment I agree, “...I’m with you,” Sam and I looked at each other, nodded, and we all headed our seperate ways.

Please visit the following for information on the fight for human rights.
10,000 Voices- Amnesty International or Amnesty Canada

I have photos from the Zaphod concert available.
Matt Good Show - photo gallery

through the looking glass

Last night I had seen David Usher live. The last time I was in a concert I remember the feeling that I'd somehow leapt through a movie or TV screen and was inhabiting this environment that I'd only know through a film or TV. It was all eerily familiar because I recognised it from the films of Woody Allen, Scorsese, Spike Lee and numerous others. I would have myself set in front of the live audience and it was kind of like I'd stepped onto a film set and was living it for real.

David looked like he was in his early 30's, shaggy black hair, good looking but a bit rough. When he kneeled down from his performance ready for some rest and a little intimacy with his fan based audience he noticed there was no one there except for this guy resting his head above everyone elses, whom else but I. "I feel like we should get together and have a party..." he said.

"There's only one thing to do: House Party and unleash the wildest powered pajama bash since the invention of cool." I replied in a drawl.

"Yeah, you can be Kid, I'll be Play yet except all I need now is a whole lot of gel to stick up my hair yay high," David replied.

"I'm starting a hippy revolution," I replied in full earnestness.

"Ok...."

commensurate experience

"Personal problems are much more meaningless when you bring things into perspective" most would say. Take the natural disaster scenario for example, we are all but sitting ducks, watching as tragedies seem to bring people together, even those that dislike one another. One could only imagine what we could be accomplished if we were unwilling to wait for it to arrive. Than again, what would we human beings accomplish if we weren't human beings with faults to live and learn from those mistakes? Bit of a paradox.

It all seems baffling like my employment schedule. “You don’t have to work in the evening?” she asked. “Um, no. Not today. I need to work on a project followed by a few other things to try to get something going, but otherwise, No.”

I’ve been reading up on Tibet, and I have found there are many misunderstandings of the real things that happened there in the mind of most westerners, because what they can read in the newspapers, books and what they watch on TV programs about Tibet is full of political bias. As for my writing assignment upon the land of exile, I continue with the intent not to "correct" all those points of view. Then again, like most would tend to agree, I just don’t think anyone should jump to conclusions without actually going to see what it is with your own eyes, to feel it with your own heart, and then record it with your own camera and pen of deep impressions.

Entries have been few, let me explain. A few days ago it was thanksgiving holiday. I fell off a tree I had climbed while shooting in Gatineau park. My ribs had been crushed between rocks and sinew, since then I’ve been a slack off without feeling guilty about it, but what about today? Today, like so many days before it, I’ll pretend that this is my job. Downloading photos (parking) from my camera, uploading them to my server, and writing unrelated nonsense to go along with them. With my blog officially rounding towards two years old, I have to tell you, this does not pay commensurate with experience.

censorship at its best

I was sent an email today by a reader that’s in the travel industry which included a link to this story. An excerpt…

"Southwest Airlines rejected a Washington woman off a flight in Reno after passengers complained about a message on her T-shirt. The T-shirt had pictures of President Bush, Vice President Dick Cheney and Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice and a phrase similar to the popular film, Meet the Fockers. The women said the T-shirt was a gag for her Democrats parents to see when they picked her in Portland, Oregon. Southwest Airlines spokesperson said the passenger complaints did not follow the rules on passenger conduct filed with the FAA. This includes conduct which is offensive, abusive, disorderly or violent or for clothing that is "lewd, obscene, or patently offensive." A lawyer for the American Civil Liberties Union in Nevada said Heasley’s T-shirt is "protected" political speech under the Constitution, reported the Reno Gazette-Journal. Additionally, an FAA spokesman said no federal rules exist on the subject."

Change that ‘O’ into a ‘U’. Censorship at its best. Some would say so much for her 1rst Amendment rights. They might as well burn the Constitution, except for the much protected 2nd Amendment. You can own a semi-automatic rifle or handgun but you can’t where a T-shirt on a commercial airliner, my god, that country has gone to hell in a hand basket.

The absolute horror of it is that it’s unpremeditated — yech! Ok, how about spontaneous — there’s no over-riding rule to suppress. Just "average folk" from creating disaster. Southwest Airlines has a "refusal to transport" clause that allowed them to do what they did. Look it up. Do some homework. If you buy a ticket on an airline you agree to all their conditions as a result. Most common of these conditions are obvious for safety reasons. Also speaking of offensive and obscene.

Simple.

Not fascism, not 1984, not horror. I see it as she may have very well been asked to put something on over the shirt or given that chance to turn it inside out. We won’t know because now that a lawsuit has been announced Southwest will not comment as most wouldn’t. Now most of you won’t like that but that’s the way it is.

Just like this blog. There are conditions you’ll have agreed to in order to post comment (if you ever decide upon making such a fierce leap). If you violate those conditions you will be prevented from posting. Most of the time it’s bot related, but I’ve taken care of them. No worries. Just silence from here to Calcutta. Am I hindering freedom of speech? No. Am I a fascist? Not at all. Am I 1984ish? Close, but no cigar. 1985ish.

We all have the right to put that condition upon ourselves to remain orderly and everybody who reads and comments knows they don’t have to put up with offensive or obscene or racist content. What if she had been wearing a t-shirt that expressed racist, sexist, or homophobic views? Of course! Get her off that plane! But technically, sporting a shirt with the slogan "Adopt a Nigger" or "I used to be a sexist but the bitches didn’t like it" is also exercising your right to free speech. Just because you’re free to say it doesn’t mean it has to be tolerated.
Personally I think there are better ways to voice your political criticisms than by wearing tasteless t-shirts... that, or just anything at all tasteless in regard.

The Big Survey.

You know how on every blog you may visit, everyone somehow has the audacity to conduct these online surveys to find out whether their some kind of insipid genius. It’s terribly riducoulous. Here are the results of a recent poll taken here in Ottawa.

Dane is a:
Genius 1%
Retard 99%

Dane should get a job at:
The United Nations 7%
Burger King 93%

Dane should have been a:
Dictator 97%
Exotic Male Dancer 3%

Dane should write more:
Happy journals 2%
Talk about monkeys 98%

Dane should learn to:
Throw his voice and use puppets instead 100%
Love his fellow human beings and end world hunger 0%

If Dane were an animal he would be:
A Monkey 1%
Extinct 99%

Note: Some of these results were tampered with. Specifically numbers 4 and 5. Until next time, I wish everyone a happy thanksgiving weekend.

scapegoats for pleasure

"You want our Jazz Fest, you want our Mardi Gras, you want our cooking and our music. Then when you saw us in real trouble, when you saw a tiny minority preying on the weak among us, you called us `Sin City,' and turned your backs." - Novelist Anne Rice, who was born and raised in New Orleans.

We all hear voices, but really. George Bush had claimed to have heard God instructing him to invade Iraq in 2003. Is it fact or is there an international conspiracy involving the BBC, Nabil Shaath, and Mahmoud Abbas to make George Bush look dumber than he already looks? One has to ask oneself – is that possible?

In the dead of the night, I’m altogether incoherent and disrespectful. I guess that makes me autonomous. "Advertisements??....there??....seriously?? No... that doesn't interest me, and no, I won't pay whenever I want anonymous....something......meh.....uuh... Maybe if you actually read my blog you'd know that....I don’t know......rimjob.....Who is this!?.... Sharon!? Oh man, I'm sorry! Honey....sorry....please, wait. (click)."

I've just always been stubbornly independent-minded -- even when it wasn't necessarily in my best interest. I hated school. I dropped out and went out on my own path, now I’m working two, what I consider, low-end (paying) jobs (in retail and in government office administration). My desires for this life are relatively simple. Ok that's bullshit, the little things are complex, like what I want in a significant other or what I want for lunch. Regardless. All I want overall is that when I tell the story of my life, that I should never have to supplement my tale at any part with "And then I found 5 dollars."

I'm working on it.

It's amazing how we go through life without a coherent thought to cling to. All our energy goes to this goal-strapped future. No one ever thinks about the present. We constantly strive for that future until death awaits us outside on the porch, then we wish only for our younger past. The future should be an important part of our thoughts, but the present urgency needs help.

Take New Orleans. Important people who have the ability to help those in need are only concerned with rebuilding the future. They're only concerned with making New Orleans into the new corporate paradise. The people of the present, the people of New Orleans suffer for this.

It's funny how the first thing to be put into place was the oil rigs and shipping yards. It just goes to show you what's more important.I don't blame the system, or the fat white businessman, or even George W. Bush, I blame the human's need for greed, the human's need to get it's own with no concern for anyone or anything else unless a dead president adorns it's green face.

adventure land

If I was a surgeon I would tell patients this before surgery: 'Whatever you do, don't go into the light...'

My eye glasses have met their demise, so now I'm half blind until my finances pick up. As I shrug my shoulders I find there’s only so much of your life you can take. I need one of those so called holidays, you know? So, then I hear thanksgivings day is coming and I say, "Sometimes there just aren’t enough hours in the day."

I used to hear my mother say that and think to myself, "What the heck is she talking about? There are exactly the right amount of hours. In fact, sometimes there are too many, like when I’m stuck inside on a rainy Saturday afternoon…"

But things are different these days—or rather, I’m different, these days—and I find that phrase ringing through my head more and more. Like right now, for instance, as I rush to write this down.

"Are you ready?" it would poke my head and ask.

"One second…" I'd reply.

Symbolically I feel like I'm going to hell because something tells me that the Dept is the hardest and busiest place in the whole network and there's no way will I survive it and no way would I ever have time to think let alone blog and frankly, my head says I can't hack it. So what did I do? I blogged and went off to another meeting for another unlikely business venture with a dreams that are bigger than I am. I'll show you, cracker!

Of all things, I used to like Adventure Land the best. I used to like the Indiana Jones ride. It was the best because waiting in line is almost better than the ride itself. Funny how that works. I waited in line to get on that ride for almost two hours once. The ride itself isn't even a minute long. It was kind of like a date. I didn't have enough money to get one of those cool muskets though. To be honest, they seemed a whole lot cooler when I was 9. If I tried it again, now it would just seem like a waste of money. Funny how that works. Someone should tell the NRA that they've grown up. Maybe their muskets won't seem so cool anymore.

Even though Disney Land is the happiest place on earth they're a lot of lost kids wandering around. When I go out most of the time I get lost for about an hour. I 'm never very happy. When I was younger, my mother dropped an entire tray of spaghetti dinners in a restaurant and just ran off looking for me. It scarred her for life. Come to think of it, Disney Land is kind of like a miniature version of the world that you have to pay to get into. You have to pay during your time there too. Unlike the real world, you don't have to pay to leave. Funny how that works. You just keep paying and coming back for more. If God does work in mysterious ways he must work at Disney Land I figure. There are a lot of lost kids wandering around with muskets. I wonder if he knows? I must confess that I once went to Wonderland for a couple days. It's the Canadian knock-off of Disneyland. It rained most of the time. All the lost kids got wet and their muskets wouldn't fire.

I was just dreaming there for a minute.

I also heard that they changed Snow White's dress. There are people at Disney Land that dress up like famous characters and walk around hugging the lost kids. Sometimes their muskets go off by accident. One guy even grabbed Snow White's breasts, so they changed her costume so her tits wouldn't stick out as much. I heard that she married the guy that grabbed her. They live in Fantasy Land now, next to Mr. Toad's Wild Ride. I guess now she grabs him back. Maybe they'll have some lost kids. Maybe they'll find them. Hey, there Rabbit. He says hi.

somtimes i just want to throw up

I spent sometime with Sharon yesterday, I admit it: I’m a moody bastard... in bed. But you knew that already, didn’t you? I also have a sleeping problem. The problem is I dont really sleep. Thats not a problem if you always have projects to do and my latest current project involving the plight in Tibet. I also have a worthiness problem. Besides that, I’ve been struggling with the same depression, frustration, longing and confusion that plagues the entire modern world, but rather than whine about it here, I chose to try something different and sulk in the corner by myself for a little while. I’m feeling much better now, thanks, so let’s move on, shall we?

Not to knock the newest Governor General, although personally I feel having dinner with terrorists and toasting them is kind of, oh, say...a faux pas, but seriously...who writes her speeches? Now don't get yer' knickers in a knot, I'm not going to go slamming down on Ms. Jean. I rather like to think of her as Canada's own (and famous; all due to her media creme de-tele) Halle Barry look-alike. My issue today goes deeper than that. Two things really struck me about her speech the other day, I may be late on this one but listen. One was the fact that she refused to swear on a bible, 'cause, God knows that would be...unliberal. The second is an extension of the first, although in a slightly different way. From her speech:

There is an observation by Montesquieu, a philosopher of the Enlightenment, that has a particular resonance for me and I would like to share it with you. It states that “The duty of the citizen becomes a crime if it makes him forget the duty of the man.” To this, I would of course add “the duty of the woman,” because we want recognition as full-fledged citizens in our own right.

Was it really necessary to include that? This smacks of changing the part of the anthem where it says "In all thy Son's command" (frankly, I'm surprised they left any reference to God in there). Now, I agree with her in every aspect of what she said, and I'd call anyone who disagrees with her an idiot. But that statement just reeks of unnecessary politcal correctness. I'd like to think we live in an age where it's really not necessary to argue about women's rights anymore. A famous female playwright once said that arguing about the rights of women is like arguing about the rights of hurricanes. It's something that just really doesn't need to be done - anymore at least. I'd like to think so. I'm pretty sure we've come a long way in Canada from the last century. There are no more policymakers wondering how to stop women from getting the vote or trying to keep them in the kitchen and pregnant. I'd venture to say that our society favours women moreso than men in a lot of areas - take custody of children in divorce cases, for example (if you're female, you likely will!).

Women exclusive groups are seen as progressive.Take it for what it is. Obviously it goes without saying there are areas where equality between the sexes could improve - but man, I learned fifteen years ago when I was watching Care Bears that boys and girls can do a lot of things just as good as each other. All I'm saying is keep in mind it goes both ways - and that Political Correctness is just so much bullshit. Anyhow, good luck to Ms. Jean. Hey, at least she's giving up her French citizenship. Let's just hope she spends less than the Last GG. Ninteen Million Dollars is a lot more money than I've got.

Dahr Jamail's Iraq Dispatches is a website developed by a individual whom spent eight months working as an independent journalist in Iraq. He was one of the few journalists not “embedded” with U.S. forces, his reports earned a reputation for being an uncompromising look at life under occupation. I would recommend visiting his website, that is, if you're only as desensitized to violence as I am. It is rather graphic in nature.

As for in other news, I came across something this morning that I thought would interest some of you that are curious as to how lucrative war can be for those that produce hardware.

The US General Accounting Office, as quoted by Manufacturing & Technology News (See: U.S. Ammo Industry Can’t Keep Up, Sept. 1, 05), has calculated that since the invasion of Iraq in 2003, US forces have discharged more than 1.8 billion rounds of 5.56 mm ammunition. If US estimates regarding the size of the insurgency are accurate, approx. 20,000, that figure would equal 90,000 rounds per insurgent.

As Craig Murray, Britain’s former Ambassador to Uzbekistan, pointed out…

“This gives us an idea about the ineffectiveness of the American troops and the magnitude of their mistakes.”

One would naturally wonder, where are all of those bullets going? I remember sitting in my history class in highschool and hearing the teacher explain why war was good for the economy. Examples were given of Germany, when it had turned its dying economy around and started to slowly take over europe in the mid-late 1930s. Also, once the second world war had started, the economic slump of america wisked away as jobs where needed everywhere in the face of this global crisis.

Today guns fire faster, heavier, and factory workers have been replaced by robots. Jobs are contracted out, and out and out, and in the end, only a select few make any money. Also, the US debt is growing, making financial corporations smile along side military contractors.

Maybe war was good for the economy in the 1930s, but not today. Today its good for the people who have the least to lose.

I’m just thinking though, is if this continues, and greed surpases the wellness of the american and world economy (as it seems to have), could we wake up some day and find ourselves in one of the worst financial crises ever? Also, anyone seen Lord of War, seems like that movie is all about this topic. Any reviews?

the best place to be isn't here with me

Someone had forwarded me a link to an article about the recently published Economist Intelligence Unit’s ‘best place to live survey’. The results? Need you even guess?

1) Vancouver
2) Melbourne
3) Vienna
4) Geneva
5) Perth
6) Adelaide
7) Sydney
8) Zurich
9) Toronto
10) Calgary

So much for Toronto’s ‘center of the universe’ complex. Maybe that's why I failed geography. As for Vancouver, I approve the fact that it has a great climate. Weather is arbitrary. Best place to live? I'm still thinking about that one. It seems to me to be more of a subjective than objective exercise. You could choose any city in Canada, and devise a set of criteria that assure it of being the most desirable or best place to live. I've lived here in Ottawa all my life, only having been able to dibble dabble from the east to the west. Whenever I'm asked about how Vancouver was, I would respond by saying it is a city of extremes. Extreme stretches of inclement weather, extreme stretches of stellar weather, extreme natural beauty, extreme organized crime, extreme traffic jams, extreme politics, extreme activism, extreme sports, extreme wealth, extreme poverty etc., with very little middle ground. But that’s just my little take on things.

Another thing, Vancouver was also chosen for the Dalai Lama Centre for Peace and Education by, obviously, the Dalai Lama. That’s pretty neat. Back to work it is. Cheerio.

roof of the world

"China’s leaders claim to be modernizers and that they are leading the country towards greater freedom and democracy. Yet they still remain afraid of their own citizens and the healthy diversity of news and views which defines a modern society. " - Brad Adams, Asia Director of Human Rights Watch

A land in exile, cut cold and rugged dry, miles away from what we here in our Neo-Colonized world call home. There is a place that rests on a plateau. Past the dense fog, maybe a vaulted door, you’ll find yourself in the highest of mountain ranges, where international sports enthusiasts attempt a David versus Goliath showdown with world renowned Mount Everest. Adhering to the unforgiving influx of diverse tourists threatening globalization, the inhabitants also fight to remain distinctive to their own way of life that has developed over centuries of isolation and independence.

This is Tibet, located in Central China with a population of an estimated 6 million indigenous people. It is a place where religion plays a central role in the life of the Tibetan people. Each family home has customarily formed at least one Buddhist practitioner to join the religious order, to help keep their loyalties constant with their cultural heritage and religion even after the People’s Republic of China (PRC) had forced them into autonomous in the 1950’s.

Since then, Human rights violations in the People's Republic of China (PRC) remain systematically widespread and now dangerously all too common. The Chinese government continues to suppress dissenting opinions and maintains political control over the legal system, resulting in an arbitrary and sometimes abusive judicial regime. The lack of accountability of the government and the Chinese Communist Party (CCP) means that abuses by officials often go unchecked. The most common types of abuses include arbitrary detention, torture and ill-treatment of prisoners including citizens, severe restrictions on freedom of expression and association and violations specific to women.

Through the slippery mystique, there is paradox that revolves this part of me. Sometimes there are these instances that have this affect on you, they make you think different, or just think. One thing, about fundamentalism, of any kind, and how it troubles me is that the world is too big and too intricate to 'confirm' to our ideas of what it should be like. In experience, finding that most fundamentalists as in for example, Chinese President, Hu Jintao aren't so much attached to their professed ideologies as they are to the way in which these ideologies try to make sense of the confusing. We, like him, invent myths and theories to explain away the chaos in our lives even though we're still going through a world that's older and more complicated than we'll ever understand. So many religious, political, scientific and social systems fail in that they try to impose a rigid structure onto what is an inherently ambiguous world. Not that I’m suggesting that we stop trying to understand things in any of these areas. Trying to understand the world can be fun and, at times, helpful, as some choose to express themselves, especially for the benefit of everyone. But if we base our belief systems on the humble assumption that the complexities of the world are ontologically beyond our understanding, then maybe our belief systems will make more sense and end up causing us less suffering.

We all have a place, like those native to Tibet, whom have something or someone precious in our lives to hold onto yet how amazed I am as to how we’ve grown into something that says there is nothing here of worth, worth protecting. There is nothing worth defending with that impossible life, just a dereliction of duty in a sense that we must not break out of harms way to upset our forward notion that we’re moving somewhere other than anywhere else that is actually upwardly mobile. We tell ourselves, there is nothing worth saving in a place where the people who live traditionally without currencies save the frivolous necessities and while we’re standing around looking at all of this for the first time, maybe even for some us the last, we may all as well eat the key to the safe that we have forgotten.

I hope to provide you with enough information that will, in the very least, send the message home that there is plight on Tibet. And as we are the virtual community are in the space for a movement dedicated to ending the suffering of the Tibetan people. We may do our part in returning the right of self-determination to the Tibetan people. As a Canadian, let’s expect our government to ensure that its continuing discussions with China result in concrete improvements in the lives of the many Chinese citizens who continue to suffer such egregious abuses.

If you wish to send a message in your own words to the Prime Minster.

by email: martin.p@parl.gc.ca]
by fax: (613) 941-6900
or by ordinary mail [no postage required]:

The Right Honourable Paul Martin
Prime Minister of Canada
80 Wellington Street
Ottawa, Ontario K1A 0A2


Acquired Resources:
Amnesty International - http://www.amnesty.ca
Tibet Online - http://www.tibetonline.com
Tibetan Government in Exile Official website - http://www.tibet.com/
Tibetan Centre for human rights and democracy – http://www.tchrd.org
Free Tibet Campaign - http://www.freetibet.org/index.html/

i'm a fuzzy bunny

This, like numerous things that I throw down and never look at again, was written while looking out of my window at whatever was consuming me at the time. You can only play video games, listen to music, and sleep for so long until you have to find something else to pass the time. Since reading can make me sick at times, I just stare out the window and write. Sometimes, when I look down, I like what I see. Other times all I find is ‘I’m a fuzzy bunny’ repeated two hundred times. Maybe I should try it in the daylight and see what happens...

Hello October. Call me rocktober. I was just invited to the last minute national symposium. It's supposed to be sort of an on-site support staff meeting - which will really amount to a gopher and minute-taker. Fine by me, can't refuse anything that pays at this point, dignity be damned. But I think it is really to put me smack dab in the middle of some stimulating conversation with some people who think they’re inspiring to make me think again about myself and my role within all that. I know why I am not in bed after such a whirlwind and rather sleepless month.

October, Where have you been all my life? Travelling, you say? Where did you go? Australia? How was it? I hear they call you May over there. October, all the good things happen in your month so why must you do these things to me everytime. No, instead lets not talk of love. No. Fine. These kids were making out on the swings this one night as the moon glowed and the clouds loitered and the hops of the crickets became slower and shorter. They were as passionate as they were angry. They’d swing for a little, laugh and then stop. They laughed some more, run, and fall over to roll. With their love for one another they didn’t care about the wood chips or the grass getting into their hair. Or poo. Yes, poo, October. Thats right. Which you said there was none of, thank you. There was only happiness, discovery and unfathomed joy like never before. Do you know what it was? What? Last time I heard it was you, October. The friend to the everyman. Celebrations and festivals. Cornucopias of smorgasborgias. The only time when its ok to nail an ear of half shucked dried up corn on your door. Hay in your yard or squash on your stoop or candy corn in your poop.

I’m a fuzzy bunny. I’m a fuzzy bunny. I’m a fuzzy bunny. I’m a fuzzy bunny. I’m a fuzzy bunny. I’m a fuzzy bunny. I’m a fuzzy bunny. I’m a fuzzy bunny. I’m a fuzzy bunny. I’m a fuzzy bunny. I’m a fuzzy bunny. I’m a fuzzy bunny.

One of the worst things about thinking is that, most of the time, you either record it so you can reflect on how much of an idiot you were at the time or you don’t bother and run the risk of losing it forever. Therefore, one must be prepared at all times to drag their ass out of bed and write something down haphazardly in the dark. This, along with many others, was conceived half asleep and intermingled with thoughts of enjoying ice cold milk.