House of the Rising Sun

I doubt the title of this post in any way reflects the content, but it's the song I was listening to when I wrote it.

Quit my job the other day. Still looking for a new one, but as my faux arrogance told someone "This is Alberta. A new job will find ME." Right now all I want to do is live in my little basement suite, watching Fight Club, selling homemade bombs online, and spewing out poorly constructed anti-establishment rhetoric. "Right now" actually means at this exact moment, since ten minutes ago I wanted to eat ice cream all day and ten minutes from now I'll be sleeping. Long weekends kick ass. I wonder if "Selling homemade bombs online" will pop up on Homeland Security's watchlist. If I'm arrested and sent to Guantanamo, I'll be sure to post all about it. Like what kind of mints they put on the pillows.

Much of my frustration these days comes from the way the "real" world seems so final. The reality and absurdity that goes on daily is simply accepted by those who have worked at it for even a small amount of time. When you're in school, it's pretty easy to be idealistic and defiant, thumbing your nose at those who say you should probably have a useful skill to ply. As soon as my time was winding down, I started looking for "professional" type jobs only to find that there isn't exactly a Political Science section. Accounting, Aeronomics Engineer, Biotech, these are the categories the world's jobs fit into. This lessened any chance that I'd be able to get a job with people like me, who knew the same things and had similar goals. So, I settled for a generic unremarkable job where I at least knew somebody. That worked for a few months, until things got worse at work and my accomplice not only quit but left town. You make one crack about the French...

I found myself working at this typical office with the same kinds of typical employees and typical office problems that I'd first been exposed to in a wide variety of secondary forms: satirical/humourous (Dilbert, Office Space, The Office) violent (Fight Club) and existential (The Matrix). Having prior exposure to the reaction against office lifestyle before the lifestyle itself made conformity difficult, as it was hard to take everyday workplace situations seriously. Seeing people complain about the fax machine and long boring meetings without a trace of irony took some getting used to. More than that, being exposed to the frustrations, apathy, and futility of the office world made me want to instill change rather than continue the bland status quo. That's why it seems so final, those who have lived in the cycle had to conform and attempt their best to excel in this silly little world despite, presumably, knowing from the start that it's pretty ridiculous. By the time my term at this bland generic job was over, there will not be a single thing I can point to and claim to have improved. I have to wonder if I hadn't already been told that office lifestyle is boring if I would ever have known.

When complaining about the many absurdities in my job, whether job-related or employee-related, to friends of mine who do not work in offices, their reponse is the same as the one I had when watching Office Space or reading Dilbert: "That boss is an idiot," "That policy is stupid, this is how it should be done," or "Your job sucks." Yet now I find that I understand why a boss said what he did, why the policy is the way it is, and that the job just "is what it is." What becomes depressing after a while isn't knowing that your job sucks, it's that you fear that all jobs actually suck and this whole little model we've built in our society is nothing more than an exercise in futility. Bosses will always be stupid, policies always obtrusive and archaic, and it will always suck to go to work instead of sleeping in. Yet somewhere, somehow, there are people out there who like their job and like going to work. Knowing this creates what I think is the central struggle for young professionals, which I base entirely on informal conversations at lunchtime: It it my job that feels so Sisyphusian (a word I just made up), or all jobs? If it's just my job, then my complaints are justified and I can do better, but if all jobs suck then my complaints are out of line and I'm the one with the problem. I have every intention of finding out how that's done and emulate these mythical creatures who don't wake up in the morning and feel like driving the car into a tree just for a good excuse to stay home. A whole new paradigm indeed.

PS:

I've read of a few studies on MSN that say things like 58% of Canadians like their job, 60% think there boss is super, stuff like that. I can't cite the specific articles (sorry school's over, I don't construct arguments with proper referencing anymore, but rather on VOLUME and arm gestures) but the impression is that the majority of Canadians actually like their job. Yet somehow there is a high volume of anti-job humor and satire relative to the apparently few disgruntled employees. The conclusion is clear: People who are unhappy or bored are funnier, more creative, and churn out more influential humor, satire and criticism than happy pleasant fools. It's also somewhat sort of kind of maybe just maybe possible that they're also more self-laudatory as a defense mechanism and simply choose to direct their creativity into their chosen frustration outlet rather than their job, meaning they don't get promoted and remain unhappy at work and continue the cycle. Great. Now I've really depressed myself.

"The Edmonton Oilers are Stanley Cup Champions for the 10th Year in a row!" "Hart Memorial Trophy: Jarret Stoll"

It's that time of year again, when the leaves change colour, the chill of winter enters the air, and filthy rotten maggots go back to school. Or at least that's what they tell me is happening, because this time of year sees the release of the newest edition of the NHL series from EA Sports and the outside world ceases to exist. With my ascension a few years ago (at least, I thought it was an ascension) into the world of PC gaming, which I was always told was better than console, I was looking forward to the new treats that would surely be offered by EA. Turns out, EA is not interested in treats. It's interested in producing games that suck for PC. Last year, EA made a big fuss over NHL '07 having a totally re-designed shooting system that would compliment its improved deking system, all of which would appear in brilliant detail thanks to the Hot Sexy New Graphics chip. Great! Except none of that was available on the PC version, only on the XBOX 360 and PS3. Weak. It was essentially the same game as the year before, with some roster updates and a new interface. Very weak indeed as my hard-earned money (well, earned anyway) went down the drain.

This year, not willing to shell out more cash for a product that was the same as one I'd put hundreds of hours into already (Oh, I still played it. Lots of it), I did some research to see if NHL '08 for PC was actually going to be any different. At www.easports.com, I read up on the NHL '08 PC forums to get an idea of what kind of game to expect, and the posts were enlightening. Turns out that once again, the game is the same as the year before with none of the thrilling new features that have made NHL '08 for XBOX 360/PS3 a very well-received game. So yeah, disappointment again.

The interesting thing about reading the posts, and the whole reason behind writing about it, was the emotion involved. People felt like they "just got slapped in the face" and blamed EA for being "consumed by corporate greed and continue to belch out crap after crap worth of game" and "would never buy an EA game ever again." Such a personal insult to their Nerdsmanship! Imagine, an company not providing a flawless simulation into which nerds can disappear and pretend they'd never chosen school over a sure-fire NHL career, which, in their minds, seems more and more likely as their years go by. These types of comments were everywhere, not just in the PC section. Complaints about all kinds of features that gamers didn't like. It's possible, just possible, that gamers can be a little subjective when it comes to evaluating the value of their Nerdplay. The new features that have been added to EA hockey games (presumably EA makes other sports games, and maybe even non-sports games as well, so this may be true of them as well. Still, those are all unconfirmed rumours, especially that they make a football game called Madden something. Football video games! Lewd, crude, sagacious, OUTRAGEOUS!) each year are sometimes a waste of time, such as Euro league teams the last bunch of years, and some times welcome, such as the impressive evolution of player instincts and AI on special teams. Obviously each player has their own preference, hence EA's increase in customization within the game (puck friction, penalty severity, game speed, etc.). My opinion was always that the games have gotten gradually better each year, with some cool new features added in each time yet perplexingly finding features that were welcomed in past year now missing. Some versions have suffered from just lack of common sense, like not telling the user when their injured players would return, or just awkward interface where the info you need all the time isn't immediately available. Really, until the last few years, the improvements were steady and reliable.

Back to the comments. The degree to which many posts were expressing anger and outrage over EA putting out a sub-standard weren't just surprising in that they were angry and disappointed, it was that they felt cheated out of something they felt they were entitled to, that something they were expecting was not gratified. It's rare to find that degree of customer response in regards to an entertainment product; it's similar to movie versions of beloved books or comics that take liberties with the plot and characters. Yet in most cases, if a customer doesn't get the product they want or expected, they simply go to another company and buy another version. It's reasonable to expect that Earl's obey all the Foodsafe laws, yet if you got sick after eating there you wouldn't rail away about what an injustice it was and how you were let down how the state of society is declining and nobody cares anymore and kids wear their pants too low and today's music sucks and is too loud and you want to get what pierced I don't think so you're not going out wearing that go to your room and change I swear that girl has a real attitude problem she gets it from your side of the family you know. No, you wouldn't say that. You'd bitch and complain about it, but ultimately you'd just avoid eating there and go elsewhere. There's a difference between This Product Sucks And I'm Disappointed and This Product Sucks, How DARE They! That's how the market works, the best products and services survive since if they don't appease customers, they're out of business. With entertainment, in this case EA Sports, the types of features that characterize a good or bad product are subject to the whims of an enormously varied customer base. That base runs the gamut of beginning players who can't find A and B to veteran players of the franchise that notice each addition and tweak from version to version. What makes the game "fun" is totally dependant on the player, hence the necessity to focus on variability within the game itself so that players can set it how they want it.

Back to the comments, again. I was bummed that the PC version wasn't going to contain any Hot Sexy New Features, but I didn't feel like EA owed it to me to do so. Probably most people felt the same way, that it's disappointing that EA chose to ignore it's PC customer base that, according to their own polls on their own website, occupies 45% of their total game sales. It's their loss, we just won't buy it. Once again though, we'll have to resort to other means to play out our sporting fantasies on PC...

The Official TRANSFORMERS Website

Hi, this site is all about TRANSFORMERS , REAL TRANSFORMERS. This site is awesome. My name is Chris and I can't stop thinking about TRANSFORMERS. These guys are cool; and by cool, I mean totally sweet.

Facts:

1. TRANSFORMERS are robots.
2. TRANSFORMERS transform into product placement ALL the time.
3. The purpose of TRANSFORMERS is to throw each other into buildings and taunt.


Weapons and gear:

Advertising

Toys

Puny Human helpers













Testimonial:

TRANSFORMERS can invade any planet they want! Even ones full of humans trying to pick up chicks! Transformers use Japanese fighting poses ALL the time and don't even think twice about it. These guys are so crazy and awesome that they search for the AllSpark ALL the time. I heard that there was this Transformer who was eating at a diner. And when some dude dropped a spoon the Transformer shot arcing lasers at the whole town. My friend Mike said that he saw a Transformer totally change scale at some some kid just because the kid opened a window.

And that's what I call REAL ULTIMATE POWER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

If you don't believe that TRANSFORMERS have REAL ULTIMATE POWER you better get a life right now or they will make sure to step on your mom's plants!!! It's an easy choice, if you ask me.

Transformers are sooooooooooo sweet that I want to crap my pants. I can't believe it sometimes, but I feel it inside my heart. These guys are totally awesome and that's a fact. Transformers are tall, metal, good at taunting and giving long-winded soliloquies, and sweet. I can't wait to start buying my first car next year. I love Transformers with all of my body (including my pee pee).

Q and A:

Q: Why is everyone so obsessed with Transformers?
A: Transformers are the ultimate paradox. On the one hand they're from Japan, but on the other hand they're GMC vehicles.

Q: I heard that Transformers are always running past the same background. What's their problem?
A: Whoever told you that is a total liar. Just like other robots, Transformers can be in space OR totally running around in a desert.

Q: What do Transformers do when they're not fighting civil wars or stealing Energon cubes?
A: Most of their free time is spent surfing the web to learn English but sometime they attempt to usurp leadership. Sometimes these attempts work, but mostly they anger Megatron. (Ask Starscream if you don't believe me.)

This is a picture of my best friend Hans showing off.













He's a lot older than me and almost done with with transforming his Jeep into spare parts, which is braggable.

The Contrabulous Databasenaval of Professor Horatio Hufnagel

(Open with high-angle shot of a thriving downtown.)

(Voiceover) "Hi, I'm Troy McLure. You may remember me from such corporate videos as Slaughterhouse 5 Million: The Miracle of McDonald's, and El Presidante's New Clothes: The Thriving Honduran Garment Industry. Today we're visiting the International Worldwide Global Headquarters of APRO Universal Databases and Shoe Repair."

(Camera pans quickly over to dilapidated house with a lady on the porch throwing cats at homeless people)

(Troy comes out of the house through the back yard screen door)

(Cut to mid-shot)

"Greetings friend, didn't see you there! All ready to learn about the magic of databases?"

"Mr. McLure, what's a database?"

(Troy looks confused, then looks down and sees a young boy with a high voice)

"Who said that? Oh, it's you, Jimmy."

"Billy."

"Sure. A database is made up of two things: Data, Latin for "cyborg" and Base, Latin for "low pitch." A database is kind of like a refrigerator. On the outside it looks like nothing special, just a mass of metal and ceramics taking up a huge amount of space and energy. But on the inside, you'll find a wondrous array of surprises and treats, though sometimes not where you left them and more often than not, improperly preserved."

"Mr. McLure, I have a friend who thinks that APRO databases are cheap and unreliable. Are they wrong?"

"Ha ha, of course they are Jimmy. Probably not a Self-Starter either. You see, Apro databases use an exciting new development in the database field, the Hierarchical Model that ensure timely and precise data extraction."

"Isn't APRO also the name of UFO research group that helped fake an alien abduction story in the 1970's? Do you think that has anything to do with their high fail rate and unreliability today?"

(Camera cuts to Technical Difficulties screen)

Was it the same cat?

It's a sad feeling when you discover something exciting but nobody else is as interested as you are. This morning, I went to Tim Horton's armed with only some change and an American $1 bill, hoping they would accept it. Not only did they accept it, but they used a 1.55 exchange rate, meaning that my $1.60 large mocha cost only $1.03. This morning the Canadian dollar, you may have heard, was worth over .96 cents. It's a loophole in the whole system! If only there was a retail store doing this as well, one could convert their money to US dollars, purchase products with their out-of-date exchange rate, then return them later and make profit out of nothing. That's a lot of work and I'm already bored of the idea, but finding a system glitch in the Matrix is always cause for nerdly blog entries.

Kirk out.

Bullish

Hot today. Hot yestaday. One-na deese days dat heat's goan leave, and all dem souls who's been-a bitchin and a-complainin' these past few weeks is goan be sorry.

Starting to get very acclimatized to the +30 weather the past while, which makes a move to the Okhanogan even more enticing. The nice things about Albertans is that despite their boastful attitute and supreme confidence in everlasting oil flow, they still know that when it comes to Stuff To Do Outside, B.C. reigns supreme. I know this, because Tyler knows this. Walking home in the evenings gives me the requisite fresh air for the day, and as such keeps my mood up, such as it is. This combination is good, and worth investigating further...

Truly, this is a post just for the sake of posting. I'm not ashamed, and perhaps this will lead to a Hot New Trend (TM).

Never did move into that cubicle, it was all a smoke and mirrors distraction. Instead, I've remained in my "bullpen," better titled the "Playpen." The job has changed though, from registrations to module registrations, as reflected in my Hot Sexy New Title: Senior Module Registrations Officer. Now, rather than make sure students have all their educational pre-requisites taken care of, I register, unregister, reregister, and throughregister students into our modules. I don't think I've ever been as bored in my entire life as I am right now typing this.

Here's something more amusing, at least to me:

The gunshot was deafening in the vault as Peavy went down, still holding the briefcase. Ritchie carefully wiped his fingerprints off, placed it in Peavy's palm, and picked up the case. It was still locked but he'd worry about that later. He stepped out of the vault door and listened carefully, making sure he was the only one there. He couldn't see much in the dark but he reassured himself that he must be alone. He moved quickly towards the office window and started to cut out a hole. He hated heights, and the view down from the 76th floor made him sick. He focused on the glasscutter, just needing to weaken it before busting it out. Chopper should be here soon, he told himself. He looked back into the vault and froze. Peavy's body was gone.

The barrel clicked behind his ear and Ritchie knew the heist was over. The glasscutter fell to the floor as his body went limp, the barrel smoking in the moonlight. Peavy tossed the gun to the side, took off his gloves, undid his jacket and took off the kevlar. He'd been wearing it all day and it was starting to stink. Off in the distance, the sound of helicopter blades grew louder. Peavy hurried back to the vault and grabbed a large box, pulled it off the shelf, and yanked it open from the top. He yanked out a single-use rocket launcher and brought it to the window. Setting it up just far enough into the office that he wouldn't be seen, he waited for it to come into sight.

What'll really upset y'all is that Peavy was stealing the money to pay for his daughter, a deaf mute club-footed paraplegic, to have an operation to remove a tumor from her brain. She was only nine.

It's probably pretty clear that at this point, I assume that nobody reads my blog so I'm going to write whatever I feel like. A few months ago, at my job's corporate retreat, I smartly aligned myself at the same table as the CEO, conducted myself pretty well, but the conversation somehow (not by my doing) turned to the internet and blogs. I mentioned that I had one and the CEO's interest piqued noticeably. Since then, I've got a little paranoid about the content so I made it a little harder to find. Not that I'm going back and editing any old articles, I probably wouldn't write them now but to engage in revisionism would make me a communist. As the great Spinafarian Popeye once said, "I yam what I yam." Everyone that reads this tell me if you think Popeye was an asshole. Thought so.

Disclaimer

The problem with writing a blog is that you're always writing in isolation, without a nagging Voice of Reason to remind you that sometimes people are idiots. I've written about work a few times, considered a Bad Idea in today's Global Market, but each time it's obviously been quite tongue-in-cheek and ridiculous. No specifics, no names, safe right? Well, so far so good, but I just know some day I'll get a phone call from a student, looking to become a Chartered Accountant, who stumbles upon "The Official CASB Webpage" and thinks that the purpose of CASB employees is to deny some student's taxation course just because some kid opened a window. I really hate writing anything serious on here since this is my safe place to flip out and write nonsense, but just for a moment I might have to. Everyone works hard at CASB, they really care about the students, they try their best, and put in plenty of long hours. Anything silly and tongue-in-cheek that I might write to the contrary is to be laughed at or ignored, depending on your affiliation. Free speech should mean we don't have to undermine our public statements by posting Disclaimers for the Humor Impaired. We shouldn't have to fear that someone will misintrepret a joke then say that it's our fault they didn't get it. Normally the person who misunderstands a message is the one blamed.

Too bad it's not like that. Instead, I have to write a "Please don't sue/fire me" post. In the interest of disclosure, nothing prompted this but you never can tell who wants to usurp your Awesome Cubicle of Awesome Awesomeness by using a little dirt.

Gods vs. Clods II

With the prevelance of blogs moving increasingly into the mainstream and away from insomniacs living in their parents' basement, the impact of blogs (blogpact?) on every day life is being reported on more frequently. Articles on the dangers of writing a blog about work, the lasting efffect of one's "digital footprints" left online, and issues of blogger accountability seem to appear on MSN.com and Slate magazine every day. While the word "blog" refers mostly to individual online logs, the mentality and ideology appears from online encyclopedias (onlinecopedias?), Wikipedia the most popular, to Shoutwire, a "community based internet news website." The commonality between Wikipedia and ShoutWire is the weight given to viewer participation that determines published content. On Wikipedia, viewers determine what changes occur within the articles. Certainly there are guidelines and reviews to prevent libel or vandalism, but the principle, where material is updated from the grassroots rather than by an exclusive, top-down authority remains the same. On Shoutwire, the articles that have been commented on the most are listed first, at least in the case of websites that carry Shoutwire material, such as Torrentspy.com.

What individual blogs, onlinecopedias and community news sites have in common is the value they place on community participation. Comments from readers are always encouraged and often given in raw, unedited form. Comments are posted right away uncensored, often leading to heated, sudden debate. Wikipedia, which does utilize far more review and oversight over submissions, has nonetheless been victim of many vandalism attempts, some pranks (Stephen Colbert's African Elephants) some worse (one individual's biography listed him as a suspect in the Kennedy assassination, in his case clearly untrue).

The contrast between contemporary community news and traditional print or television news is the filtration utilized by the information source. Newspaper editors print only the letters they see fit, television news manipulates interviews for brevity and content. This level of top-down control certainly lends itself to a degree of elitism, but also a level of hindsight. Online news sites are filled with comments which, to be mild, give little effort to tact or moderation. In the end, more voices are heard but as a result, more are drowned out. The speed at which news stories are reported, commented, debated, and in some cases retracted has increased dramatically with the synergistic nature of internet information sharing. Convenience of access and volume of information are the benefit, but peer review, reflection and informed debate are hindered simply because the breath of information curtails the debth of analysis. With the emphasis on attaining more information on the latest news story, the analysis stage that used to be part of a viewer's digestive cycle is at risk of being lost.

Schadenfreude

Sure neglected the blog VERY badly the last little while. Mostly blame stupid FaceBorg for assimilating my free time, as well as some time that should not have been free. That addiction has worn off, but not enough to bring back the blog in full force. That changed, with this major news announcement. When this was announced on Friday, the news spread through my office faster than gossip about someone getting fired. In the four and a half months I worked there, I never saw everyone as happy as they were that day. Outright, unbridled joy spread through the halls as souls sang their unrequited happiness for all to see. 99% of the time the amount of attention given to young Hollywood trailer trash is representative of society's lack of guidance and failing morals. For one day at least, that misguided focus brought our shaken morals and failing hope up from it's knees and let it cheer from the rooftops. Now get back to work!!!

This is the manner in which I roll

Modern Poetry That Rhymes

I am a little worker Bee
Though closer to a grade of D
They do not seem pleased with me
But neither am I with thee.

The Man says I don't initiate
But rather than retaliate
The resume gets another update
Then to Tim's to re-caffeinate.

Upon return confusion shows
Within the depth chart, rows on rows,
Frustration on the faces grows
Long-term planning? No-one knows.

Morale is low but production high,
An equation for staff to say goodbye
It's the Soviet School of Just Add Try!!!
Who cares how many men will die?

Facebook

Facebook has stolen all of my blogtime. I hate it so much.

The Official CASB Webpage

Hi. This blog post is all about CASB employees, REAL CASB EMPLOYEES. This blog is awesome. My name is Chris and I can't stop thinking about CASB employees. These guys are cool; and by cool, I mean totally sweet.

Facts:
1. CASB employees are mammals.
2. CASB employees hold up student transcripts ALL the time.
3. The purpose of CASB employees is to train tomorrow's Chartered Accountants by generating paperwork.

Weapons and Gear:

Cubicle

PhotocopierFolders

Testimonial:
CASB employees can ruin the chartered accounting dreams of anyone they want! Even rich ones with good pre-requisite marks! CASB employees lose files and ignore emails ALL the time and don't even think twice about it. These guys are so crazy and awesome that they dress business casual ALL the time. I heard that there was this CASB employee who was eating at a diner. And when some student dropped his Blackberry the CASB employee deleted the Confirmation of Practical Experience for the whole town. My friend Kelsey said that she saw some CASB employee totally deny some student's Taxation course just because some kid opened a window.

And that's what I call REAL ULTIMATE POWER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

If you don't believe that accountants have REAL Ultimate Power you better get a life right now or they will make sure your mature student application sits in a pile in the boss's office for months!! It's an easy choice if you ask me.

Q and A:
Q. Why is everyone so obsessed with CASB employees?
A. CASB employees are the ultimate paradox. On one hand, they have a lot of work to do, but on the other hand they use entire meetings to announce the new database's theme song.

Q. I heard that CASB employees are always slow and inefficient. What's their problem?
A. Whoever told you that is a total liar. Just like other mammals, CASB employees can be slow moving files OR leave early.

Q. What do CASB employees do when they are not ignoring phone messages or denying foreign students?
A. Most of their free time is spent going to get coffee but sometimes they Roll Up the Rim to Win. (Ask Danielle if you don't believe me.)

Like blowing too much air into a balloon!!!

Sometimes, once in a blue moon, when you least expect it, for reasons you can't explain, right out of the blue, when things seem like they'll never change, when life hurls you a lemon, in world where everything you know is wrong, at the edge of space, in a galaxy far far away, in the not-too-distant future, when all the world's a stage, where laughter was king, ONE MAN, armed with only his soul to protect him, will face insurmountable odds, to save himself, and everything he knows to be true....

All I wanted to write was that I'm moving up in the world, out of my workspace/playpen and into a real cubicle. Then I got stuck in a loop and realized that I didn't want to write about my cubicle, I just wanted to play with words. Join me as I tangent.

The Artist Formerly Known as Mad Scrolls was called a communist recently, merely for describing a pastoral setting where the residents were all equal, lived an agrarian lifestyle, each performed jobs according to their skills, and worked for the benefit of the community. Why someone, who shall remain nameless, would deface a defenseless blogger is a sad indication of the carelessness, and flamboyant inaccuracies, of many internet posts. What was even more disturbing was that some brave soul, a voice of reason and strength in an increasingly nihilistic world, attempted to counter-comment only to be censored by The Author. This kind of omniscient, top-down value enforcement by a faceless authority figure of unknown origin was uncalled for; the Speaker should not have been withheld from expressing his or her right to proliferate a mindless discussion about communism, of which few, if any, elements even exist within this topic. The phrase, I believe, was "flame on."

In keeping with the completely random, disconnected nature of today's soliloquy, I must confess that recently, in the heat of the tedium of the moment, I insulted someone over the internet once. It was nothing they deserved, but, alas, I fell victim to baser instincts. In a safe, polite, complimentary setting, I wanted to be the big man. I wanted to bully, hurt, scare others, just to prop myself up. I know, you don't believe me. Well believe it, you believers. I was lucky enough to get away with it, this time, since there's no way to know it was me. In fact, it looked like someone was going to reply but, showing maturity and grace beyond my own, chose to withdraw. I'm glad they did, for it quells the guilt inside me. It made me realize that better people are out there, and it gives me hope for myself.

Hammer time

I am fortunate to be surrounded by a number of opinionated people, and by surrounded I mean they have blogs. It's always better to have a dumb opinion than no opinion, and if you have a dumb opinion ideally you'll write a blog about it so I can drop the hammer on you.
First, the issue of fully legalized drug use. The same people who advocate total legalization seem to think it would save taxpayers money because the RCMP wouldn't have as many investigations to do, jails wouldn't be as full, and worldwide terrorism would disintegrate (that's what it says!). By the same logic, if we de-criminalize murder and theft the RCMP wouldn't need to exist, jails would be empty and converted to schools, and the Rapture would begin. What nonsense. Making a financial argument in favor of de-criminalizing narcotics is to completely ignore the crippling burden that would be placed on our already sapped health care system. The reason Canada has a national health care system is because people are willing to part with their hard-earned dollars in order to benefit society. While drug-users wish for freedom, they forget that if you want the legal right to smoke or inject yourself with whatever you want, you can't then expect society to fund your rehab clinics and medical support systems. That's why society gets to tell you what you can and can't put in your body, because they have to pay for it.
If you're REALLY clever, you'll have already picked out a bit of a flaw in that argument. You'll say that society deems smoking and alcohol legal but not marijuana, how does that make any sense? It doesn't. Like the article mentions, prohibition didn't work. The problem is that we'd be trying to go backwards and frankly it's too late. Historically, governments have shown that they are perfectly willing to allow their populace to dumb themselves down on some mildly addictive substance, witness the dirt-cheap, readily available amounts of vodka in the Soviet Union. Tobacco farming has generated a lot of domestic income in the United States and Canada, so it's not going anywhere. The biggest change we're likely to see anytime soon is the government easing up on marijuana, and that still has some hurdles to climb. Bottom line, if you want to be able to run around promoting unrestricted narcotic use, you'd better be advocating a market-style health care system and a libertarian-style "government," because you won't get it both ways. Hands up who's going to lead that charge? Didn't think so.

On a day when the Edmonton Oilers retired the number of my first childhood hero, they traded away my latest favorite. I was 9 when I watched the Oilers beat Boston 4-1 in 1990 to win their fifth Stanley Cup, the only one I was old enough to remember. Last year they were within one game of adding a sixth, and if they had do so Ryan Smyth would still be an Oiler, with a contract until retirement, and on the list of future jersey retirement ceremonies. I remember the shot of Mark Messier hoisting the Stanley Cup in 1990, flanked by Kevin Lowe and Jari Kurri, though now it seems like a different lifetime. Yet as though it was yesterday, I remember Ryan Smyth's lost teeth and overtime assist against San Jose, playing with the flu against Anaheim, and his glorious end to end rush in Game 6 of the Finals. These were supposed to be the start of a new set of memories, a first chapter in a new era of economic equality where the Oilers would content once again. Instead, since that empty net goal in Game 7, it's been nothing but repeated kicks in the teeth. Pronger, Spacek, Peca, Laraque, Bergeron, Samsonov, and now Smyth are gone, with no promise left but that of another rebuilding project.

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools;

-Rudyard Kipling

Gods and Clods

With the upcoming Academy Awards (5:30 MT, check your local listings!) about to fill one channel for about the same amount of time as the Super Bowl, it seemed like a natural time to analyze the disparity between mass markets and minority pretension. The Oscars, I don't know how to say this, are kind of a Big Deal. They have many leather-bound books and the auditorium smells of rich mahogany, though that could be Charlton Heston's cologne. It's usually the second highest rated show of the year after said Super Bowl, proving how easy it is to divide North America into two basic demographics. Forget 18-34 males and focus groups, TV viewers are either able to criticize Indianapolis' rush defense without Bob Saunders or criticize Halle Berry's Vera Wang without Eric Benet. For those of you who can do neither, you're qualified to tell me why my computer restarts itself constantly when I put the side case back on, but is fine when left open.

Back to the show. Like the U.S. presidential vote or the Grammy's, the Oscars are another venue to illustrate the gap between the masses' preference and those of the ruling class. In the last U.S. election, George W. Bush received 62,040,610 votes, or 50.73%. The eligible voting population is 200,760, 369. That means Bush received 30.09% support of the masses. In 2003, Steely Dan won Best Album over the Marshall Mathers LP. None of the nominees from last year's Academy Awards were the same as in the 2006 MTV Movie Awards. Obviously, there is considerable disparity between the preferences of the masses and the elite. The debate is whether or not this is a problem.

"Wedding Crashers" was selected Best Movie at the MTV awards that year, while "Crash" won the Oscar. Which film is more worthy of public celebration, one that celebrates the distracting opiate of slapstick humor, or one that points out the complexities behind racial behavior? The latter is certainly guilty of beating a dead horse, while the former probably would have literally done so if it tested well. On that subject, I'll try to find my point, since when I started I had one. If we let the masses have their way, sure, lots of god-awful artsy foreign films will find their way back to France where they belong, but the only thing that will replace them is Adam Sandler. Mass markets rarely recognize important subjects on their own terms, as evidence by the fact that Brokeback Mountain's box office gross was more a result of curiosity than any recognition of the important breakthrough being made. Enjoy Starship Troopers, but better read 1984 or Brave New World first. It's fine to take the opiate as long as you earned the distraction.

I AM AN ACCOUNTANT

GREETINGS. MY NAME IS LURR FROM THE PLANET OMICRON PERSEI 8. UPON YOU PUNY HUMANS I UNLEASH MY POWERS OF CRIPPLING TEDIUM, CAPABLE OF CRUSHING EVEN THE SHARPEST PUNY HUMAN MIND INTO A BLITHERING MASS OF GIBBERSOME, SHUDDERING GREY MATTER.

I'd like to put to rest some stereotypes, if I may. The jokes are funny, but please, a serious moment. Despite the way in which they are portrayed in the media, TV, and blockbuster action movies, accountants are not always dynamic, charismatic balls of spontaneity. Call me a politically correct sillynanny, but I feel the need to remind people that, shocking as it my seem, some accountants are actually restrained, cautious people who would just as soon do your taxes on a Saturday night as alphabetize, categorize and audit your grocery list. Yes friends, accountants need well-organized, pre-planned triple-stamped love too. Should you feel the need to express it to them, you will be required to submit a pre-application form, two reference letters from others towards whom affection has been previous expressed, a carbon copy application form outlining the proposed affection transaction, and a personal letter of Sentimental Intent.

Vegas Baby!

I know what you're thinking. Why don't they come out with an electric toothbrush that's also an MP3 player and recharges itself through its USB port? Stop letting that mind wander aimlessly and pay attention! As if you could hear the music over the brushing sounds anyways! The big news in these parts is my upcoming trek to that Mecca of good clean wholesome fun, that Saloon of Solemnity, that Den of Discipline, that Residence of Restraint, Las Vegas. I'll pause while you tell me how cool you think that is. You're not going to listen to music when you aren't brushing your teeth either! How much time do you spend in the bathroom anyways? Exactly!
The occasion is for a wedding of my buddy Marc who also deemed me fit to be in the wedding party. This will be the first time I've been in one, and I can't imagine how hard it's going to be to figure out a bachelor party plan down there. NO I'M NOT GOING TO ASK HIM, HE'LL THINK IT'S A STUPID IDEA TOO!
It's not until May and I'll be back with lots of scenery pictures, but those are the only kind.

Orifice Politics

Cut your hair, meet this due date, that's what Wand'ring Prophets hate,
Stacks of files go on for miles yet pace yourselves just like reptiles,
Take those lunches, breaks in bunches yet still complain about time crunches,
Dress up nice but no suits o' thrice, business casual will suffice.



There are files and copiers, bosses and overtime,
Mondays and customers are all partners in crime,
Yet so confined to a world of relentless monotony,
Such statements are made without a trace of irony.

So many files, so many student accountants,
Who are up to their pleats in self-centered entitlements,
Phoning and emailing with long-winded inquirements,
Still they are slaves to our indecipherable requirements.

So tomorrow I return to my cliche-d job,
Slowly turning into a business/casual slob,
Typing and filing all day might sound easy,
But without some rebellion it gets mighty queasy,
At heart I've found that I really don't care
for our short-sighted society that makes me dispair,
All I can think is that humanity will meet doom
Because it spent all its time in a halogen room.

The Office cont.

Apparently Tobias the Wandering Hippie Prophet, armed with his Degree of Uselessness, has more employability than he thought. Today was the first day at my new job as a registration officer at CASB. So far so good, got my own little cubicle to go with my files, folders, chairs and desks. Right downtown too with a discount at the downstairs gym and walkways to various shops and such. It's my own little self-contained world away from all the commoners. Updates as they come.

The Office

Had a job interview today (in Alberta, it's pronounced "yob." Learning is POWER!). For an office job. With files, folders, chairs and desks. And maybe, just maybe, if the office is lucky, a little me in its future. Long interview. Not gonna lie to ya. The kind of interview where no matter what you say you aren't sure if it was right or not. The kind of interview where you tell them one of your hobbies is working on that novel of yours. Oops. Maybe. Who knows? Next week, I'll know if my ramblings were better than those of the next interviewee. Or if I should have got that haircut and not gone into a button-down office job interview looking like Tobias the Wandering Hippie Prophet.

New Death Star not yet fully operational

People take on a pretty irritating air whenever they talk about Alberta's economic might. Doesn't matter if they live here, in Prince George or on Hoth they all say the same thing: "There's so many jobs in Alberta right now! Why, to not have one within seconds of crossing the border can only mean that you are so preposterously useless and unqualified that, were this a few hundred years ago, you'd be treated as cattle! You're not cattle, are you?" To which I reply that I am not, and thank them not to bring up the nature of my degree again. Of course, to do a proper analysis of the financial wherewithal of any Alberta town, you must use what's known as the Subway Standard. Each town's Subway wages and benefits are ranked and compared, and the highest (seemingly Fort McMurray, where Subway compensates their employees on the same payscale as Major League Baseball and provides each employee with their own personal doctor, dentist, orthodontist, and ophthalmologist) wins the valuable distinction of being used in every British Columbians' example of Why Alberta Is Better Than Us.
So still no job, though not for lack of not trying. Got a few applications in which means I'm right where I want to: Playing the Guilt-Free Waiting Game. Both jobs I'm qualified for and before you even ask, neither involves wearing a beret and reciting anti-corporate modern poetry after hours in an independently owned, Fair Trade-selling coffee shop. If neither pans out, then I stop playing the Waiting Game and start playing Call People You Know and Pretend to Like, which isn't as much fun because more people are playing and all think they know the rules better than the other. Hopefully the Waiting Game goes on for a while yet.
Here's a few more pics of Mexico contrasted with the drive from P.G. to Edmonton. *SIGH*

New Death Star for Darth Forehand

Bloglecting came wooshing back suddenly over the last month and I had to jump back on the fad-bandwagon. It was a busy month, finished my B.A. in Political Science with a Psychology minor, briefly ended the long-term relationship before jet-setting with the family off to Puerto Vallarta. A good time was had by all, if not a tanned time. Then, two and half days of horrible shit! Moving? Never again. My one break in the stress was New Year's Eve and the inevitable New Year's Day Resolution to Never Drink Again. So far so good, if only because of a sinus infection and sore throat that I'm still getting over. Here's a few pics from Mexico:

City of Champions

We meet again prairie town. A different town you were when last we spoke, smaller, a little less sure of yourself. Now you grown stronger by the day. People speak of you with reverence, respect, and a little bit of fear. They make boasts in your name, claiming outrages wages and benefits bestowed upon your Subway employees, homeless using job offers as rolling papers, and oil that flows like wine. But I remember you from a simpler time when your name meant little more than urban sprawl, bleak winters, transplanted Torontonians, and Ukrainians jokes.
Soon I will return, different as well, and after we dispense with insincere pleasantries my work will resume, this time in earnest. We'll see who conquers whom.

Ginormous Hugantic Distance!

Like watching that fat man get hit with a bowling ball, it's hypnotic the way you can't stop watching.

Update 2.0

I'm not going to lie to you. A LOT of people read my blog. Lots of them. Who? Um, Steve. And Wanda. And that guy who's always doing that voice thing. Because of the millions (and millions!) of Darth Forehand's fans, I duly note that I have not posted much lately. Many of you feel that I'm being lazy or neglecting, but I'm not. Instead, Neglecting the Blog, or "Bloglecting," was a hot new trend I was pushing for a while. Since other people started doing it too it's not cool anymore, so the new hot trend is Posting on the Blog, or "Postogging."

It's actually been an eventful time. Finished all my term papers on intelligence agencies and government, a cinematic analysis of Chicago and Syriana, and the benefits of glutamine supplementation (apparently, there is some). Now it's cruise control until next Wednesday's first final, then another five day break before three in a row. Then a few days later the long-distance relationship comes to an end. So things are definately looking up, and with more free time on the horizon I thought it best to use that time wisely and really try to benefit from it spiritually and emotionally. So I activated my High-Definition cable box and hooked it up to the big screen. If HD-TV is the way of the future, and the government says it will be, the future looks awesome. I watched a whole football game last night and I don't even like football. In fact, that's what I'm going to do now! No time to finish this sen

Random Blog Update

I've now switched to New Awesome Blogger 2.0 or 10.5 or 4.20 or whatever the new one is. Perhaps my spelllllling and grammared will be bester.

FOX Sports

Unfortunately for the REST of FOX's divisions, FOX News has made it difficult for them to remain credible. It's too bad, because foxsports.com is the best sports network website out there for one reason: Dudes. Regular joes, pals, compadres. Exactly the kind of sports website I would want to work for. Nowhere is this more evident than in their close connection with the Best Damn Sports Show Period, which, for you non-sports watching nerds, is not. But the spirit is pure dudality (reality through dude's eyes) plus a stunning amount of background knowledge that somehow comes out of physiques more closely resembling greasy bowlers than whitewashed, pale-faced sports commentators. Keep up the good work lads, keep showing that when you devote your entire life to sports, you become a sort of Portrait of Dorian Grey: The greater and wiser you become on the inside, the fatter and more belligerent you become on the outside.

As a side note, I wish blogspot would spell and grammar check on the fly like Word. I get used to my fumbling fingers being promptly corrected and when I guess on a word's spelling and no telltale red line jumps up, I won't lie to you, I lean back in my chair, breath out, and put out the Jack Nicholson self-satisfied grin. Later, when I realize I could've spelled whatever the word was using a "6", a "#", and a ":)", I've lost interest. When contents of this blog are found a thousand years from now by apes, they'll dismiss all the deep thoughts and think "man [ha!], what a asshole. Can't even spell." Not unlike those who read it now, come to think of it.

Tennis at the top of the world

I posted a pic from this a long time ago, I think, but stumbled across the video. Don't dive backwards boys!

New ride for this cowboy

Would've posted a pic earlier but there was just too much snow to give it justice. Out with the old and in with the much less old.

Seinfeld on Personal Space

It's Naaaass!

Clip from the Night of Overbooked Stars.

To The Millions (and MILLIONS)....

Like many little boys who are now mildly embarassed, I followed wrestling in levels ranging from casual to wildly entertained. For my money, nothing was more entertaining than watching The Rock rant away like he was on an IV of Red Bull Concentrate, mocking his opponent, the interviewer and anybody else while playing the crowd like he had them paid off. Here's some more highlights of the Great One.

Paris Hilton was Punched in the Face

I'm only posting this because the title for the article was the greatest thing I've ever read, not counting "Dick Cheney Shot an 80 year old man in the face."

Before you point your finger you should know that I'm the man

When it comes to academics and me, I have kept a positive attitude in the face of warning signs. I somehow achieved a minor in psychology despite a terrible track record because I kept telling myself not to create a self-fulfilling prophecy by admitting the truth: that I suck at it. After finishing the last requirement in the program, I finally admitted to myself what was so overwelming obvious for so long, and it felt good, warm, and safe. Like when you come back from the restaurant washroom and your food is waiting for you: everything seems right.
There have been so many times in the course of my "studies" where I wondered if I was in the right place: bad grades, blank stares from profs at questions and comments, bad grades, awful luck with university "technology," and bad grades. Today, the final hint came that I simply do not belong in academics, and I will heed this warning with no more optimistic denial.
I was accused of plagarizing my latest essay. Short paper, five pages, did Iraq have weapons of mass destruction or not. I was asked into my prof's office where he told me that he had given me zero on the paper but was going to be lenient and not file a report that, were he to do so, would go on my permanent record and could be grounds for immediate dismissal. So what did I do? Did I steal an essay off the internet? Did I steal information from someone smarter and pass it off as my own? Did I not give proper citations and mislead the reader? This is what I did: On three occasions I quoted a source, cited it in line with the Chicago Manual of Style, put the source in my Works Cited list at the end, but failed to put those quotes in quotation marks. The reason I didn't was because I had to tweak the wording to fit it into the sentence, the way I had been taught in numerous other classes.
By doing that, I gave the reader reason to believe that the ideas were my own when they were not. That's plagarism, fair enough. Yet I would have thought that my clever little ruse would seem not so clever when I LISTED THE SOURCE AND PAGE NUMBER FROM WHERE THE INFORMATION CAME FROM. Stupidly I thought that by giving credit to the source I was actually giving credit to the source. After this final semester is done, I'll never go back.

"You can DO that?"

My favorite class this final semester o' mine is International Security. This class is great. Each class begins with a very dry-looking layout of what topics will be covered. Except they ARE covered but not THE WAY YOU MIGHT THINK. Spies are everywhere. They could be behind you RIGHT NOW. But probably not because you're all by yourself and nobody likes you. But they could be behind somebody cooler, more important and with files on their computer far less depraved and illegal that you possess. And that is why this class is great. Every few minutes of the lecture consists of our great proffessor finishing off a dry, memorizable, exammable fact before stopping, smiling a bit, and saying "There's actually a very interesting story behind that" before regailing us with a look at some brilliantly simple way of sending coded messages or evading KGB or averting nuclear war. Last class we went into the cafeteria, devided into groups and attempted to pass information from an information officer (me, in this case) to an agent without arousing the suspicion of (pick your desired enemy= Communists/Fascists/Democrats). We weren't caught.

"Couldn't it also mean this?"

English 104, Film Studies, is held Monday, Wednesday, and Friday at 1:30 in one of the designated first year lectures. This class is great. First, I contemplate not going. It usually goes downhill from there since usually I go. I hate first year students so bad I can't even sentence properly write even or grammar use good. My impression of first year English students at UNBC are that while some are intelligent, mature students who chose English because they couldn't afford to travel and/or just wanted to make their parents happy, the rest are drama students who weren't smart enough to get out of Prince George and instead chose the next best subject.
First, a characterization of a Drama Student, also known as a Theatre Arts Person or Artist (if they describe themselves as a "singer-songwriter" you are legally required to smash their acoustic guitar over their head so that it comes out the hole). A Drama Student, not currently considered a medical disability though expected to change in the next DSM, suffers from high anxiety, mood swings, melodramatic tendencies, self-centeredness, constant need of validation from others, faux arrogance/confidence/superiority, rapid vocal pattern (often rising in pitch towards the end of a sentence), and tend to find solace from the rational, objective criticism they encounter from society in theatre, pretentious songwriting, poetry and in unfortunate cases, my English classes. Note that this is merely a description of a personality type and does not mean that anyone involved in the above interests is necessarily a theatre person, simply that these vocations attract these personality types. That should leave anybody who reads this confused as to whether or not they've been insulted :)
What these people fail to realize is that having an idea does not mean you get to say it out loud. First year classes are about understanding basic concepts, memorizing them, and being able to use them in an example on a midterm. You don't get to solve the world's problems in a first year lecture, don't bother, nobody cares what you think, stop trying to get yourself and your feelings validated. I had this beaten out of me in first year and as such the only appropriate manner in which to conduct oneself is with a weary, ironic take on the subject matter that results in class being dismissed on time with the requisite rote learning completed.

"I have a question!!!"

Back in school for my last semester. To fill elective requirements, I've rounded out my sched with Comparative Religion and Film Studies to match my remaining requirements, Security and Intelligence and Chemistry For the Reality Impaired. The only class that isn't a first year class is Security but because we spent all this week looking at covert and special ops it counts as Awesome. So four classes, all Awesome, three because they are of personal interest and one because it is taught at my level of education , meaning Chemistry(see class title). This class is great. Like all core requirements, it's chosen based on being the complete opposite of what anyone taking it is good or capable at. In fact in my class, it's becoming enough of a challenge for chubby first year arts majors to get through a class without spewing idiocy all over their extra large hoodies and pajama pants. Of course, idiocy is contagious so once spewn it spreads to a few people, who spread it themselves and so forth, resulting in the unenviable task of controlling emotional, irrational questions and presumptions being asked in higher and higher pitches, brows more and more furrowed, and lips more and more disgusted with a Ph.D's inability to recognize their creativity and subsequently validate them. As any good yet ulcered fourth year student knows, the only way to halt the spread of infection is with a vaccination of objective, decisive "No, that's wrong. Here's a deliberately boring and convoluted explaination, without examples, designed not to clarify but to cut off any hope of fostering abstract connections necessary to continue this asinine line of questioning." As one would expect, four weeks into the semester has seen attendence thankfully drop.

Sorry

This story is boring me. There was a planned middle and end but I don't feel like taking up my whole blog with it. I'll finish it on my own and if anyone's curious they're welcome to check it out. Back to regularly scheduled sarcasm.

The weight of the night

The number mighta been fake, but there was nothing fake about the night's rainfall. Between the downpour and the darkness, anyone walking down the street tonight had a good reason, otherwise they'd be inside by the fire. Except my reason wasn't clear, coulda been good or bad. I pulled up the collar of my trench, pulled down my hat and headed towards the subway station.
I thought about the broad and nothing about that meeting made any sense. Fake phone number could mean anything, but I took it as a warning not to look for her. At least for now, since I had no reason to concern myself with finding her, it was information I needed. Information that I could trade for payment, and I was looking for a good exchange rate.
I reached the stairs at the subway station and things suddenly felt different. Harder, colder and unforgiving. And louder, damn, like a ringing. Hours later, when I woke up, the night had taken on a much darker tone.

A Numbers Game

718-555-4357.
Here's the thing about being a snoop. As long as you keep your head buried in information, for whatever purpose, you're bound to find a bunch of things that don't matter at the time. You dismiss it but your memory doesn't let you. The number she gave me had a Metro Town area code, but the city had changed the area code when it incorporated two other districts earlier this month. Last job I had was looking up a city councellor who'd been getting threatening letters but didn't want to go public 'cause of the bad press. He was pushing for incorporation, a popular position at the time, but evidently someone didn't like it.
The number was useless but this dame was hiding more facts than a rainy Saturday night. I pocketed the note, grabbed my coat, and left the office.

Fate's Rabbit Hole

Sometimes real life, as much as you try to avoid it, sneaks up on you when you least expect it. Not to mention when you don't want it. Sitting in my office tonight, rain pouring down like it was setting a score with someone who owed it money, lights off, nobody even knowing I was here, made me foolishly think I might avoid the persistant sense of humor of Fate. Can't escape your destiny, no matter how hard you try. Mine was to get involved in something I knew, without being told any details or given any instructions, wouldn't be solved in a few hours.
The body of Abraham Marley, full of bullet holes, sat on my desk daring me to ask about it. I didn't bite, preferring the picture to tell its own tale. It didn't bite either.
"I found it on his coffee table," the dame finally said.
"Talk."
"I'm Vanessa Marley, his daughter. I came home and found this picture."
"Any broken windows, locks? Anything else lying around that shouldn'ta been?"
"Just the picture."
She suspected her father's partner, that much was clear. I'd had enough run-in's with the local P.D.s to know that solving murders was their turf, and it was a stadium I didn't have home field advantage on. They'd already be looking for Rothschild too, assuming they even knew yet.
"Did you call the police?"
"No."
"Why not."
"I just didn't."
"Gonna need a few more details hon."
"That's all you get, you're the P.I., you figure it out. I'll be in touch."
She reached into her pocket, pulled out a piece of paper and tossed it on the desk. All it had was a phone number. She stood up and left the office. As I heard her footsteps grow softer, I reached over and grabbed the phone number she left. Except it wasn't a phone number.

Red Lips

"Your walls need painting," she said.
I looked at her from behind my desk. Tall broad, but not too tall. Black hair, brown eyes, real looker. She wore red lipstick, not too much, but it stood out like it was the only color in the room. Nice trenchcoat too, a Danilli from the looks of it. Fine lookin' dame, but she didn't rile me nothing. She shook out her soaked umbrella and came inside.
"Have a seat," I said.
She didn't say anything as she sat down. Pulled out a cig, lit it, inhaled and breathed out slowly.
"Want one?" she asked.
"I quit."
"Too bad."
She took another puff and looked out the window behind me then put out the smoke in my ashtray. I waited for her to speak up, tell me what was more important than the blackening night.
"I need you to find someone" she said finally, "and I want him found soon."
"Finding ain't hard. Soon will cost you."
"Money is no concern."
She held my stare evenly, but I could see the beginnings of emotions inside her welling up. Whether they'd come to the surface or not I'd hafta wait.
"Who ya need found."
"Donald Rothschild III."
"CEO of Rothschild & Marley Inc. Didn't know he was missing, papers woulda been all over that."
"He's not missing."
"But you need him found."
"That's right."
She hadn't looked away from me during the whole exchange. I sat back in my chair and thought. Rothschild was a big name in town, head of the biggest chemical testing plant in the state. Well-liked, good reputation from his charitable donations, but most of his donations were the political kind. Had a freeway, a hospital wing and a football field named after him. Finding him wouldn't be a problem, avoiding his name is the real trick.
"Look him up in the phonebook, always works for me."
This wasn't a case, it was a waste of time. I started turning around to face the window, signaling our conversation was over when she stood up, reached into her purse, and slapped something on my desk. I was a polaroid. I picked it up. I recognize the body right away.

On aardvark and swarmy night

It was cold out. Not cold in a chilly way, but in the kind of way that makes your senses sharp. Crisp, my ex-wife used to say. She walked out on me eight years ago. That night was cold the same way tonight is, only then I was sitting at home with a bottle of Jack. Now, I'm drinking it at the office, waiting for something to walk through the door. Pay the bills, you know. The name's Keaton, Roger Keaton. I'm a P.I. Tonight I'm investigating nothing more than how much longer the rain's gonna come down. The answers ain't there and I confess to not lookin' too hard. Rather than strain myself for answers, I keep looking out the window from my chair, back to my desk and the world inside. Looking's too strong a word, since the night's rainfall seems more like it's looking at me, but without anything to say. I stare back but between me, the bottle and the weather an agreement is made to mind our own business.

Then I hear them. Noises I haven't heard in a few days. Footsteps coming up the stairs. Moving slowly but taking each step lightly. Now they come down the hallway and stop at my door. I stay still, waiting for my guest to come to me with news of the outside world. A moment goes by and I wonder if they've lost their nerve. Two knocks, the first softer than the second. Late on a Sunday night, what would make them think anyone would be here?
"Come in."
I hear the door open but I don't turn around. What's the hurry, they've come all the way here, it must be important I ask myself ruefully. I turn around slowly from my window to face my guest. I look around but they're still standing in the hall, out of sight. The lights are off so I can't see them. Movement now from outside, the shadow of a jacket, or a dress, flicker against the old walls. Damn they need paint. One of these days. Around the doorframe she came in to my office, and I knew the night was going to pick up.

Zinedine Zidane

For those of you who don't know, Zinedine Zidane, one of the best "footballers" of his generation, stuck his head where it didn't belong and got himself ejected from the World Cup final against Italy, and subsequently cost his team a chance at a second title. The ubiquitous video clip of Zidane headbutting Marco Materazzi has been parodied all over the net, so follow this link to the best collection. You'll laugh, you'll cry, and you'll cry laughing some more. Funniest thing I've seen in a long time.

I Quit

That's all folks, thanks for the blog-fodder (blodder?). Three more weeks will complete my mandatory customer service tenure. When next I surface, I'll be denying you a mortage, setting up our country's newest C.A.'s, criticizing polititians in print or illegally detaining immigrants for National Security Purposes. I held my post for three years and two months and feel obligated to take time to reflect on a job that saw me go from credit ridicule to excellent, from Boy in Basement to Dude in Pad, from borrowing parents' car when it was convenient with them to using my own car when convenient with the Boss, from out of shape unemployed flameout to slightly less out of shape management type. Some good times, some bad, some sales records that won't be broken and some connections that hopefully will help the good cause.

It'll get ya drunk! Mmm mmm!

From the description:
"Originally based on a Swiss recipe this Absinthe has no artificial color or preservatives, and contains 111mg of the psychoactive thujone adored by some of the world’s most notorious artists and writers. Van Gogh, Picasso, Hemingway…Bob Dylan, Marilyn Manson and Eminem are just a few who used and drew inspiration from this original Absinthe and its effects.

Naturally green in color, the Premium Zele is 70% alcohol (150 proof) and is bottled with fresh herbs and wormwood that distill inside and enhance the taste and thujone content. All the ingredients are carefully selected to ensure its distinctive taste."

Here's a link to the video describing how to best utilize your experience.

For whatever reason, the video won't load in Firefox, but Internet Explorer works.

Metal Storm Solid

Eat your heart out, John Kruger.

Trade Notification

It's been a great year at Generic Student Employment Co. In my time at my Generic Student Job, I hold the record for most individual membership sales, highest (and second and third highest) cashouts in one day, have trained more new employees than anyone else (other than my old boss), and am currently counted on to help the company through a difficult and unique transition period. Because of this, the timing is perfect to announce that I am requesting a trade to a new city in the spirit of my new role model. I know, I know. I just signed a long-term contract and gave Generic Student Employment Co. every indication that they could proceed knowing my status was one certainty they could rely on as they focus on other matters, but gosh, I'm just not happy, you know?

All dubious sarcasm aside, Chris Pronger sucks harder, deeper, and longer than any other hockey player has ever sucked. Why sign a five year contract they ask to be traded because your wife doesn't like the city? DON'T SIGN THE CONTRACT THEN. You were within one backup-goalie fuck-up of winning the Stanley Cup in a city that kissed your ass all year and did nothing but tell you and anyone else unfortunate to be in the vicinity how great you are, the best defensemen in the NHL, would-be Conn Smythe winner, and certified Hall of Famer. Plus $6.25 million a year. Not good enough eh? Don't let Jason Smith's stick hit you across the head on your way out of town.

It's louder now...

As much as I my taste in music is gradually becoming more subtle, more refined and a little more exploratory, deep down there lingers a desire for raw, unnecessary pure power. Eight ago I was playing in a tennis tournament in Vernon and my doubles partner, whom I'd met down there, was driving the two of us around town to our match locations. He had his big sub pumping out some phat b-boy tracks, and I asked him why he dug such dope beats, fo-shizzle. He said he didn't really like rap but that it made the sub pound. At the time I thought it odd that the message be dictated by the medium, rather than the other way around. Shouldn't one first like a certain type of music and then buy the right speakers, receivers and source? Seemed to make sense. Then a couple years ago a friend of mine introduced me to the world of high-end analogue audio. He was listening to jazz, female vocals, and classic tunes which were a far cry from the shrieking metal he preferred in high school. Once again, the idea was that the medium chose the message because it sounded better. I'm moving along the same path with my home theatre setup dictating louder, dumber, awesomer movies because they maximize (and justify?) the system (and the cost). Here's the latest addition to the Team.

Thanks for a great ride

In the last two months, the Oilers became the first eighth seen to make it to the Finals, the third team to beat the President's trophy winner in the first round, the third team ever to force a game seven after being down 3-1 in a final and the first Oiler team in sixteen years to make it to the last series. They also overcame a 2-0 deficit for the first time in team history, the loss of the hottest goalie in the playoffs, and a flu virus that hit half the players in the third round. Some people say they failed. I say that it was the most rewarding spring I've ever had, and thanks to a great team for an inspiring run. See you next year!

Gotta love sports.

MacT will save us!

Size matters not. Look at me. Judge me by my size, do you? Hmm? Hmm. And well you should not, for my ally is the Force, and a powerful ally it is. Life creates it, makes it grow. Its energy surrounds us and binds us. Luminous beings are we, not this crude matter. You must feel the Force around you; between you, me, the tree, the rock, everywhere. Yes, even between the land and the ship.

Down 3-1, going back to Carolina. I believe.

I have never seen anything so gay in my entire life

And by gay, I don't mean that it's wrong or vile or soon-to-be-illegal-when-grouped-in-legal-twosomes. I just mean gay. Stay tuned everyone!

I Pity the Fool

In the year 2006, a crack cosmetics unit was sent out to sell a product by a corporation they don't understand. These women promptly escaped from all arguments promotting reason and common sense to the Prince George underground. Today, still wanted by their husbands, they survive as National Vice President of fortune. If you have a sun-parched skin, if no one else can help you exfoliate, and if you can find them, maybe you can hire: The A(rbonne)-Team.

The Galactic Empire

These days it's tiresomely fashionable to criticize the United States for pretty much everything. Actually, since this is always fashionable, it's more accurate to say it's enormously fashionable right now to attack the Bush administration for 9/11 conspiracy theories, failures in Iraq, illegal domestic surveillance, Hurricane Katrina, economic problems, massive conflicts of interests or the overtly Christian influence on foreign policy. Whew. I say tiresome because for Canadians it's an enjoyable passtime to throw darts of condescension towards the U.S., uninformedly mocking their culture and government. Canadians pat themselves on the back when we appear to have morally superceded the Americans in any way, as recently witnessed by Canadian sports reporters applauding Edmonton Oilers fans who cheered the Star Spangled Banner two nights after fans in San Jose booed O Canada two nights previous. While certainly worthy of praise for genuinely applaudable actions, it garnered far more attention than when fans in Vancouver booed the U.S. anthem in January at the World Junior tournament (while cheering on the Russians instead in their semi-final match). It seems Canadians are perfectly willing to criticize themselves in a vacuum, but clamp right up when examining our country's political and social flaws when comparing them to the United States.
So while I sometimes post on the United States and their descent into totalitarianism, I think that such observations should be made with an eye towards our own government, whose current residences should be monitored closely.

Western Conference Champions!!!!!!!

Careful now

Update on U.S. National Security, C.I.A. nominee Michael Hayden.

Boy, I sure am glad I don't want to BOMB the WHITE HOUSE. The President is someone I would never BOMB or wish ill upon. Not being part of AL-QUAEDA or any other TERRORIST ORGANIZATION, WEAPONS OF MASS DESTRUCTION are of no interest to me.

Mike Peca ends every series with "It's not me, it's you"

On to the third round! The boys are now one of four teams left in the battle for Lord Stanley's grail. Conference Final Game One goes tomorrow night in Anaheim. 'Tis a time of happiness in Darth Forehand's abode, if also a time to monopolize all conversations with uninterested parties. I include my readers in this category.

Jocks in their natural habitat

Just to show I'm not against making fun of my own kind, here's a more balanced look. Of course, both lists have inherent nerdlian ingredients: Anger and hostility towards others, and video games.

Top Ten Angriest Athletes
Top Twenty-Five Cyber Athletes

Masters of my universe

Interesting article on the depressing effects of watching old cartoons whose quality and relevence was kept alive only by one's nostalgic delusions. I was a bit young to really dig He-man, but I found the same problem when returning to my own source of youth cartoon morality, Transformers. This might shatter some illusions out there so don't read on if you want to preserve your childlike innocence, but that show sucks. While a reliable source with equally plentiful time on his "hans" assures me the Japanese versions were really good, I still find it bothersome how time has eroded a perfectly good TV show whose sole purpose to exists was to sell toys. That's not meant to be cynical. Those toys were fucking sweet. And still available, luckily.

Nerds in their natural habitat

See how they act when they think nobody's watching!

SHOOT THE PUCK!!!!!!

He doesn't shoot when he's supposed to, he tries to deke through too many players, and he gives the puck away too much. Yet this season, Ales Hemsky has scored the Oilers' three biggest goals: the game-winner to clinch a playoff berth, and the tying and winning goals tonight to help Edmonton upset the best team in hockey in the first round of the NHL playoffs. Hockey is the Greatest Thing Ever again, after two periods where hockey Sucked. After spending last week in Edmonton and getting to enjoy some of the playoff atmosphere there, I can only imagine what it's like there right now.

re: prisoner/inmate status

Thank you for your message in regards to prisoner/inmate #230019976. We can assure you that his stay has been pleasant and that all reports of harsh security measures, uncomfortable cell size, and mass prisoner boredom have been greatly exaggerated by the liberal-biased media. Our tenants enjoy the highest quality facilities and are protected by the most advanced, humane security precautions available. In regards to your specific inquiry, we must respectfully decline your prisoner/inmate's request for transfer back to his former quarters in Prince George until his sentence has passed. In the meantime, we assure you that his care will be first rate and that all measures in regards to his condition, Irritable Fatigue Impatience Syndrom, will be taken. Thank you for your concern in this matter.

Sincerely,

Warden S.

You know I don't speak Spanish!

I was at a gym one time, a few towns over. Not as nice as this. They have weights and Hammer Strength, not quite as many as this, but close. I was sitting at one of the tables drinking a pina colada smoothie with glutamine (out of a clean glass) when in walked the Biggest Mexican I've Ever Seen. Big as shit, just walks in like he owns the place. He was dark too, not dark-skinned, no, this was different. It was as if he was moving in shadow. Every step he took toward the light, just when you thought his face was about to be revealed... it wasn't. It was as if the lights dimmed, just for him. He leaned across the counter and said something to the kid behind the desk. I couldn't hear, but that kid took in every word he said. Sounded like he was looking for someone. Robber, Romar, Roger... Yeah. ROGER. That's what he said. The kid looked around then slowly turned to face the man before him. He didn't speak. Calmly, he told the man that Roger was not here, but that he would be back Monday. The man didn't move. After a tense moment, the man told the kid that would be fine, it wasn't important, and thanked him for his help. When the man left, the kid turned to me, smiled, and said "The front counter staff never gets killed!" But just then, two mothers with five young screaming toddlers came through the doors inquiring about a tour and pricing options. No man, the front counter kid got it worse than anybody.

In case it was getting too easy to pick on President Bush....

"War is an ugly thing, but not the ugliest of things. The decayed and degraded state of moral and patriotic feeling which thinks that nothing is worth war is much worse. The person who has nothing for which he is willing to fight, nothing which is more important than his own personal safety, is a miserable creature and has no chance of being free unless made and kept so by the exertions of better men than himself."
-John Stuart Mill

You've got some attitude mister

It's been brought to my attention that I've been neglecting my duties as a blogger but don't worry! I've also been neglecting my duties as a student, employee, and llama salesman too! In the last two weeks I haven't studied enough, worked with any interest or respect or sold a single pair of llama skinned double breasted overcoats. As a result, I haven't been able to report on such interesting events as Judas=Jesus' best pal, teacher-student conferences, and the next ploy to raise oil prices.