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.