Burning Trees and Buzzing Bees

Obviously, the promises of the former post will be ignored for the sake of discontinuity throughout this blog. Incongruity is next to spontaneity, and spontaneity is next to fresh, and that is what this blog is: fresh.
I am not wholly beguiled by Keren Ann; I have deemed her "too poppy and radio-friendly"; however, she is not the abomination some make her to be. Anywhoers, Dean and Britta are playing with KA (the affectionate initials) and D & B are a solid duo: certainly not a concert that will garner five "K's" (according to the Kowalski rating scale) but nonetheless has the potential for some auditory pleasure.
My camera does not receive nearly enough use: my first Facebook album in months features a mere seven photos -- but seven is a very biblical number so things could be worse.

My life needs structure.
Without structure I flounder around like a lost duck.
An indolent imposture is for the uninspired.

Oregon Girl

I have concluded the arduous examination period; the horror and terror were merely temporal. Now what? I shall voyage homeward tomorrow in my fancy jalopy, blaring B&S tunes and daydreaming of better things. I will connect with some old confreres and we will reminisce about older days and speak fondly of our futures. Perhaps I will even venture into terrible Toronto, and see an old Iranian buddy and chant Persian idioms such as: "Marg bar Amrika! Marg bar Amrika!" To prevent this blog from becoming be too esoteric I will translate that affectionate chant into English: "Death to America"! Of course, we do not actually wish death upon the lovely Great Satan, but we -- or at least I, like to understand and interpret other cultures by privately participating in their sordid activities. On the topic of America, and the notion that I have nothing to do, I will offer a brief insight into the coming Democratic and Republican nominations. Ladies first, so I shall begin with the Democrats. That previous sentence may come across as an insult, but I was merely alluding to Hilary.
Uh oh. Things have come up. I must depart this post immediately. Stay tuned -- you have 70 billion reasons to. If you caught the significance of that number, you deserve 4 political-hipster points. I must go... they are waiting.

Between The Flatland And The Caspian Sea

Church was canceled this morning due to snow. Through my window I see a pleasant tempest outside.
Four exams over the next three days. Tough break.

Remember when I desired to see Klaxons and Voxtrot, but decided I only had enough resources to venture to one show -- so I chose Voxtrot and they canceled on me.
You know, I cannot even recall the last concert I've attended. I have been desperately searching for shows, like a rabid dog hunts flesh -- and finally, I have found one: Keren Ann is playing circa early February in Toronto. Now, she has not cracked the top fifty on Last.fm, which is a touch concerning; however, I have faith that with some more listening, and in respect to her ethereal persona and Israeli/French ancestry, I could fade into a soft shade of love before today's end. She'll never be Hope Sandoval, but you gots to work with whats yous gots. One particularly salient con of KA (the affectionate initials, obviously) is that one of her lovely tunes was featured in some lame television show. Oh, well, even Mazzy Star has been reluctantly exploited by terrible pictures and small-screen series. At least she's not like Wilco and sells her soul to a car companies. By Jove! Wilco needs a shot in the arm. Anywhoers, this is quite the digressive tangent, so I will halt.

Study, study, or fail, fail. Although, if I study I will likely die and thus fail. Paradox. Fox in the snow.

This Side Of The Blue

I am unequivocally disenchanted with life today. Time is dawdling in the flowery fields, ignoring my desolate cries to hurry on.
In short, I am mildly bored for the first time in ages. Thankfully, I know the remedy to boredom a la Dorothy Parker: The cure for boredom is curiosity. What to do with this remedy? I don't know.
I have altered my schedule for next semester. After a meeting with the fine folks in the registrar's office tomorrow, my schedule should appear something like this:

Global History (Core)
Theatre (To stretch)
Philosophy of Religion (Core)
Reformation Theology (Gateway to better theology courses)
History of Missions (Because missionaries are hipsters: thin, arrogant, and they listen to obscure tribal music)

The forthcoming semester is churlish. Of course, school has always been churlish. Why should next semester be any exception?
Although next semester I have those grand volunteer plans which should integrate some immediate (if not temporal) meaning to my existence save studying and succoring my fellow confreres with their struggles.
Thomas Mann was brilliant, if not demoniacally possessed.

If You're Feeling Sinister...(Which I am not).

The basketball courts, through some meteorological phenomena, have turned to ice -- and it is very, very skater-friendly. We played hockey last gloaming and was likely the grandest gloaming, ever -- or at least for some time.
It is a poor time for such inexplicable beatitudes, for exams are nigh. I tapped one today. As they say around here, I pwned that sucker. I wrote for a longevity and a half, which translated to like ten pages and my print is rather small. Essay exams are relatively splendid insofar as exams being splendid are concerned. The forthcoming multiple choice exams will be deathlike. I have a flippin' week off, then I write four exams in three days. What a daffy sched. May be my downfall.
Is there a connection between Belle & Sebastian's "She's Losing It" and Cat Stevens' "Sad Lisa"? Good question. I don't know.
By Jove! I am beat: the soul, the root, of beatific.

Mary of Silence

This American election is tainting my Google news feed. The religious exploits are sickening -- and by Jove! that credulous mob is maddening! It's just one fantastic asylum with hordes of patients, scheming attendants, and a corrupt superintendent. The patients would organize a rebellion but they have been drugged with hallucinatory propaganda. But there's always that one patient; that patient that spits out their meds and finally sees. That patient -- Hope Sandoval.

Put on the kettle and mull over this beatific article.

Bavarian Fruit Bread

I passed.

To celebrate:
Being bashful in one's room
In a beatific state
with mellifluous Hope
harmonizing his soul
With the outer extravagance
of tangible noises

L'envoi
You may punctuate, but you cannot change
lanes.

Shine or Die

Today is the day I either prove my driving deftness or have my license rudely plucked from my hand rendering me doleful and car-less, which would be a Laura Dern shame 'cause:

I love my car
I'll admit today I've gone too far
To enamour myself with my little motor car

I wish I could say the same for you
The day will come soon when I look you in your eyes but
I won't see you

Ten hipster points for naming the artist of this catchy number.

Redeemer Intruders

So, I presented my little convoluted spiel on the Beat Generation and nobody was overly impressed. My public speaking skills are stagnant apparently. The very first thing Mike says after the completion of my presentation: "Wow. How many words of the day did you use?" Yass, I think the class got lost, but this gig was not meant for everybody -- particularly philistines and a man with a grade book. Some lad read a Trainspotting monologue and I forgot I was at Redeemer. Another fellow read a Death Cab For Cutie lyric and I desperately attempted to conceal my inner laughter.

I have class now and one tomorrow -- and then this semester's course schedule is complete. About time.

I changed my homepage from BBC to GoogleNews. Now I filter the news... sort of. The Israeli press usually offers some deep laughs. The world is dumb.

I forgot the friggin' crux

I've been pleasuring my auditory system with borderline female this-is-almost-pop-so-I-feel-guilty tunes lately, and consequently I feel rather guilty. I am just beguiled by Sarah Blasko and to a lesser extent, Leona Naess. Screw you both.
My hockey knowledge is extensive and perhaps I should cut back.
Tomorrow I am attending a legitimate church.
Frig.
I had a purpose to this post but my mind is blank. It does this often. I need a new mind.

Here come the lonely ones

On Sunday, I headed to church like a good, small town Christian boy. I attended a church I had never been to before -- a nondenom. I thought the Call to Worship thing was weirdly individualistic. Then I felt a demonic presence. That's when I realize: this is no church. This is a Unitarian Universalist centre and they basically desired for me to toss out Jesus and accept a bright ball of light into my soul to gain higher spiritual understanding. I attempted to flee but some angry-looking bandanna man slammed the door. Then some lost soul grabbed my hand, swayed, and sang. And, loneys, the preacher woman: so savage and superb, wild-eyed and magnificent! Her insanity impressed me but her denseness destroyed her credibility to even a credulous individual. But she made these lost folks impressionable -- on a lesser scale akin to Republicans harvesting Evangelicals into little fascists in the States.
I manged to shamble out during some New Age witchery while they had their red eyes closed.
One of them flung itself on its hindlegs and begged me to stay but I am no sucker.
What a let down. Someone needs to crush that pagan palace into the ground.

On the run with a loaded gun, fun fun fun, let me tell ya about it hun

After completing the arduous process of writing ten profound albeit convoluted (writing lucidly is for boring folk) pages on the historical analysis of Acts twenty-seven, I am wholly knackered. My deft ability of punctuating time will be tested with the following annoyances: memorizing some queer's poem and preparing an elaborate and eloquent presentation of the Beat generation; completing an eight page lab on sordid scientific extraneousness; catching up on like six mission journals; trying to organize handwritten notes in class because my friggin' laptop battery is moribund; order a new laptop battery; and prepare for my G test.

The latter is the ne plus ultra of aggravation. I successfully completed my driving test circa five years ago, why must I endure another? Has my driving adroitness lapsed in this five year frame? I despise my government, wasting my time. God willing, I will place an exclamation mark on this nuisance and move on with my life -- otherwise, I best get out my winter boats, as I'll be trotting through the snow wherever I go.

Flying a Kite

So, I am in this incredibly churlish class -- public speaking -- and I needed to pre-record my presentation so that my inferior superior may critique my style and offer suggestions on how to improve my presentation come gig time. Since the class is a gong show, I delayed this until the final minutes of the deadline. I madly wrote an outline, and considering this entire thing was concocted in fifteen minutes, I think it's dece. Aight, here you are, TAH-DUH! (I wrote this to the Scissor Sisters):

My heroic theme is the Beat Generation. This was an anti-culture movement in America circa the forties and fifties where a group of writers essentially wrote about their lives and labeled themselves the Beat generation -- now affectionately named beatniks by adoring fans of said literature. Two salient beats for this generation are Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg. I will read from their respective magnum opuses –- Kerouac’s novel “On The Road” and Ginsberg’s poem “Howl”.

(I now read some Kerouac -- part two: chapter three; beginning with "It was the saddest night" -- and so you may turn to this and read it yourself as I assume On The Road is on your shelf next to your Bible).

(Then I read some Ginsberg -- perhaps with a lisp -- and I need to have this memorized. Daunting)

(Now I have a sort of reflection type deal, which is essentially a stream of consciousness written against time. Forgive the solecisms -- a brother has other things to accomplish too, you know).

These readings certainly offer a very vivid and sordid taste in your mouths. This was a bohemian hedonistic lifestyle that rendered its abusers into whirlwind manic mania and soul dropping anti-climatic lows -- all this created by frustration and boredom and pure resistance towards to what they would consider an inferior and sadder culture, where folks are fixed labels and brands and deathly devoid of soul, profundity, and introspection. They desired challenge and truth to determine “time”; to determine what “it” is; but in the interim, indulge in debauchery and fall deeply into a strange and fantastic cosmos that ultimately destroyed their very souls that they desperately attempted to enliven and enlighten. Their libertine-esque ways drove stakes into the very hearts of the ones they desired to love, as their incessantly restive states could never be satisfied, until everything was known and all joys experienced.
This movement was particularly salient in the 60’s and 70’s as it served as the fundamental ideology of the explosive free bird hippie movement -- but with classic hipster snootiness, they repudiate such claims.
So what does all this mean? Why do I bother speaking about these pagan vagabonds? Well, this is not mere persiflage, there are truths and non-truths to be learned from this sordid bunch: 1. Debauchery and hedonistic propensities may offer some mirage of happiness but you’ll end up street-ridden and poor financially from hookers and poor spiritually -- also from hookers. 2. Everything feigns fecundity when one is hopped up on hallucinatory drugs. Maybe nothing is learned t’all. 3. Aight, here’s a truth: Our culture does blow chunks. It’s materialistic; it pressures justice negligence; it’s sour; it offers happiness through dumbing oneself down and accepting the gloomy quotas as normal; and there is a corona around everything that the media shines it black light upon.
(now note the classy Christian tie-in)
What does one do? I joined an irresistible revolution in Christianity, attempting to live as a rebel for Christ. But it is a struggle with external pressures boxing me in. But I aspire to delve profoundly into Christ, as the Beaters dug into pot and women.

(Class is wholly confused, and I smile and leave them all behind -- they'll never see a bad guy like me again).

Doldrums

Nothingness.

L'envoi:
The sun never reaches here.
The shadows have won.

Frigger

My frigger glasses snapped into two pieces. It wasn't even my fault this time; it was my weak motor skills and lackluster coordination, aight listen: I was holding my glasses in my hands, exiting my room when my hand proceeds to smack itself off the corner of the wall. Frig. I have attended my first class without glasses -- mathematics 101, the most primitive class ever -- and I was wholly confused. The "professor" was blathering on about something and scribbling on the chalk board madly. Due to my inadequate vision, I could not even acknowledge the presence of chalk on the board, save those audio aspects of writing on the blackboard. After two minutes I realized I would never learn anything and thus entered my "high school zone" and began to woolgather and write down odd thoughts and sicko pictures. Before I knew it, the class was over. No wonder I never learned a thing in high school. Ideally, I will order a spanking pair today from Costco but the situation is already dire, and new glasses will take ages to arrive. Friggers.

My lab partner refuses to meet with me and hence our compulsory lab is now four days late. Oh mys, seriously, what the frig? Group projects result in nothing but frustrating failure.

By Jove! a venture to Costco will result in skipping yet another political science class. I despise attendance more than my this course itself. Wait, no I don't. This course is ridiculously vapid and offers no succor to this semester's pseudo-education. Maybe I just don't like learning.

This privileged ingrate from Barcelona offers these semi-related words to my first paragraph:

Don't want to wear glasses
Though I know that I should
So I have to take chances
When I walk through the hood

Forgive the solecisms and I will forgive you.

I'm a love letter away

Stay tuned for Bible lesson.

I'd get angry with athletic ease, break common laws in twos and threes

"How did you get home so fast? You must of been speeding".
"Uhhh..." (holds up ticket) "Yeah, I kinda did."

The Darjeeling Limited

My long, flowy hair is no more. It has been shaved away like Richie Tenenbaum's. Or in other words: the former me was akin to Gilbert Grape, but now my appearance resembles that of Dan Dunne. If you have received these references with ease, then likely you'll understand the stupidity of this conversation:

Anonymous daff: (blah blah) ...My favourite actor is Johnny Depp!
Hero: Yes, yes! Oh, Ed Wood is amongst my most coveted pictures!
Anonymous daff: Who's Ed Woood?
Hero: Umm... I mean, how about that Pirates of the Caribbean picture?
Anonymous daff: Omg! POTC is my favourite movie, and I loved him before POTC too!
Hero: Philistine.
Anonymous daff: What? I'm pro-Israel.

Perhaps this was mildly critical but someone needs to put this anonymous daff in her place and who writes about beatniks and other happy things when an environmental science essay is lingering over one's head like a guillotine.

Continuing the film motif: I must view this "Control" picture, which deals with that Joy Division guy who liquidated himself at 23.

Rainbow River is running low this year, and that big fish is a slippery bugger

This semester is wearing on me. I pretty much despise half my classes. Let's attack each of these pseudo-educational classes individually, shall we?

Mathematics 101: This class is essentially a dumbed down version of grade seven mathematics -- and yet, some in the class malfunction and thus look silly. My teacher -- who incessantly jabbers about her new lover Bruno and her punk kids -- dares to call me out in class: "Bryan, I don't see any light bulbs going off in your head; you probably know all this don't you? Why don't you teach the class -- here's the chalk." Despite The Libertines and Cat Stevens efforts telling me not be shy and Floyd telling me to stick it to the man, I become somewhat of a recreant and say nothing, but direct a "screw you" stare at her. All I do in this class is doodle, while my confrere Reuben chows on a burger and completes his physics homework -- "real math". By the way, there is no homework is math 101 save writing in our journals regarding the "cool" aspects of mathematics.

Environmental Science: Carbon cycle? Phosphorus cycle? Convoluted labs where I roam about like a beatnik -- extremely confounded and despaired -- and yet pull off an eighty percent? Yee. Seriously though, this class has no benefit save Redeemer's ability to claim of producing well-rounded students.

Political Science: The biggest let down of the year. We learn some nuanced definition of a nation and then the teacher asks: is Canada a nation? -- and half the class neglects to raise their hands, figuring, "No, I do not believe I live in nation -- merely Canada". You nebbish folks! Sickening.

I should mention that my other three classes are rather pleasant, but I see no reason to dwell on good things.

Life has been this low, since I don't know when, since I don't know when

I previously forgot to give a screw-you-shout-out to Voxtrot for canceling their show -- and so I'll take the opportunity afforded to me here: screw you Voxtrot -- I hate you.

In other news I read this on my grand confreres Emil Svanängens' website: "for the moment i am looking for a bass clarinet and a double bass. ps. i might even make an album soon, need time and space." I promptly purchased a bass clarinet today and will practice twelve hours-a-day in a dreamy hope that Emil will bring me on board and we'll play mellifluous shows all around the world whilst eating Swedish meatballs, mingling with Mats Sundin, and fetching Swedish femmes with golden hair and eyes with the bluest of hues.

If you don't like Loney, dear then you are a cold unfeeling robot.

I'm a cloud of moths, who just wants to share your light. I'm an insect who wants to get out of the night

All sorts of weird things happen around here. For example(s): Two days ago we happened upon a skunk outside our dorm. Obviously, we chased it with a stick until it bolted for refuge underneath our mini wooden deck thing -- actually, it is more like a crate, which functions as a weak deck -- anyway this is digressive -- back to the point: the crate is lifted by one intrepid soul and the other fellows chucked walnuts at this sucker (these other fellows had walnuts because they previously been attempting to hurl walnuts at a raccoon who had stolen some of their garbage). The skunk was becoming pissed and thus it was decided to liquidate it before it begins to spray us with heinous gases. So they grab spears and begin to rocket these spears, like you would to hunt a whale, at our poor little anti-hero. But this little bugger refused to die and sprayed out pungent, toxic fumes and we fled like mad in fear of this poisonous mist that would cause even Cal Dewitt to lose some of his charismatic charm. Our entire living room reeked of old moribund monks- I mean skunks. The skunk had won. This is until five minutes later when some creation-hatin' folks returned with cherry bombs and fried that little SOB.

In other news, the referendum was rejected by nebbish Ontarians and the Liberals maintained their majority despite four years of worn rhetoric regarding every salient issue one could think of. If the referendum had passed the NDP and Green Party would have more seats and the Ontarian population would of been better represented; but John Tory -- the perennial loser of the Progressive Conservatives -- dissuaded enough of populace from doing so.

On to more important matters: Radiohead released In Rainbows to much praise from your own anti-hero. It sounds more lush to me, almost akin to some of my shoegazing heros. The lyrics are melancholic as always and listening to the album more than three times-a-day will result in a bout of depression.

Pale blue light along the coast

I am Nik Antropov from the 00-01 season -- the epitome of second tier. I swear I used to have mildly impressive hockey skills but they have dissipated deeply. You may be able to stretch this mediocrity struggle into a life motif: my life ambitions seem to hit the ne plus ultra territory lately -- but I do cannot elucidate these ambitions -- and they seem so grandeur, I need to crack 'em. ...but I cannot even crack Photoshop -- what chance do I have at life cracks? I cannot bring up cracksforsordidhackers.com and scroll down to life crack: 1343 2343 2343 2343 2343
If I were not so gauche and shy, things would be ineffably (word of the day last month but forgot her in the hat until now(notice I used "her", you vexing feminists)) easier. For example: Science class -- my environmental science professor mentions some sinister Australian jellyfish that liquidates people. He could not recall the name of the jelly and just stood there for a moment. Now, my knowledge of jellyfish -- particularly this Australian jellyfish -- is impressive and I immediately knew he was speaking of the Irukandji jellyfish, of which a sting results in Irukanji syndrome -- my favourite illness at the moment -- but I bashfully remained behind my laptop, feigning ignorance to my ability of specifying jellyfish.
After remaining silent, I desperately needed to speak out due to by suppressed voluble nature and thus I headed off to public speaking and delivered some ridiculous speech regarding my navigation struggles in the made metropolis of Hamilton and receive laughs a dime a half-dozen. Then, after naively believing I came across as a comical Clive Owen, my teacher stigmatizes me as "very Woody Allen like" and I return home frustrated and pick-up the paper: provincial elections are here -- like I wasn't frustrated enough. They all present nebulous and not even well crafted promises and I'd just rather see a junta come to power. Perhaps I'll refuse my ballot.
Thanksgiving is here and I am very thankful for many things -- except turkey. Actually, this is a pleasant break from school and I am quite content.

"Did you get the memo?" - "Yeah, it was kind of harsh."

Memo to stingy Iranians:

Persians who neglect their own blog and yet still demand free advertising for aforementioned blog are daft and destroy the credibility of this page as I promise my fans that my links will be fresh and stimulating.

In other news, some intense folks just stopped by with a dish in hand and pressed me very firmly on this issue: is this dish a bowl or a plate? I determined it was a saucer.

Black Sunday

Remember that time we were traveling to Trinity Baptist Church but then learned that Google is mendacious and thus Trinity Baptist does not even exist in Ancaster at all. So we hit the church strip to find another church but it was eleven and the only church that began around then was some Catholic church; and we thought, hey, Catholics cannot be that different; and then once inside we realized that Catholics are that different; and communion was about to be served and we thought, hey we're Christians too, may we not partake in communion?; and then we realized that we knew nothing of Catholic tradition and I had essentially plucked Jesus' flesh right outta this woman's hands and began to walk away with it when she sternly advised: "sir, put it in your mouth, now." -- and I ate it really quickly because I was scared of the woman; and then she stared us down because our actions were seen as turpitudinous; and then we booked it outta there before 'cause we were so terrified to spill Jesus' blood. Remember that time we basically defiled the Catholic church and chuckled cause they had a framed photo of Benedict and then had to finish communion at Tim Horton's?

Lassitude

I pretty much have the equivalent of Irukandji syndrome, except this plague has manifested itself as a common cold; regardless, I languidly wander about the dorm, drawing criticism from my dorm mates who do not pity the sick. I need notes for the classes missed today. In a few hours I must write a Lab quiz, followed by three hours of lab loitering and unsuccessfully feigning scientist status.

The other day whilst cruising through some Hamilton ghetto, I passed this really sketchy and worn apartment (likely a brothel or some other sordid thing) with the words, "Yuppie Condos" spray painted on the side.

Loneys, five hours until second tryout

The original aspiration to become a Redeemer hockey hero has fizzled for the following reasons: I have no endurance; I've lost skating ability like nothing else; my once booming shot is now merely average; and I am pathetically weak. Regardless of these salient anti-attributes, I will likely attend the second tryout. Once again the following thoughts may run through my head as I struggle to simply perform a figure eight around a dot (each phrase is presupposed with a "loneys"): "Everything feels so heavy and burns ever so painfully; cut me now; my soft and inaccurate shot is akin to Nazi soldiers; I am getting beat as morbidly as a Nazi soldier", and so on. This may sound like a no gooder situation -- and it is -- but I am not overly concerned about my whilom abilities. Side note: Whilom is the word of the day.

Some of my classes are offering some intrigue, which is a pleasant. Further optimism: We have solidified a ball hockey team for intermurals.

L'envoi

Life is cold; but not hypothermia cold. No, no, I am content for the moment.

I Loved Them Until They Loved Me

Chanson: Ballade At Thirty Five
Written by dear Dorothy Parker, and mellifluously sung by dear Carla Bruni.

This, no song of ingénue,
This, no ballad of innocence;
This, the rhyme of a lady who
Followed ever the natural bents.
This, a solo of sapience,
This, a chantey of sophistry,
This, the sum of experiments, --
I loved them until they loved me.

Decked in garments of sable hue,
Daubed with ashes of myriad Lents,
Wearing shower bouquets of rue,
Walk I ever in penitence.
Oft I roam, as my heart repents,
Through God's acre of memory,
Marking stones, in my reverence,
"I loved them until they loved me."

Pictures pass me in long review,--
Marching columns of dead events.
I was tender, and, often, true;
Ever a prey to coincidence.
Always knew I the consequence;
Always saw what the end would be.
We're as Nature has made us -- hence
I loved them until they loved me.

L'envoi

Princes, never I'd give offense,
Won't you think of me tenderly?
Here's my strength and my weakness, gents --
I loved them until they loved me.

Landmark

Today, Tim freely listens to Carla Bruni. Is this for her mellifluous chords or her strikingly luscious exterior? Perhaps both. None-the-less, the maudlin John Mayer is losing playing time--and this, my daffy little readers, is a salient point of conversion from mob behaviour to an ear searching for truth; not immediate gratification from trash blowing in the wind.

Regardless, Tim has auditory ADD; therefore, switching songs about every fifteen seconds and arousing cholericism within my soul.

Oh, he plays The National now! Loneys! The world is not so cold.

TERROR

There are hordes of tiny black insects hovering about my room; they are stygian and harvest my flesh! There are millions of these things on my walls! TERROR.

My dear fellow sufferer Marianne:

Posted by Marianne on August 01, 2007 at 00:43:24:

"Please help me identify these little black bugs. I recently found them on the ceiling of a light and that is where most of them were. They also were on the walls. These things are tiny but there were a few bigger ones on the wall. I am so freaked out I wont sleep in that room. Can anyone tell me what they are and how to get rid of them. I am going nuts. I killed a bunch of them last night and now there are more in the same spots. Any help??????????????"

No one answered her! NO ONE. DOES NO ONE CARE.

IT IS 12:30, I SHOULD SLEEP--BUT I WILL NOT! OH, THEY ARE EVERYWHERE.

Daffy Dances, Misplaced Misomusy

This "decade dance" bled lameness. Dancing is a weak justification to socialize, yet no one actually socializes due to blaring sound waves--and mostly I would rather listen to music than mingle with the mob. I attended this charade as a more stylized version of Jack Kerouac--but I appeared to be your atypical illicit drug abuser. Kerouac was actually a heavy drinker and this played a salient role in his ultimate mortal destruction. I substituted liquor with orange juice -- everyone was sipping on OJ -- and we rebelliously tossed our empty bottles onto the grass. Immediately, of course, we placed them into the recycling bin after this feigned hooliganism. I wore shades and everything appeared inky and blended and I was thoroughly confounded. I danced gauchely and cursed the ancient folk who created this morbid pastime.

Mondays will be deathlike this semester: I have four day classes followed by a three hour night class. Furthermore, on Tuesday I have a three hour morning lab and By Jove! do I have absolutely despise labs. Monday and Tuesdays are a one-two punch that may only be compared to Nistelrooy-Ferdinand of Manchester United.

Life is cold.

Killer's Creek

Redeemer security has no compassion; they are unforgiving and choleric. Perhaps this is because their employment sucks--but I was always amiable towards Shell customers and I despised them all. I must now pay twenty-five dollars to this tyrannical institution. HAVE I NOT DONATED ENOUGH MONEY TO THIS SORDID PLACE. I am embittered as few will ever be. Adding on to my destruction, my glasses are broken. I cannot see; I cannot take notes; I cannot drive; and I cannot live!

I am not fine with this! Oh, inverted fractions.

I am a criminal. I illegitimately parked my jalopy outside of my designated parking zone. I will appeal this ticket to the highest court possible--the Redeemer parking counsel. Other than this holy terror and a plethora of other issues burning my mind, I am stellar.
The other day, your hero and his confrere ventured off on an intense exhibition to befriend newsters. For some odd reason, we seemed drawn to freshman female dorms. This exhibition was pretty much like the Sable Island exhibition in '05--when a team of scientists headed to the island and solve the enigma of the slaughter of innocent seals, but winter came early and thus results were inconclusive--and the awkward moments on our befriending adventure could of confounded a seal so intensely that it would die. Furthermore, the RA's of these first year dorms were suspicious of our intentions, thinking maybe we were sordid characters on the prowl to pick-up venerable youngsters.
My math teacher called me out in class to answer a question while I was busy woolgathering and demanded I invert and multiply; she made a fool of me.
More so, a compulsory science course inclusive with a three hour lab is an overt anti-blessing and I resent it.
I believe I told Hendy I would blog about important matters like my brand name clothing and how I'm a hypocritical corporate whore, but obviously I chose not to.

Say Something New

Unemployment feels swell. The path to Redeemer is like the Underground Railroad.

A spanking new email has been conceived via hotmail. I will begin the arduous process of adding contacts shortly. I anticipate this MSN list will be much shorter and efficient; there are a myriad of contacts on my current list that I never talk to anymore.

Packing sucks.

My chiropractor has been moderately successful; but for the green he commanded, he should of restored my deviated spine and financed an exhibition to the Arctic. According to Canadian scientists our Arctic passages are melting at an alarmingly quicker rate each year come spring. As the ice melts quicker, our northern passage route will become an ideal route for oil tankers to use year-round; and with temperatures rising, it will become realistic to drill for oil in our vast Arctic area. In this Arctic area is like one quarter of the world's oil. Loneys! I hope Shell's parent company gets in on this action!

I would like to thank you, the mob

Upon my arrival at Shell today, there was about forty-five cents in the "give a penny/take a penny" tray. This was amble change for me to purchase some gum. Thank you.

Get Me Away From Here, I'm Dying

If this summer lasts any longer I'll need to revise my will. I am on pins and needles awaiting my education. First semester I will receive some very undesirable education in the forms of environmental science and mathematics. I'll likely need to enroll in biology next semester too--what a crock. Upon further review of my first semester I am not over-the-moon about any of these subjects. I'm basically still taking Redeemer's cores. After I suffer through these compulsories, I may enroll in higher education.
Furthermore, I am not even mildly eupeptic about these ongoing social activities during the first week or so. To cap off these fatuous social gatherings a decade dance will take place: I'd rather be moribund with Irukandji syndrome (Wiki that; it's an interesting way to approach possible death). Despite my reasonable apprehensions I will attend these death-functions because I am sociable and even voluble when properly enticed.
Despite these grievances I am very eager to commence my second term. I'm thrilled to see my dear confreres once again; I am rooming with Tim. This should make our room a social mecca.

She Hangs Brightly

Mazzy Star. Yes, yes! If only I were born twenty years earlier in Southern California, I would of wooed Hope Sandoval and we'd been introspective together; if only this were so. Furthermore I'd be confreres with My Bloody Valentine and The Jesus and Mary Chain and we'd shoot the warm, sultry Californian breeze. Per contra this pleasant fiction, I suffer through sub-par indie pictures like Down in the Valley just to hear Hope's mellifluous tones. Mazzy Star, like Radiohead, is allegedly bleeding a new record but they're recording with a dull knife. But unlike Radiohead, MS (the affectionate acronym) play gigs at very humble concert halls with inky lighting and self-conscious bashfulness; they will neglect the audience and play only a short while and only encore if the audience has behaved -- been respectfully quiet and not photographed -- and of course all this business occurs after a few hours of waiting. The consequences of such a performance may lose them a fan but this fan is a daff for he not know how privileged he is to hear euphonious chords from the ethereal persona that is Hope Sandoval.

On a non-Mazzy note, I viewed some X-Games -- BMX Park -- and By Jove! have none of those athletes viewed the Lords of Dogtown picture. I mean, Dave Mirra, is a corporate whore. How does he garner any respect? But then I saw other athletes and they were all corporate whores. Skip would not be impressed; Skip would not call any of these sordid punks "bro".

This is my final weekend with Shell. A shame. I was becoming accustomed to my duties and becoming adroit and handy. A shame. I was functional and borderline competent and they will sorely desire my abilities while I am off becoming learned. A shame.

Brief brush with a Nationalist

I was puttering about in my jalopy when I noticed a fancy roadster desperately attempting to merge into traffic; being the altruistic individual I are, I allowed this swank car to merge ahead of me. Then I noticed this automobile was that of a nationalist -- a Florida license plate with a "Support Our Troops" sticker -- and needless to say, I was sickened and realized why no Canadian was letting him merge. Considering my love-everyone yet dislike-most policy, I did not regret my decision; but I received no thank-you wave -- NO THANK-YOU WAVE! Loneys, the things I did for this Neo-Conservative (in Liberal Canada) and he neglects or refuses to acknowledge this courteous act --shame on you, ingrate!

Loomer

I viewed this picture, Stardust -- not for cinematic value; but to heal my sore eyes on the toothsome Michelle Pfeiffer. By Jove! she has aged; not the Pfeiffer I fondly recall from The Fabulous Baker Boys. TFFB (as "fans" call it), was filmed way back in '88 and that was -- whoa! nearly twenty years ago! Well, I suppose, she is the most delectable forty-something my eyes will ever lay upon.
After the picture, we -- my confreres and hotnags (I) -- headed over for some grand family fun at Boston Pizza. I ordered an Italian pasta dish, which was a far distance from ambrosia but good enough for me and the contemporary Michelle Pfieffer. The conversation shifted to music and exuberantly I began speaking of My Bloody Valentine and other shoegaze artists who have made life worth while lately. Not one confrere had heard of this foreign sounding "shoegaze" and despondently no one cared to expand their listening propensities. The conversation turned to The Peppers and some chatter about Flea. I mentioned John Frusciante and confusion ensued: "Who is this John Frusciante that mad Nags is mentioning?; a man from some indie band no doubt". I looked ruefully at my plate where I had been carefully dissecting my dinner with my fork functioning as the instrument of exhibition.
Aight, I have Big Brother lined up on CBS now; a shame really as I intended to speak on my most pressing global concern at the moment: hitchhiking. Upon reading "On The Road" my opinion of hitchhiking is quite clear: It's wikid. But where, oh where! are the hitchhikers today? We'll discuss this later.

Update List Five

1. I have a Sociology examination tomorrow. Loneys.

2. A new spanking email will be unveiled shortly.

3. I've been hitting up shoegaze/dream pop lately. After falling for Asobi Seksu, I thought it appropriate to venture back into the beginnings of these genres so that I may respect the foundations -- otherwise I'd be akin to a Muse fan who neglects Radiohead; thus, I'm allowing my ears to pick up the sonically-ambiguous soundscapes of My Bloody Valentine, Slowdive, Mazzy Star, The Jesus Mary Chain, Cocteau Twins and what have you. At first, I was uneasy listening to Mazzy Star because their song "Fade Into You" has played on virtually every "hit" Fox teen TV show. But after some careful research, I discovered that Mazzy Star repudiated their fame and were notoriously difficult in interviews, frequently responding with monosyllables or no response all; this gave me peace in my Mazzy Star listening endeavors.

4A. I will learn advanced photoshop skills and improve upon my lacklustre photos.

4B. I will learn rudimentary web making skills and design some below mediocre blog so I'm not confined and censored as I am here at Blogspot. Plus, everyone has blogspot or some other high profile blogging source and the unoriginality of it all is tragic.

5. I contritely watch Big Brother three times a week. No matter what you think I will continue to do so and cheer on my favourite reality stars. Is it ironic that I despise the three Christians on show? Or is it just natural because Christians are misrepresented socially and politically?

Nothingsevergonnastandinmyway(again)

Today some geezer handed me a counterfeit twenty and made off like an Arab.

Also, a man purchased condoms yet his wedding finger was bare. Nevertheless he was grinning madly. Maybe he was playing a prank. I was confounded (Nah, I am not so naive; obviously his intent was sinful reverie with some confused girl).

I was blasting Asobi Seksu as a mating call; no dame responded.

A daytripping negro swaggered into the station and asked for some rolling papers. It would be reasonable to hypothesize that this stoner is living in the controversial low income housing project in Uxbridge.

To conclude: I was mulling over The Economist -- a magazine situated in the middle of US Weekly and In Touch (a mere centimeter separates intellectionalism and idiocy) -- and in walks some ditz.

Ditz: "When do you guys close?"
Stud: "We're 24/7."
Ditz: "Everyday?"

I'm guessing this ditz character is reaching one centimetre in the wrong direction. Unless, of course, this apparent dumbness is due to extreme social consciousness; in which case a judgement call cannot be made.

I was swimming in grey, swimming in grey

My youth may be summed up like this: I was a wanderlust with an unhealthy beguilement for bunnies and gas huffing. It was a youth fraught with disturbing dreams and lugubrious days.
I reminisce on my past because my sister is applying for a position in which she needs to submit a page of creative writing; thus she turned to me to provide her with that page. I have not written anything remotely creative in the past year save a short screenplay with my confrere Dale; therefore, I had to scavenge through my prolific high school era (and to a lesser extent the U of T depression of 05/06) and uncover something worthy for Jena's submission. I logged onto my old computer, dug up some graffiti stained notebooks and was overwhelmed with material.
Now, my grade school days were met with much chorlericness, cynicism, and an anti-everything attitude. These adjectives may not be entirely obsolete towards my current persona, but I am nowhere near the dark abyss I was treading years ago. During this dark period I prominently wrote screenplays. I found circa thirty screenplays on my computer; half of those incomplete and with themes and ideas so peculiar and convoluted they have become inexplicable to the author. The material that is comprehensible is black and incongruous and by no means appropriate for any official submission. Thankfully I no longer resonate with these drafts; however, I must commend myself for such creativity and motivation to write as much as I did. I lived with thunderstruck fantasy and dreams with chimeras skulking about my mind. Whatever happened to those days? I was flooded with ideas daily and was forced many-a-time to ignore lessons and scribble furiously at some spanking idea which would become my magnum opus. I found a certain but limited blithe with these ideas and escaped into a woolgathering world. Looking back I see my writing wasn't so terrible and maybe my self-deprecating fastidiousness was unfounded. But I have not seen this old world for some time. I am now purely confounded. I have nothing left to say now except this: Everything is just far too real for a fabricated man.

By Jove!

The other day I ventured into the smoggy and dreary city that is Toronto. Having been country confined for a month, I felt like a foreigner. But if you've ever been to Toronto, you'd realize everyone was a foreigner. I rather loathe Toronto, as the mecca of Canada is an unfavourable location for a simple country lad such as myself. Mind you the country is fanged and blood thirsty with stygian mosquitoes and other sinister insects. This is maybe a paradox: Nature and I are opposing ends of magnets, and my curiosity and infatuation with nature leads me deeper into Her heart; but in this heart lies a skulking darkness, which ultimately swarms and repels me so I rapidly scatter to re-trace my steps back towards humanity escaping this feigned utopia. We're drawn together but we destroy one another like a celebrity couple.

Anywhoers I met up with a dear confrere with the noble intent to browse secondhand bookstores and recoup forgotten literary works to revel in. After I indulged in a everythingonit veggiedog, Cajun spiced fries and an Evian, I informed my amie that I was nourished and hydrated for the body, but not yet for the mind - so our trek began. On the way, we bypassed some toothsome Irish dames - think Dolores O'Riordan of The Cranberries (from her good angle)- and as the hobbledehoy I am, I shambled around them so they wouldn't be caught under my shadow; primarily so they wouldn't be deprived of sunbeams they unequivocally craved (they are Irish after all: the milky skinned, freckled type).

Ah, there it is - our desired location - "Seeker's Books." Eagerly, we tottered inside this ancient subterranean shop with rickety shelves and cement walls oozing moisture. And there he is - the epitome secondhand bookstore owners - an anti-Zionist Jew with a passion for conspiracy theories and a penchant to ramble on about these theories to every unsuspecting soul entering his little shop.

Not long after we began digging through forgotten arts, brosif cried victoriously, "Ah, will you look at this!" (he holds up a forgotten work, which remains forgotten to me) "In high school I read this in French," he adds superciliously. Delicately, he opens this novel and feels the pages and I think: this is either an avid book collector or intellectual snobbery; I remain undecided.

After much mulling and mock chatter I decided to purchase a novel by beat generation author Jack Kerouac and a collection of novellas by Thomas Mann.

These events should of been documented with photos but my failing memory failed me; my camera was forgotten unlike Sal.

The Golden One

I received an informal complaint from Mehran The Persian. He is indignant that his "linkster" has been changed from "Mehran's blog - it's a gooder" to the more simple and efficient "Mehran The Persian". I apologize confrere; however, your feelings are of no importance to me and thus your informal complaint has been repudiated. Your "linkster" will receive a spanking new name for no other reason than I live a vapid existence and it would likely highlight my day.

Last.fm neglected to update weekly listening charts. This is an non-act of war. Though I've become strongly attached to last.fm catering my musical pleasures, I will not hesitate to log off my last.fm pink sphere thing for an entire week in protest.

The other day Mats Sundin purchased gasoline from me. Then Mother informed me there is a deranged man in town that physically resembles and pretends to be Mats Sundin. This is logical, as this imposter was wearing a Sundin t-shirt, driving a lousy automobile and isn't in Sweden.

Asobi Seksu is the greatest Jap-led New York shoegazing/dream pop band ever.

Shoutout to you cats who voted for a spanking email. The turnout was higher than the 2004 Presidential election, yet lower than the atypical American Idol vote. I'm still ambivalent towards a decisive email address; rest assured, the process is ongoing.

Oh, a feeling of lassitude is creepin' up on me... so long.

IndecisiveNags

The time has come for a spanking new cyberspace mail address; below is an exhaustive list of nominees. Please select which address you feel would do me justice. I've sorted the prospects into categories to ease this task; and of course this address will be activated through Hotmail. Note: some of these prospects are ascribed to Rattnarcotics.

Japanese:
Nageisha
Nagsamauri
Nagosaurus

Religion/Spirituality:
Nagentile
Naghoul
Nagnostic
NagsScientologyCauseJohnTravoltaTomCruiseAndThatBlackGuyFromSouthParkCannotBeWrong
Naglevitation
NagSaintHot

Music Related:
Nagloaming
Naglamrock
NagScissorSisters
Nagrekerna

Seductive/Bewitching (the preferred category I'd say):
Nagazing
Naglaucoma
Naglissade
NagsShags
NaglutenFree
Nagsalad
Nagloaf
NagleyPuff
HotNagsMaids
FinagleTheNagle
Nagleeper
iamforlovers
Naglistens
Naglagoon
NagLust
Nagsicle
NagLoansHisHeartWithoutInterestExceptInYou
NagsInABox

Self-Righteous/Ostentatious:
Nagland
Nagsaga
Nagalore
SwaggerNaggar
Naglegacy
Naganator

Unclassifiable:
NagLethalInjection
Nagscathe
Nagale
Naglock
Nagauche
NaglegitimateChild
Rottenags

These flies don't sting, but stab

Allright! shoutout time.
Shoutouts to: Ed Harcourt and Joseph Conrad.
That concludes shoutout time.

According to Last.fm, my number one song is "I am John" by Loney, dear (note: only the Swedes know whether the 'dear' should be capitalized). I thought it appropriate to post the lyrics. Having these lyrics available is a luxury, as Loney, dear lyrics are rarer than Woolly Mammoths being found frozen in God-forsaken continents.

Johnny and I, we got lost tonight, we got carried away.
It takes someone like me to lose track like that, to be troubled down,
got a heart full of plans but nowhere to run.
There were seventeen dogs out to track us down
and I got some bruises and I got a scar but now,
never gonna let you down,
and I got it wrong like I knew I would, and I told you,
never gonna let you down,
I must never let you down,
never gonna let you—

And everything must start from here,
in a sunshine with ease with somewhere to go,
with no sticky feeling of going wrong,
no heartbeat asking where you're gonna go.
With the trouble you wear, you want to wear it down,
you want to make something new of this but
never gonna make it (home), never gonna make it.
Someone I want now, somewhere I want to go, and I told you,
never gonna let you down,
never gonna let you down,
but I will always let you down.

I said Johnny and I, we got lost tonight,
but we doubled our chances, we've got somewhere to go.
We've got devils chasing us to hunt us down,
and we know we can't go like this from now.
I've got a feeling of you, and we danced for so long,
I want your arms around me, said
never gonna let you down, was never gonna let you—
Someone I want now, somewhere I want to go, and I told you,
never gonna let you down,
never gonna let you down,
but I will always let you down.

I've got a feeling of you and we danced for so long,
I want your arms around me like lovers do,
and I'm never gonna let you down, gon' let you down,
gon' let you down, gon' let—
I've got a feeling of you and we danced for so long,
I want your arms around me like lovers do,
and I'm never gonna let you down, gon' let you down,
gon' let you down, gon' let you down.
Johnny and I, we got lost tonight, we got carried away.
It takes someone like me to lose track like that, to be troubled down,
got a heart full of plans but nowhere to run.
And everything must start from here,
in a morning with ease with somewhere to go,
with no sticky feeling of going wrong,
with no heartbeats asking where you're gonna go.
I've got a feeling of you and we danced for so long,
I want your arms around me like lovers do,
and I'm never gonna let you down, gon' let you down,
gon' let you down, gon' let you down.
I've got a feeling of you and we danced for so long,
I want your arms around me like lovers do,
and I'm never gonna let you down, gon' let you down,
gon' let you down, gon' let you down.

A rather vapid post regarding insignificant events

After many sleepless nights and zombie like days, I concluded the only suitable and heroic email for myself would be: hotnags@hotmail.com. As I went about securing this account, the most unlikely and tragic thing happened - hotnags@hotmail.com is unavailable. Some daft punk claimed it first. Or maybe it's not some daft punk, but a person of high class and esteem; after all, this individual has demonstrated impressive tastes selecting such an address. Attempts to contact this (daft punk or esteemed) person have failed. Maybe the account is closed. I've notified Hotmail authorities trusting they will resolve this matter.

I viewed a musical picture show today--Dancer In The Dark--and it's the most gloomy musical ever. It's like classic MGM with blood and capital punishment; a Dorthy with a gun. But it's not relentlessly stygian as brief roseate musical interludes shed some light on the darkness; without those interludes, it would of been, well, Dogville, I suppose.

Today was hot. I miss winter.

I prefer to chase deer rather than cars.

The Quest

Virtually any email address would mark profound improvement upon leaf_fan29@hotmail.com. Yet my quest for a new address has left me depressed (aside: I did not intend for a rhyming blog). Anywhoers, I've finally decided upon an address to sleep on: shiveringgreen@hotmail.com. AH, BUT THAT DOUBLE G. Do I insert a period or an underscore such as: shivering.green or shivering_green; that period is annoying and that underscore is blantantly inapt.

Tomorrow, slaving on the rig, I will ponder this quandary.

Oh, just common unpleasantries really

It's recently come to my attention that blogger.com sucks. I mean, it seriously blows. I hate the inability to befriend people. If this were Venezuela or China, only one blogging website would exist and thus the entire blogging community would be unionized and blissful. I glower at capitalism and non-centralized governments.
If I so desired I could subscribe to others' blogs, but I'd rather be subjected to left winged Michael Moore propaganda. That man suffers from a toxic case of megalomania, whereas I suffer from something completely different - I am gauche, folks. Or I lack social polish and I'm awkward. It is an appropriately unpleasant word to pronounce.

I need a brand spanking new e-mail address! This is such a conundrum for me. I've set a deadline. By Friday, I will have a new address for the first time in eight years. This is a most daunting task.

I pity the daffs who viewed that Transformers picture. And I pity Steven Spielberg for involving himself in such a picture, which bring opprobrium to his classics. Shame on you, man.

Also, Architecture in Helsinki has a song in the Sprint commercial. I have mixed feelings.

She's my Rushmore

I worked twenty eight hours in three days. Phew, for a minute there, I lost myself. These laborious hours include the holiday Monday, which should be time and a half; however, Shell pays me cash "underneath the oil rig" so I do not benefit from rare government enforced handouts. This mildly inflames me. Shell is a like Scrooge - a miser with ostentatious wealth. I am like Tiny Tim - a blindly dedicated slave desperately attempting to scrap together enough cash to attain a University degree.
On July 1st The Fan590 (Toronto's sports radio station) brought opprobrium upon Canada and its citizens. Everyone knows July 1st is the beginning of the NHL's unrestricted free agency period. As the proud and courageous citizen I am, I was working the oil fields and listening to the latest mad fury of free agent signings when after a stingy two hours of coverage the Fan590 switches to - brace for it - baseball. The pre-game coverage asked the question: what is Canada's greatest baseball moment? Disgracefully, citizens (likely illegal) called in from across the GTA expressing their cheery baseball memories. The ironic thing is that earlier in the show the commentators were speaking of a lack of Canadian pride - they just interrupted hockey coverage for baseball!; loney, dears!

Anywhoers, the Leafs ended up signing Jason Blake to a five year contract. He's an aging veteran coming off a career year. The signing will inevitably come back to haunt them, in the form of an anti-Casper like ghost; looking similar to Bryan McCabe.

This reminds me, I must create a new e-mail address. I've been working on a new address for about seven years now. Any suggestions are welcome.

Mar Barg Uxbridge!

I've decided upon a new perspective: These next two months will be my longest stay in Uxbridge forevermore, and afterwards the constraints of Uxbridge-death living will never again afflict me. I will be free and no longer doomed.
Next summer I will either be studying with a University or I'll be slaving in a Territory doing, well, native-like stuff, I guess. The point is: Never again will Uxbridge hold me captive! I'm only a prisoner this summer so that the Chiropractor may treat me three times a week.
The summer is half over! And I don't appear to have any non-healing wounds from this town. This town is booming. I don't like booming towns, I like dying (Texan) towns!
Oh, and we're writing some new picture, Continuity, today. It'll be short as day. We'll shoot and edit it, which should take loads of time, and eliminate slow, Slurpee-free summer days. We'll purge the hard days.
If I'm as young as my dreams, and as old as my cynicism's, I best be finding the Fountain of Youth.
ONWARDS, CLEAR SAILING AHEAD.

Unpleasant dialogues, followed by a more personal epilogue

* I will be referred to as Hero.

An Auspicious Beginning
Owner (to manager): Is this the new kid?
(I put forth my cold hand for handshake).
Hero: Hi, I'm Bryan.
Manager (to owner): Yeah, that's him.
(Owner grabs my hand but refuses to shake).
Owner: (heartlessly) Good luck. (Quickly turns and leaves.)
Manager: Yeah, he's like that.

Pick Your Poison
Tobacco Man: Can I get, uh, De Maurier Light King Size? (cigarettes)
Hero: Sure (I struggle to find these. I must appear incompetent). Which one is that?
Tobacco Man: It's that one there, with the guy choking on the front.
Hero: Ah. This one?
Tobacco Man: No, no. That guy is wheezing. I want the choking guy!
Hero: Oh, oh, okay.

Irony Bells
Angry White Man: Ya know my (expletive) wife made me come all the (expletive(s)) way down here to buy some (expletive) cigarettes! (Expletives) I mean, she's (expletive) retarded.
(Car Passes)
Beat
Angry White Man: Wow! Will ya look at that? That's gotta be a 1940's Chevy. At least someone in the world has class.

I'm sorry, I'm not Kevin Costner
Shameless American Wannabe: I just got back from the field (baseball; not oil) and I hit a real whopper! Great sport, huh? You play ball?
Hero: No, I'm Canadian.
(Blank stare)
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After slaving six days, and nearing death several times, I'm suffering post-working-six-days-after-extended-unemployment-period depression. I've needed solitary time to recharge my batteries. But my batteries are like no-name batts and my recharger is busted. It's on these blue, melancholic days I desire to trade places with Aung San Suu Kyi and be on my lonesome in some shelter structure surrounded by a military junta; suffering for democracy to improve living conditions. Of course Aung San Suu Kyi cannot scroll through itunes and find solace in The Format, or Jesus (not on itunes, obviously), because I think she's a Buddhist, but don't hold me to that. But you may hold me to this: Sometimes the most radiant, bright music won't lift your spirits.

A Day In The Life

Shell doings:

First let me note: I AM SO BLOODY AFFABLE; IT'S SICKENING. I don't know how I do it.

Aight. Now, Shell doings:

First and foremost, I give sound directions, even if I'm not certain of the desired destination. Then there's loads of other menial tasks that won't interest you. So, we'll skip to the creme of the Oreo: Emergency situations.

Sometimes construction workers drill into power lines and we're left in the dark. Because making a sign is reckoned counter-productive, I loiter by the pumps and yell, "We aints gots no power!" To which the customer responds, "Oh, but do ya's still have gas?" To which I reply, "We gots plenty of gas-o-line sir, but we gots no means to bring her up from that there ground."
This is an unpleasant surprise to (apparently daffy) customers causing them to curse and speed off (but probably not far causes they gots no gas-o-line).

But wait, why am I speaking in hick dialect? There's a simple answer. About two years ago I went through I stage - a dying, dusty '50's Texan town stage. I read and viewed The Last Picture Show, Texasville, and Duane's Depressed. For the record, I quite enjoyed this stage; I even believe I coined the term 'gooder' around this time to express my satisfaction. Anywhoers, since the most common cause of Texan town death is a dry tap, now, being employed by the oil industry rekindles my fancy with Texan depression (of course the States now rely on foreign oil.) So, I'm carelessly sweeping dust around the battered ol' station just like Sonny and Duane, sipping Cola talkin' 'bout our lousy football team; 0-7 this year. Then some pretty thing passes in her red Mercedes convertible. It's her - Jacy Farrow - the prettiest girl in town, and the only one worth pursuing.

Ah, what a pleasant fiction; probably best left a fairy tale, otherwise the ensuing depression would lead to an undesired Hunter S. Thompson-like bullet to the head. But hey, at least I'd get Johnny Depp to finance my ashes being blown from some canon. That's class.

New Enterprises

After an epic battle with East Side Mario's, I've decided to secure proper employment from a caring employer who will value me. Thus, I officially commence work within the oil/gasoline industry tomorrow. The grand corporation of Shell has delegated all sorts of responsibility my way. I begin as a lowly, grossly underpaid cash man. I basically control the money coming in and out of the business. I suppose it's an administrative position (I'm sorry. I try to be modest).

Let's view some jammed informational nuggets about Shell:
We're based in the free and wonderfully capitalist country of the United States of America.
We're an affiliate of Royal Dutch Shell - a MULTINATIONAL oil company. We are one of America's (and probably Canada, but Canadian statistics are meaningless) leading oil/natural gas, and petrochemical manufacturers! My potential is untapped; the American dream is within reach!

UH OH! There are some criticisms:

"Friends of the Earth" claims that damaged produced by OUR drilling could be something of 20 billion dollars to local communities/wider environment; however, due to their amateur, hippie sounding name, they have lost credibility.

In 2005, we netted a sweet profit of 26 billion dollars. Some consider us profiteers (especially those annoying environment friendly groups). I figure we could pay off those green peace lovers with a mere billion of our profit. I'm surprised pay offs aren't already in the budget. I'll speak the president about this. But I think he's located in Texas. I'll sure he visits the station every once in a while, I'll see him then.

Other minor criticisms:

We may of supported the Apartheid regime in South Africa by pursuing opportunities there.
We tend to spill oil and ruin some habitats.
We broke the US Clean Air Act. (That's ironic. Everyone knows the US don't give a hoot 'bout the environment).
Some infringement thing (we're frequently sued).
Chemical pollutants, pipeline ruptures, water contamination, employed evil Vietnamese people during the war, we charged a Nigerian anti-oil activist with treason and executed him, the police slaughtered eighty more people and destroyed more homes when we asked for police protection from a peaceful protest; some board banned us from investing in Darfur (something to do with genocide), we screwed over some Japs back in '93, tried to screw over people looking for retirement money in Malaysia, we strongly desire a pipeline in Ireland, which we claim the locals desire, we're developing a gas field in Iran despite their radical government, we desire to destroy Alaskan lands 'cause we gots to get that oil; faulty health and safety record, and lastly (because I am tired), CONVENIENTLY the United States destroyed the hell out of Iraq so that we may take over their oil supply.

Other than that, I am proud to be a Shell employee.

Loney, dear

On Sunday I had the royal privilege of viewing Toronto get blasted by a Swedish shit-storm of Loney, dear. Emil Svanängen's progressive mini pop symphonies straddle melancholy and euphoria, with orchestrated climaxes that would emotionally affect an unfeeling robot.

Emil's forlorn falsetto embodies immaculate synergy with the quaint, melodic keys filling the air with a new form of oxygen. The heavens must have Loney, dear pouring out infinitely to provide a joy that far too many Earth dwellers will be deprived of.

I spoke to him: "(Mumble, mumble) ...wonderful (mumble mumble)."

He was more than kind.

My Last Post (Unless I don't suffer heart fibrillation).

About an hour ago I suffered severe electric shock. I was unplugging some halogen light thing and WHAM; hit me like drunken step Father slaps his red headed son. Naturally, I was "shocked" that electricity was uninvitedly rarin' throughout my entire body. I cried out. "Ahh I've bein' shocked!" I managed to release the base and collapsed on the ground (unsure if the collapse was caused by the electricity or my natural melo-dramatic nature). My throat had a lump, my hand killed - most notably my left index finger was burned to a crisp, my lung capacity had diminished, and my untimely demise felt imminent. Surprisingly, I stood up and ran upstairs to look in a mirror; basically checking for any disfigurement to my superior exterior. The answer is no; however, I still knocked on death's door and perhaps he was too busy picking up Iraqis and Darfur peeps to fly all the way to Canada for me. Or perhaps he was on his way. My body tingled; I am still tingling! I feel a current running through my body. I must release this current somehow! If this current catches my heart off guard then fibrillation will occur, which ultimately would be my death.

I seeked advice from my colleague in the science community and he believes I'm still in a precarious state. He's unreliable though, thus I checked the most respected site on the web - Wikipedia. They mentioned the amount of bolts required to cause a fatality. They had like five categories. I appear to be in category 3; CATEGORY 4 IS DEATH. Which leads to an intriguing question: What is category 5? Well, that, my daffy little readers, is the shock paramedics give to those needing a beat (the heart kind; not the red headed step child kind). NO TIME FOR SUCH TRIVIAL FACTS. The point is this: I may awake from my sleep suffering convulsions and spitting blood. Let's hope not.

East Slavery Company

Well, I could be picking cotton.

"And I said to him: Don't be so daff Tony; don't be so daff." - Me, towards Tony Blair.

EAST SIDE MARIO'S GIVES BOY CHANCE.

I'mma gonna prepare food for wannabe Italian ingrates! I will slave my life away in some kitchen.

THE ORIGINAL PLAN was to sabotage; to plant a West Side Luigi's menu in some waiter's locker and have him called a TRAITOR. Obviously, this disgraced man would be Fired or quit, THUS I would be promoted.

GAME PLAN CHANGES: Apparently, this restaurant has TIP-POOL where the tips are shared all 'round, including with lowly kitchen dwellers. YEE.

BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAT.

SUNDAY, JUNE 03, 2007 - HARDCORE LONEY FANS KNOW FAR TOO WELL.
Memo to haters: May you be sad and contrite for Sweden's future legacy only visits Toronto once.

_________________________________________________

The search for My Rushmore begins. What will it beeeeeeeeeeeee! Hopefully not untimely death. ------------------------------------ http://www.ddddddddaaaaaaaaaffffffffffyyyyyyyyy.com/ - WHISPER - I think that's a fake.

MYYYYYYY GOOOOOODNESS. That Link is a Fake!

Absentminded, Daydreaming Daff

Today, I drove alllllll the way to Costco in Ajax (one of the nearest civilizations to Uxbridge, but still, a fair distance). My primary mission was to return a sweater that ill-fitted my Mother. Upon my arrival I realized I forgot the sweater. "Loney, dears, " I mutter. The intriguing thing though, is that this isn't an isolated incident. You may describe me as a scatterbrain. I'm okay with this though; my daydreaming is worth it. I dream good dreams. One day, when I've achieved my dreams, I will become fully functional as dreaming will no longer be necessary.
I was also supposed to purchase some Bibles at Chapters; a smaller, more handy one for me and one for my poor, misguided Koran-stomping amigo. Finding The Bible in Chapters is remarkably difficult. I don't understand. The Bible is the greatest selling book of all time; you'd think they'd advertise it or something. After I stumbled around the store for a while, I happened upon the Religion section. The selection choice was poor. After some awkward, indecisive moments, I choose not to purchase anything. I would venture to a Christian bookstore somewhere. But there was no time! Another day, I suppose.
What an unproductive trip. To give me some sort of accomplishment, I decided to grocery shop in Ajax, instead of hitting up the traditional Zehrs of Uxbridge. While shopping, I noticed that sometimes I hum/talk to myself. I think other customers noticed too.
I attempted to use that self check-out contraption and failed. I missed that intimate moment with the cashier anywhoers.
Some cars decided it'd be most efficient if they drove painstakingly slow; Florida slow. I became rather vexed but then Loney, Dear came on harmoniously singing, "Now, let it goooooooo. Nooow, let it goooooooo."
Earlier, I had Joanna Newsom blaring. Thankfully, it was a hoot day and my windows were rolled down because otherwise her screeching voice may of shattered them. I defs received some odd looks from a few normies. Message to Newsom haters: Screw you. Actually, that goes for all of ya.

Hurray, Hurray, The Malaise Went Away!

I was becoming rather vexed with sickness the past few days, but it appears, the worst is over. Originally diagnosed as a bad case of death, the diagnosis was downgraded to minor plague. The Symptoms were rather nebulous - I could feel stuff happening in my head and I was just totally knackered, resulting in nappers. But now I feel like a million bucks.
Speaking of death, I was nearly offed the other day. Some drunkards thought it fun to shoot roman candles at one another. One blazing ball of fire grazed my shoulder, nearly decapitating me - a fearsome moment, let me tell you! Sparks also landed on my shoes, but only a girl would complain about that.
We came across a GT today at the bottom of a hill. Obviously, we carried the GT to the top, and flew down the hill, squealing with glee and exclaiming, "Weeee." Unfortunately, no one was injured too badly.
Ben Folds has been given much air time lately. He's such an uplifting guy. I listened to Blood Sugar Sex Magik of the Peppers, and after about five songs was ready to pick-up some whores - not a great influence, but so they're so terribly adroit, it's nearly inspiring.
Tomorrow, I will march into East Side's and demand employment. If they choose to be daffy, I will attempt to secure my back-up position at....(I do not wish to name my back-up option as they are an evil American corporation and go against everything I stand for. Thankfully, I am a hypocrite so this doesn't trouble me too much).

"Loney, Expletive Dears" - Bryan, after colliding with a parked vehicle.

On Friday I had a Chiropractic appointment in Stouville. Per usual, I drove there. There was a sweet spot available with my name on it. This spot was located on the side of the road outside of the Doc's office. I pulled into my spot adroitly, yet vigilantly because I'm a considerate person and would never desire to inconvenience another person or myself with an unnecessary collision. Actually, if we're honest with one another for a second, I'm not really the deft parker I proclaim to be; I actually suck, which is why I always proceed with caution. Anywhoers, I complete my parking and push the break...except it's not the break; I hit the accelerator! I ram the Toyota in front of me like a lion tackling a zebra. "Loney, expletive, dears!"
I try to remain calm, but who really may remain calm in a calamity! Tentatively, I exit my car and survey the damage on the Toyota's rear. It's not soooo bad. A scratch here and there, chipped paint, and maybe a small dent. I return to my car wondering what I should do. Obviously, I wasn't going to flee the crime scene and have a warrant come out for my arrest. I have no interest in becoming a jailbird. So I wait. A few minutes later, a man (of ethnicity, but not that that matters) exits a store and hops in his Toyota. I knock on his window and inform him of the accident. His survey of the damage is much more severe than mine. He acts melodramatic, "oh no! Me car... what do I do... that's thousands of dollar..." No waaay there's thousands of dollars in damages you daff. Clearly, this is a fallible person in need of some elucidation. But, of course I don't say too much. I write out my insurance/driver's license information and apologize for harming his automobile. He seems understanding and such.
It's now a few days after the crash and he's yet to file a claim. Hopefully he won't. If so, well, that's just not a favourable situation.
After this episode, I went to my appointment and returned to my mint car and drove home; sullen and dour, obviously. Also, I'm still unemployed, which is reason enough for brooding.

Spinal Seminar

My brand spanking new chiropractor suggested I attended a spinal seminar. I reluctantly agreed (I was only hesitant because the Ottawa/Buffalo collision occurring on CBC). Never-the-less some things are more critical than hockey - notably, my spine. Anywhoers, I barge into the clinic late (not late, late - classy late), and sit-down next to a 70 year old vessel of death. I quickly scan the room, and to my dismay, the average birth date was probably circa 1930 - long before the United States government rejoiced when Pearl Harbour was bombarded by over-eager Japs. So sorry, forgive the brief digression - the point is: I'm a youngling in a room full of almost dead people. The chiropractor is speaking but I cannot focus! This woman ahead of me has a classic case of tacky old person. Her hair is dyed red with matching earrings, her glasses are red and about the size of a Cadillac, and she "hmms" and "oooh" whenever the Doc makes a point. She also annoyingly whispers to his husband. I contemplate smashing my chair over her head, but this seems a tad extreme. Instead, I choose to ignore her... for now. When the revolution comes, she will be a baby-maker.
Anywhoers this Doc gives a particularly strong illusion of being educated. In fact, he may actually be. He elucidates on various spinal issues and enlightens my "minor work" brain with some chiropractic propaganda. In fact, this particular propaganda may actually have a modicum of truth. The spine is central to body and sends signals from the brain to the Central Nervous System. In turn, this affects every area of your body. And if your spine is deviated, the signals may not properly travel down the spine and your essential body parts begin to malfunction. You may not even realize your suffering from a major malfunction because you only feel 10% of what your nerves indicate (by causing you) pain. So, if you're in pain, like myself, then you're frigged as Steve Harris would say; however, this Doc has a 25 year history of aiding people such as myself, so I may actually be blessed with some healing, other than "frigged".
After a longevity of lecturing on spinal care, Doc began bashing the Canadian healthcare system. He gave some intriguing facts and statistics. Back in the day, the top three killers (not including the Devil) were: 1. Heart Disease 2. Cancer 3. Healthcare system (We spent about 40 billion or so on healthcare)
Contemporary killers: 1. Heathcare system 2. Heart Disease 3. Cancer (We spend in the range of 160 billion, or something on healthcare.)
It's recorded that whenever doctors strike, the death rate actually goes down. The cause of 40% of sickly people who check into hospitals is medical malpractice. An estimated 75% of the time doctors hand-out prescriptions when they're not wholly aware of a patients problem. A prominent Harvard Scientist (names are of no relevance!) suggested that medicine should probably only be distributed 15-20% of the time doctors are actually prescribing drugs.
Doctors hand out meds like a pagan on Halloween. And, yes, these apples are poisonous.
The government spends our money attempting to cure diseases that may never have cures. Instead, he suggests spending on practical issues that Canadians are dealing with now - I'm too tired to think of examples. And now I'm too tired to write anymore.
This is just one man's opinion, but he offered some interesting insight. Tomorrow, I'll start a revolution and take him down. He is threatening national security by dissing our government. He's broken the freedom act. I'll abolish him before he abolishes the act.

Medicine Man Confirms My Deviations (But offers treatment)

Today I visited a back medicine man. My back has been malfunctioning for ages and after visiting two other educated back medicine men and an uneducated back medicine woman, this is my fourth attempt to correct my poor, deviated spine.

To begin his critique on my spine, the medicine man had me stand on some scale contraption. Reluctantly, I climbed onto this scale thing and stood silently as medicine man adjusted the scale accordlingly. For once, I was on the pedestal (my spelling is abominable today. I had to look up The Forty Year Old Virgin quotes to re-discover the spelling of "pedestal"). I stepped off the scale and we examined these string pully things that were attached to the scale. The white string was straight (of a normal back). My string was yellow. My string was waaaay out of line with the white string. Clearly, there was a problem. "Hmm..." medicine man ponders. We checked the actual weight scale. I put something like 20 more pounds on my right foot; therefore my spine has shifted towards the right. Apparently having a peculiar spine like mine may cause all sorts of problems in the Nervous System. He tells me some rather grave things, while I stand in indifference. (I've heard it all before) We then take an x-ray.

The rusults come in. He plasters my results over light. I see my spine, but am very confused as to what this all means! I'm no medicine man! I ask the medicine man to eluicdate. So, he plasters a normal spine next to mine. "Ah," I say. Everything is quite lucid now. I'm a herteroclite! My back is as adnormal as a polar bear in Iran. My neck vertabre stuff is on a 12 degree angle. It's supposed to be a 45 degree angle! Medicine man mentions this is his primary area of concern. I'm inbetween stages 2 and 3 (of 4). I've no clue what these stages mean but it can't be good; I'm nearly in stage 3! Apparently this may cause all sorts of problems. He figures my lung capacity is 30% less than it should be ( No wonder I'm always out of breath. I knew I was an athlete!) Apparently this can affect brain function too, i.e. memory. "Fix me, man," I cry. We devise a little scheme to attack the demon in my back and take him out! So I must see him 15 times in the next month or so, as we attempt to salvage my poor spine from total destruction; meaning, attempting to prevent my untimely demise.

Medicine men have been let downs before, but I urgently hope this man has skills.

Let Me Introduce My Friends

"Oh don't be afraid,
Don't be afraid,
'Cause everything is gonna turn out to be okay." -- Ola Kala -- I'm From Barcelona.

If your searching for a band-aid for your wounds, look no further than the Swedish indie-pop/shoegazing scene: I'm From Barcelona, The Concretes, Loney, Dear, The Radio Dept., Paperplane... These bands will fill your spirit with euphoria and lift you to a more pleasant existence. But remember these are just band-aids and will not offer long-term ecstasy.

"DON'T GIVE ON YOUR DREAMS, BOY. DON'T GIVE UP ON YOUR DREAMS, NOW BUDDY."

Life is harder than most rocks, but fortunately Swedish-pop is soft as love.
LISTENER BEWARE: There are some Swedish-pop frauds like Robyn. They offer nothing but empty, soul omitting music similar to Britney Spears/Kelly Clarkson and other such corporate whores. Rest assured, my suggestions are subterranean and free of labellings.

I realize the quotes I've given aren't profound or anything, but the profundity rests in the waaay it's delivered - with heart, soul, and originality.

Peace. May the oppressors become free of themselves.

Uxbridge Beckons (But it's desolate cry falls on deaf ears)

Uxbridge. Ugh. Ugh, I repeat. After four months of intrigue and interest at Redeemer, I've been transported to primitive Uxbridge. I feel like Dwayne stuck in Thalia. Except Uxbridge isn't a dying Texas town. Uxbridge is incessantly expanding, until it becomes some super-centre like Markham; yes, much worse than dying, Uxbridge could become a mecca. Though, mecca is usually associated with some great place; Uxbridge is not some great place. Plus, I need employment, but who desires to slave away at some abominable summer job!? Oh, Loney, Dears. Tomorrow, I will awake motivated and actively search out a distant summer position in Nunavut, or another territory. I will be boarded. Although, I've been informed, that positions such as these offer measly pay. The odds of this happening anyway are slimmer than anorexia personified. Okays; so after I research distant employment, I will print off resumes and hit up stores, and maybe they'll hire me. Though I doubt it, as I will probably demand high pay. I'm feeling very qualified today, and probably will tomorrow and qualified people deserve high pay. Employers typically don't embrace high payrolls, which is quite unfortunate for me. Anywhoers, I'll procure employment somehow, someway. Uxbridge won't be thaaaaat bad, for my friends are solid people. That's a pleasant rarity.

Little Ado About Nothing (Though, I despise Shakespeare. What a hack)

Tomorrow is my final examination - Theology. The exam is simple - I must regurgitate the story of the Bible. I've studied somewhat and feel fairly prepared - should be a gooder.
Today, I had Jones Soda. I've heard amazing things about it's taste. But, it only tasted mediocre, though the fumes were magnetic.
I'm still unemployed. I also need an online course. I'm also hungry. For now, the Jones' fumes will have to suffice for our Sudan-like shortage of food.

Unemployment Looms

I will write my last exam (Bible Class) on Thursday. I best study for this sucker, for I failed my Bible quiz. This is my first significant failure at Redeemer, though it's only worth 10%, and I just barely failed. Regardless, my Bible knowledge is apparently very poor. I declared my failure of the quiz was due to "trivial facts," (such as how many times Peter denied Jesus) but my house was in disagreement. My housemates have been taken aback by my lack of Bible proficiency. Thus, I will begin reading my Bible daily, which could only improve my clouded life.

I will return to my homeland of Uxbridge on Friday; however, I will not be returning to a job!
I've only offered my employment to a few establishments but due to their idiocy, they have not called me. So, I must continue to apply to miser-like corporations for undoubtedly a measly sum of payment; the horrors of student life. But, I'm still hopeful that I may acquire some profitable position somehow, someplace. I will receive motivation and call around utilizing my under-developed networking skills and land some remarkable placement in a company with integrity. This is unlikely, of course. If you know of employment opportunities, do me a solid and tell me.

The Play. With Digression.

Before I begin, I must express my current physical ailment, which is occupying the larger portion of my mind: My stomach is aching, due to eating loads of pudding/cookies over top of ice-cream. Lesson learned: Don't act pig-like unless you wish to feel death-like. Aight...

I performed four shows in two days last week. In between shows I was nursing the plague, albeit a water-downed plague thanks to drugs. The play was entitled "The Problem"; a two person show about... Well, I lack skills of how to properly describe specific stories so, whatevs. The plot isn't necessary for your comprehension of my feelings.

Oh mys. I must digress for a moment. I just opened yet another Facebook e-mail with a photo comment. In this comment, my name is misspelled. It's Bryan; not Brian; got that? If I had a stone every time my name was misspelled by a "friend" I'd have enough ammunition to ensure this never happens again.

Sorry. Back to my tale. The first show flopped. The audience was sparse and the energy/synergy between us two actors was lacklustre (a rather appropriate word choice, considering the play was somewhat sexual). The second show was stronger. The audience was full, and the laughs were a dime a dozen. The energy that is gained from such laughter creates some indescribable feeling that may last hours after the show. The feeling is so fulfilling; so profoundly beautiful. The disappearance of this feeling is ultimately the cause of my post-show depression, I think. A unique moment in thesecond show: My partner forgot her line. Now, because we were performing on such a small set, no script-man existed. We sat in awkward silence for a solid thirty seconds. We just kind of stared at one another, searching for the words. We didn't panic though; we remained calm and in character. This moment was so eerily tranquil because this is an actors' greatest fear realized, yet neither of us were fearful. We embraced this moment as an opportunity to demonstrate the silliness of it all; the silliness of fear. The two other shows passed without error and were (in my opinion) greatly successful, but nothing compared to that moment; the moment where fear should of destroyed us. But we destroyed fear. This may be getting tacky, but it's the mood I'm in. Regardless, I believe this play helped me to grow and become stronger. Or maybe not. I thought being in a play may make me sociable, but that's not the case. I desire to be social, just not to the point where socialization is required. Sorry, I digress, yet again. My mind wanders sometimes.

Diagnosis: Death (With Some Laughter)

At semester's beginning, I impressed some audition person and was promptly cast in a play. An auspicious commencement for your protagonist. And so, I embarked on a journey leading to discoveries and truths of my character, and of myself. Following many rehearsals and battling many confusions regarding the purpose of this play, I finally was beginning to grasp the concepts of the script and the fundamentals of my character's rationale/persona. Then, on performance eve, it happened.
My throat was tender; my nose was mildly runny; and a slight feeling of death came over me. In the morning, the plague had struck in it's entirety. I awoke with my body feeling deader than most rocks. I diagnosed myself with dreadful death, but a normy (a normal person, probably like you) would diagnose my plague as a common cold. Nooooooooo! I had to perform! How could one properly perform with death-like illness? This would surely result in some major malfunction. Then, sudden-like, I was struck with an epiphany - drugs! I must procure drugs to alleviate my symptoms, therefore allowing for proper performance! I flung out of bed with new hope and manned the phone. I called twenty dorms (girl dorms, obviously. What man takes medicine? Unless of course, he's in a show). Some girls demonstrated concern and offered moral support; others were cold, bitter ladies, who were merciless to the sick and needy. Regardless, not a single soul had cold drugs! Madness! Does no one suffer sickness here!?
Terrible, unprepared people. Defeated, I retreated to my room, throwing on sweats and a sweater (inside-out, but who would care) as I entered into sick mode. I flopped on my bed, dreading my upcoming performance, a mere few hours away. Beat. TURNING POINT.
A voice downstairs beckons my presence. Fine. When the dizziness still had hold after the elevation change of walking down the stairs, I saw a blurred female. Angelic Jemica arrived, having heard rumors of the plague in our dorm. She offered six different medicinal options. Blessed day! I was saved. Immediately, I indulged in such (apparent) delicacies that cold drugs are at Redeemer. It tasted awful, but coated my throat with some euphoric feeling; healing, I must of been. But would my symptoms be alleviated enough for the play? And how was that play, by the way? Stay tuned.

Indie Hipsters are the New-Wave Intellectuals

To live is to listen; to listen is to live. Music is of death-like importance to me. It lifts me from my disturbed and confusing existence to a heaven-like place where I'm incessantly happy and eating carrots dipped in chocolate pudding. I enjoy music from various sources/genres; however, my tastes do not extend into the musical realms of straight-up mainstream pop, where singers are marketed for an audience of suckers - no flavor of the month "music" blasphemies like American Idol and other such travesties that plague and profane our already polluted and distorted western music scene. You gotta sift through that nonsense and get to the very core of music - the underground indie hipster scene. What is this, you ask? I'll use an example of a real living hipster - Mehran The Persian.
Mehran describes himself as ostentatious, belligerent and bad ass. Essentially, he's Tristan Tzara meets Pete Doherty. Let's analyze further into this mysterious character-type. He prefers his jeans on the tight side; not gay tight; indie hipster tight. His sweaters are stripped, he sports a beard, wears glasses, has slip-on checkered shoes and acts pretentious and speaks condescendingly towards people who he labels "philistines." He sifts through old record scores looking for underground records, which only he would know of - this is what he prides himself on. He seeks hidden magnum opuses, and refuses to give ear to anything he considers "minor Dickens" (weak works that fail to connect with his developed musical tastes). Simply put, Mehran is an elitist. He doesn't need your love, nor does he want it. Mehran is a new-wave snooty intellectual who listens to shoegazing/new rave/progressive rock while beating out his twenty page paper on the anatomy of a human entity. More than likely, this specific entity is an empty vessel of knowledge; an unfeeling robot who couldn't discover a proper beat if he wore headphones the size of a Cadillac. How do I know this? Mehran is in a league of his own. His opinion is the opinion. Everyone else is foolish and dumb as some green peace, tree hugging, gay worshipping, left-winged liberal. He may be a pompous prick but he's smarter than you so shut up and let him educate you.
From this description, you may be turned off from the underground indie hipster scene, and that's probably why you'll never amount to anything; you're too pansy to venture outside the mainstream. But the real world is outside the mainstream. You must find your own off-chute of mainstream society and run like hell with it. Otherwise you'll be normal and found forever. Striving for normalcy and a place in western society will grant you temporary happiness but it will murder your soul. You'll be a fake, a phony, putting on a facade for your friends and family.
What can you do to prevent this fate? Listen to Loney, Dear or Peter Bjorn and John and feel the beats and let the music into you. This may sound somewhat New Age but I assure you it's not. I'm a staunch Christian who just despises this fake society cut for Christians or "good people." I'm sick of this, "OH, I'M A CHRISTIAN, SO I MUST BE A CONSERVATIVE. I MUST FOLLOW BLINDLY BECAUSE MY LEADER IS CHRISTIAN, AND MY COUNTRY IS A CHRISTIAN NATION." Shut up, you know nothing. Neither do I. But Mehran does, so ask him for an explanation of my convoluted blog. Actually he'll probably just stare blankly at you and pray for your soul.