Five minutes to midnight and I'm hopped up on something with no place to go. At times like these, I wish I went clubbing, or concert hopping, just for the sake of really living the night life and seeing what all the fuss is about.
In other news, I really need to get a memory stick for my camera so my blogs can be shorter and more shot through with photos.
Everyone likes a little eye candy.
20090323
I carry him in my pocket and he sings to me
...and yet you'll still wonder why girls fall head-over-heels for guys in bands.
---
In the grimy underground, one of the few places in society where it's acceptable to be as anti-social as heck, his song and his words are my saving grace. His voice, smooth as a cascade of molten chocolate flowing into a glass, can lower to the most sultry growl and rise into a piercing tenor--0 to 60 in nanoseconds.
When he sings, the lime greeny walls of Dundas station--mired by the constant build-up of dirt and leavings of an active civilzation--just crumble away from my consciousness. I feel my feet lift off the scuffed and sometimes oddly sticky platform, and the ceiling of unspeakable germiness disappears before my outstretched fingers.
Then the train comes and blows me back to the ground, but after I scurry in and nab myself a spot (which involves a brief scuffle with this old lady, and she was armed with a cane goddamnit), I lean back and fall straight into the sweet embrace of Matthew Bellamy's lyrics, imagining that he's singing to me, even though I'm sure he isn't; we never even introduced ourselves on eHarmony.
But that's the point, isn't it? Boy bands, rock bands, solo artists with their gushy lyrics and sweet nothings are meant to snare the very delusional female fan.
Sometimes, we know that the song itself is dedicated to a real life sweet heart of the artist's, but then we go satisfy our stalker tendencies and declare that the perfectly beautiful and stable beloved of our beloved is an ugly old hag, which makes it perfectly alright to go back to thinking that the song, really, is just for us (or, really, it's written for me).
It's an evil, evil marketing scheme, and whoever thought of manipulating the emotions of unsuspecting fangirls/boys is ...kind of a genius. But, you know, an evil one, rolling in lots of money and...god, this is kind of depressing.
My point isn't very clear here, mostly because I just kicked my butt at the gym and I'm really, really dying for a good hamburger. So to prove my point (about the manipulation and the evilness and blah, blah, blah), here's some South Park.
---
In the grimy underground, one of the few places in society where it's acceptable to be as anti-social as heck, his song and his words are my saving grace. His voice, smooth as a cascade of molten chocolate flowing into a glass, can lower to the most sultry growl and rise into a piercing tenor--0 to 60 in nanoseconds.
When he sings, the lime greeny walls of Dundas station--mired by the constant build-up of dirt and leavings of an active civilzation--just crumble away from my consciousness. I feel my feet lift off the scuffed and sometimes oddly sticky platform, and the ceiling of unspeakable germiness disappears before my outstretched fingers.
Then the train comes and blows me back to the ground, but after I scurry in and nab myself a spot (which involves a brief scuffle with this old lady, and she was armed with a cane goddamnit), I lean back and fall straight into the sweet embrace of Matthew Bellamy's lyrics, imagining that he's singing to me, even though I'm sure he isn't; we never even introduced ourselves on eHarmony.
But that's the point, isn't it? Boy bands, rock bands, solo artists with their gushy lyrics and sweet nothings are meant to snare the very delusional female fan.
Sometimes, we know that the song itself is dedicated to a real life sweet heart of the artist's, but then we go satisfy our stalker tendencies and declare that the perfectly beautiful and stable beloved of our beloved is an ugly old hag, which makes it perfectly alright to go back to thinking that the song, really, is just for us (or, really, it's written for me).
It's an evil, evil marketing scheme, and whoever thought of manipulating the emotions of unsuspecting fangirls/boys is ...kind of a genius. But, you know, an evil one, rolling in lots of money and...god, this is kind of depressing.
My point isn't very clear here, mostly because I just kicked my butt at the gym and I'm really, really dying for a good hamburger. So to prove my point (about the manipulation and the evilness and blah, blah, blah), here's some South Park.
20090316
it was like eating ice, I mean, if my stomach were my lungs
They said it was at least plus 2 degrees outside on that deliciously cold morning, Sunday, March 15, but you know what?
They lied.
Or maybe not. Maybe, technically, it was +2 outside. It sure looked like it was. The sun was out and melting everything it could get its little fingers of heat-ray goodness on, birds were singing, and free boxes of Lucky Charms were being passed out.
I know what you're thinking right about now. Whoa, whoa, whoa you say Where was this free cereal action and why wasn't I in on it?
Well, that's because you were a lazy bastard (or just poor; and for the record, I fall into both of these categories) and you were still in bed by the time I was downtown at 10:05 a.m., hopping in the cold, wrapped in the very thin layers of my running gear and wondering why the hell I was about to kill myself in a 5 kilometre run/walk.
Oh yeah, because I paid $35 to torture myself, because the proceeds go to the Achilles Canada fund which supports disabled athletes to continue to kick ass.
...So yeah, good idea.
Now, for the record, I wasn't planning on actually doing this run until a week prior. And the weeks leading up to that week was spent slothing around: I munched leaves and moved as slowly as possible. With only five days to train, I was sorely dispirited, especially since running 1.5k to train was a bit of an ordeal.
But no more time to ponder about my shabby shape, the day had dawned and I was looking it right in its beady little eyes and shivering.
But that was from the cold, not for fear or anything silly like that.
Overhead, the oddly endearing corniness that our MC was shouting out to us gave way to a countdown, and all around me, huddled or standing tall in their black running tights and slim-fit windbreakers, runners perked up like horses in the gates, all but pawing the asphalt with their Nikes; and I was right there with them. My nervous system was jangling with the sudden adrenaline rush that was charging through my veins, making it feel as if my skin was vibrating. I danced on my toes, the guy beside me hurredly flipped through his playlist on his iPod, another guy rolled his shoulders, the crack of his joints echoing in the still, cold air.
The airhorn blew and we shot off! Immediately, the faster runners peeled and eeled their way through the crowd, dodging the more leisurely pacers and all but sprinting towards their first kilometre. Me? I was disoriented by the amount of people jogging around me, some ahead, some behind, some gaining, some falling back, it was all too much for a solitary runner to take!
I bounced my way through my first kilometre, my gait quickening, then slowing as my competitive feet fought to overtake the slow-pokes, while my rational mind continually chanted "there's 5 kilometres to run, 5!" The sunny day did nothing to melt what felt like crystalline ice in the air, which jabbed my throat with every steady gulp I took to keep myself going. I felt my lungs start that familiar burn, my mucles fighting against the cold to start its own heated throb, and my shoulders begin to tense with the idea of a 5k run. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a sign with clear writing in chalk: 1 K.
Volunteers in lime-green coats yell hoarsly at us as we charged passed, and right then, maybe it was the combination of seeing the first milestone of the run and having someone actually cheer for my ridiculous endeavour, but suddenly it all fell into place. My gain smoothed, the air didn't seem to bite so hard and a smile began to stretch my lips.
I ran that 5 k with no stops (except to tie my shoe, because that would have been dangerous). It took me 29 minutes, but I did it, and it felt ridiculously good when, while chugging my way to the finish, a man with a paper sign stuck on his back reading "blind runner" with a female assistant clearly kicked my ass. Ridiculous.
They lied.
Or maybe not. Maybe, technically, it was +2 outside. It sure looked like it was. The sun was out and melting everything it could get its little fingers of heat-ray goodness on, birds were singing, and free boxes of Lucky Charms were being passed out.
I know what you're thinking right about now. Whoa, whoa, whoa you say Where was this free cereal action and why wasn't I in on it?
Well, that's because you were a lazy bastard (or just poor; and for the record, I fall into both of these categories) and you were still in bed by the time I was downtown at 10:05 a.m., hopping in the cold, wrapped in the very thin layers of my running gear and wondering why the hell I was about to kill myself in a 5 kilometre run/walk.
Oh yeah, because I paid $35 to torture myself, because the proceeds go to the Achilles Canada fund which supports disabled athletes to continue to kick ass.
...So yeah, good idea.
Now, for the record, I wasn't planning on actually doing this run until a week prior. And the weeks leading up to that week was spent slothing around: I munched leaves and moved as slowly as possible. With only five days to train, I was sorely dispirited, especially since running 1.5k to train was a bit of an ordeal.
But no more time to ponder about my shabby shape, the day had dawned and I was looking it right in its beady little eyes and shivering.
But that was from the cold, not for fear or anything silly like that.
Overhead, the oddly endearing corniness that our MC was shouting out to us gave way to a countdown, and all around me, huddled or standing tall in their black running tights and slim-fit windbreakers, runners perked up like horses in the gates, all but pawing the asphalt with their Nikes; and I was right there with them. My nervous system was jangling with the sudden adrenaline rush that was charging through my veins, making it feel as if my skin was vibrating. I danced on my toes, the guy beside me hurredly flipped through his playlist on his iPod, another guy rolled his shoulders, the crack of his joints echoing in the still, cold air.
The airhorn blew and we shot off! Immediately, the faster runners peeled and eeled their way through the crowd, dodging the more leisurely pacers and all but sprinting towards their first kilometre. Me? I was disoriented by the amount of people jogging around me, some ahead, some behind, some gaining, some falling back, it was all too much for a solitary runner to take!
I bounced my way through my first kilometre, my gait quickening, then slowing as my competitive feet fought to overtake the slow-pokes, while my rational mind continually chanted "there's 5 kilometres to run, 5!" The sunny day did nothing to melt what felt like crystalline ice in the air, which jabbed my throat with every steady gulp I took to keep myself going. I felt my lungs start that familiar burn, my mucles fighting against the cold to start its own heated throb, and my shoulders begin to tense with the idea of a 5k run. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a sign with clear writing in chalk: 1 K.
Volunteers in lime-green coats yell hoarsly at us as we charged passed, and right then, maybe it was the combination of seeing the first milestone of the run and having someone actually cheer for my ridiculous endeavour, but suddenly it all fell into place. My gain smoothed, the air didn't seem to bite so hard and a smile began to stretch my lips.
I ran that 5 k with no stops (except to tie my shoe, because that would have been dangerous). It took me 29 minutes, but I did it, and it felt ridiculously good when, while chugging my way to the finish, a man with a paper sign stuck on his back reading "blind runner" with a female assistant clearly kicked my ass. Ridiculous.
20090314
it's like hurting my eyes reading Thomas Hobbes all over again
Back in the dusty annals of my life, when I spent at year at the University of Toronto studying history and political science, I had to read Thomas Hobbes's "Leviathan."
On a side note, if you hover your mouse over the photos, they'll say something cool. Yeah, that's right, I learned how to span.
There's obviously a lot more to it than that, but that's the basic gist that I remember. Having thrown this little piece of classic political science history literature hoo-ha in your face, don't you think that it would be such a huge let down for Hobbes to bounce through time and find himself in '09, where tons of people really don't give a crap about what their government is doing? Not to name names, but I was conversing with a good, intelligent lady friend of mine a couple of days back, and after we fumbled through the subject of what-the-fuck-is-Harper-up-to-now (it turns out he's playing a sort of Obama pantomine), she concluded the end of our discussion with a palm slap to the table top and the declaration of, "In the end, I don't know and I don't care about what our government does."
Wait, what?
These are the guy's that run our country and basically control our lives. Those little road blocks in life that tell us what we can or cannot do, the suits who decide how much of our income is taxed like so many pulled fingernails, the price of postage stamps, all of that, and so much more, is decided by our government.
vs. 
So basically, not caring about what your government is up to is, in part, like letting go of the reigns, covering your eyes, and hoping that your horse doesn't run itself into a wall. Not the smartest idea, by far.
Yet I can understand where these people are coming from; afterall, I am one of them. Sure, I know about things like the upcoming budget proposal that'll decide where $40 billion dollars will blow across the nation, I know that Jack Layton rocks at debates as much as he rocks his little moustache (for the record, I like it), but beyond that, I have to rely on my sporadic newspaper reading habit or at least attempt to catch up on Rick Mercer to figure out what the heck is going on in those crazy buildings up at Parliament Hill.
But why? Why isn't it more fun for the regular Joe to just dive into all and becoming truly immersed with the minute details of politics, so we can finally figure out why the immigration process takes so effing long, or if Harper has anything to do with the fact that my toilet swirls in a lovely counter-clockwise orientation.
I know that on the one hand, we average hucklers find that, half the time, all the press release of what the Prime Minister and his band of merry fellows are doing now are just, well, dry. I read about politics in print news, but I do it because I feel like I should, not because I actually like picking up on a reporter's apparent dislike for Jim Flaherty. Politicians don't help the situation with their vague answers, dancing around an issue like a horny, feckless kid skirting around the issue of sex with his new girlfriend: they want to just spill the beans, but they're pretty sure they're going to get bitch slapped if they don't say what they need to say juuuust right. Of course, when they finally do get down to it, they seem to get lost in all their vagueries that they kind of forgot their point, and so did we.
That's a point for us. A point for them, though, are the loads and loads of people who are already involved and immersed, just swimming in the juicy, sticky pool of politics and all of its intrigues. They understand it like its a melody the rest of us just can't catch, and does this make them smarter than us? In ways, yes, but overall, probably not. It just so happens they're actually interested in what we perceive to be mumbo-jumbo, but unlike quantum physics, I think we have to realize that if we're really planning on actively living in a city, with its tall buildings, cracking asphalt roads and swarms of people, we need to figure out what those elected top dogs really are doing up there.
Because, in the end, politics and government is made to serve the people, we just have to give a shit.
For those of you unfamiliar with the work of Mr. Hobbes, he basically says that humans gave up their right to autonomy for government, believing that this would be the only way to leave behind their savagery and enter a truly civilized existance.
There's obviously a lot more to it than that, but that's the basic gist that I remember. Having thrown this little piece of classic political science history literature hoo-ha in your face, don't you think that it would be such a huge let down for Hobbes to bounce through time and find himself in '09, where tons of people really don't give a crap about what their government is doing? Not to name names, but I was conversing with a good, intelligent lady friend of mine a couple of days back, and after we fumbled through the subject of what-the-fuck-is-Harper-up-to-now (it turns out he's playing a sort of Obama pantomine), she concluded the end of our discussion with a palm slap to the table top and the declaration of, "In the end, I don't know and I don't care about what our government does."
Wait, what?
These are the guy's that run our country and basically control our lives. Those little road blocks in life that tell us what we can or cannot do, the suits who decide how much of our income is taxed like so many pulled fingernails, the price of postage stamps, all of that, and so much more, is decided by our government.
vs. So basically, not caring about what your government is up to is, in part, like letting go of the reigns, covering your eyes, and hoping that your horse doesn't run itself into a wall. Not the smartest idea, by far.
Yet I can understand where these people are coming from; afterall, I am one of them. Sure, I know about things like the upcoming budget proposal that'll decide where $40 billion dollars will blow across the nation, I know that Jack Layton rocks at debates as much as he rocks his little moustache (for the record, I like it), but beyond that, I have to rely on my sporadic newspaper reading habit or at least attempt to catch up on Rick Mercer to figure out what the heck is going on in those crazy buildings up at Parliament Hill.
But why? Why isn't it more fun for the regular Joe to just dive into all and becoming truly immersed with the minute details of politics, so we can finally figure out why the immigration process takes so effing long, or if Harper has anything to do with the fact that my toilet swirls in a lovely counter-clockwise orientation.
I know that on the one hand, we average hucklers find that, half the time, all the press release of what the Prime Minister and his band of merry fellows are doing now are just, well, dry. I read about politics in print news, but I do it because I feel like I should, not because I actually like picking up on a reporter's apparent dislike for Jim Flaherty. Politicians don't help the situation with their vague answers, dancing around an issue like a horny, feckless kid skirting around the issue of sex with his new girlfriend: they want to just spill the beans, but they're pretty sure they're going to get bitch slapped if they don't say what they need to say juuuust right. Of course, when they finally do get down to it, they seem to get lost in all their vagueries that they kind of forgot their point, and so did we.
That's a point for us. A point for them, though, are the loads and loads of people who are already involved and immersed, just swimming in the juicy, sticky pool of politics and all of its intrigues. They understand it like its a melody the rest of us just can't catch, and does this make them smarter than us? In ways, yes, but overall, probably not. It just so happens they're actually interested in what we perceive to be mumbo-jumbo, but unlike quantum physics, I think we have to realize that if we're really planning on actively living in a city, with its tall buildings, cracking asphalt roads and swarms of people, we need to figure out what those elected top dogs really are doing up there.
Because, in the end, politics and government is made to serve the people, we just have to give a shit.
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