For those who routinely step foot into the lawless and mythical world of Parkdale, it is a common sight to see a mounted police officer riding his horse. While this image might conjure up feelings of a simpler time, I personally think it's a waste of our tax money. This isn't True Lies, and the police aren't a pre-elected Arnold Schwarzenegger.
Parkdale, (formally known as Toronto's 'badlands') is a far cry from the boozy, crack-addled street corners of yesteryear. With an ever growing collection of trendy bars and restaurants, genetrification has firmly established its hold and taken root. The crack whores with their cheap $5 blowjobs have been replaced by twenty-something 905ers doing cocaine in afghan scarves. It is arguable if this is an improvement.
With the growing number of strung out clubbers flooding the area and a facist desire to eradicate all that is perceived "undesirable", the area has a constant police presence. Cruisers patrol the streets in five minuted sweeps. There are police cameras hanging from street lamps, cops riding bikes through parks, black stealth cruisers lurking behind parked cars and plain clothes officers inquiring about crack. If one was inclined to paranoia and left-leaning political discourse, it could be argued that we are already living in a police state. Or that we have a fetish for buzz cuts and aviater glasses.
Considering the area's reputation, it is no surprise that this is the case. To many, Parkdale is a vast and dark jungle, a slithering noir slum straight out of a Frank Miller comic. It is a place where parents cringe as their teenage daughter moves in. It's fucking Vietnam minus Martin Sheen and a kick-ass rock soundtrack.
It's also an incredible place to live. It's a home to many conscious and political people. It's a place where new Canadian families start their lives. Where students can afford rent and Pabst Blue Ribbon is $3.50 a pint. Its home to art galleries, art stores, art co-ops, and artists arting artfully. Quite frankly, it's a great place to call home.
It's a strange contrast of chic and sad, of residential and urban. Is it this particular duality that causes such deep seated fears in the general popluace? How can these two worlds share the same geography? It is no secret that people wish to compartmentalize there lives. Most choose to shuttle around in there air conditioned luxury pods (doors firmly locked) until they can drive it into their underground parking garage, swipe in with their security keys, sign in with their security guard, and enter their hermetically sealed cookie-cutter apartment unit. If they grow bored , they can simply shunt down to the sterile gym located one floor down. If they're hungry, they can shop at the Metro located in the base of the building.
We don't need gates to have a gated community. The condo has just taken the concept and stacked it vertically. In this climate, who dares tread the streets where real people might convene?
That's why we have police. They are the divide between the shiny Canadian ideal and the dirty Canadian truth. They are filter that stops the sediment from getting into the Parkdale coffee pot. They are the keepers of the stone.
So why a mounted police officer? This isn't London or Old Montreal. No one comes to Parkdale for its 19th century flair. And I highly doubt riding a horse can be considered an effective crime prevention tool. Unless that horse has a nose for cheap Asian sex workers, I don't see how it could be useful. So if it's not for impressing tourists and it's not for reaping cold justice, then what is its purpose?
I only ask because I'm tired of stepping in horse shit. Every day, there are huge chunky lines of horse shit laying on the pavement. And every day, I have to tip toe through it. How can we allow our law enforcement officers to fine dog owners every time their 5 pound poodle leaves a mini-log in the grass, when police themselves are allowing a 300 pound animal to shit indescrimantely through the streets like it was one big horse lavatory? Who's job is it to clean up that shit anyway?
This leads me to wonder if the city indeed has a dedicated position for shit shovellers. The city must have had them at one time, as our grandfathers are only to happy to let us know:
Dave: Man, grandpa, I hate my new job at Starbucks.
Grandpa: oh, you young folks have it easy, with your ipods, and your Ryan Seacrests and your twitters....back in my day, we had to shovel shit for a dollar. Then run through broken glass naked. Then fight the Germans. Blah blah Blah.
Where are our shit shovellers now? In this difficult economic time, this is just the stimulus Parkdale needs. I propose we start hiring a dedicated crew of shit shovellers to tackle this problem. While our officers are busy cleaning-up our streets, our shovellers will be busy cleaning up after the brave police horses that help keep those very streets clean.
Yes, I know, its not a pretty job. But at least the title, "shit shoveller" implies that you have no direct contact with the shit. A "garbage man" actually sounds like the person is, in fact, composed of garbage, whereas a shit shoveller makes it clear that there is a shovel seperating the shit from the actual person. Or we can just call them "excrement disposal workers" which has a very official ring to it.
Either way, we all have to put up with the Police and their shit, so why do we have to put up with their horse's shit as well? Stop wasting precious glue and get those bastards off our streets. If I wanted horseshit, I'd read a novel by L. Ron Hubbard, thank you very much.
Mr. Ed Fan club member,
That Blogging Bastard.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Discouragement
Well, I haven't written here in a week. There is a reason for this beyond general apathy. I was knee deep in my latest posting entitled, "Ford Commercials and other worthwhile endeavors", a scathing look at my 30 second participation in a ford commercial that I did earlier this year. As with most of my writing, it was about three pages too long, full of cursing, crass sexual innuendo and my trademark inability to stop myself from going on long tangential refrains. Even so, I was quite happy with it. Barring a proof-read and a spell check the post was ready to enter the cannon of digital non-fiction. However, I was late meeting a friend and decided to save the damn thing and finish it when I returned.
Upon arrival to the homestead, I discovered that my writing was no where to be found. WHERE THE FUCK DOES BLOG SPOT SAVE OUR POSTS?
I searched and searched and searched. Nada.
Now I don't know about other writers, but when I lose my writing, it sends me into a horrible spiral of anger and depression. In fact, it saps my very will to continue writing.
I remember a few years back, I went to Andy Pool hall on College Street on a Tuesday night to see the break dancing. After being groped by security, I asked the man with the firm grip where the coat check was. He grunted and pointed to a pile of knapsacks lying in a pile. I questioned the security of this pile as it was out of the eye shot of the bouncers. After much hesitation, I decided that break-dancers were a trusty lot, and my inner hippy smiled at the thought that a beautiful place existed in Toronto, where one could leave valuables tossed happenstance on a sticky bar floor and walk away wistfully knowing that a mutual respect for one's possessions would be enough to keep them safe. A place of rainbow unicorns and big breasted angels showering Skittles from the clouds. A Utopian fantasy realm of untold trust.
OK, so I didn't actually trust this set-up. I took my ipod nano, cell phone, Nintendo DS, wallet and keys, leaving nothing but some late night smokables and two of my writing books in the bag.
So there I was, buying beer with all my electronics stuffed in my pants.
Incidentally, I hate having things in my pockets. Why does modern day life require us to haul so much fucking stuff around? And why have we scapegoated the fanny pack? If I could walk around with a fanny pack and not have everyone make comment about it, then my life would be grand. But no. For some reason we've linked wearing a fanny pack to being elderly or mentally handicapped, and so, I have to walk around looking like I shat my pants. Woman have told me I carry too much stuff in my pockets, which in turn, makes it impossible to see my butt or the indentation of my naughty bits. Not that I have that much indentation to speak of but what little there is I want visible.
Anyway, the night ends, I go to grab my bag, poof, gone. No knapsack. After pausing, quivering, screaming and then frantically burrowing through the bags on hand and knee, I realized that I had been robbed. All my writing over the last year was gone. My poems, my silly thoughts, my short stories and all the scenes for the Fringe play I was working on. Kaput.
HOURS OF MY FUCKING LIFE WASTED. ( I would probably have wasted them anyway. But still.)
I don't really remember the next few minutes. Mind you, I was screaming drunk at the time, but when you're enraged AND screaming drunk you enter an entirely different reality. It's like you enter "bullet time" except you don't remember anything and nothing that you're doing is resurrecting Keeanu Reeves career. All I recall is going into a cab, crying, swearing and punching the cab's leather seats. The driver asked me to stop a few times, even going as far as to stop the car and threaten to kick me out. I screamed, " I was fucking robbed, man. I was just fucking robbed." Although sympathetic, the ride still cost me $20 with tip. Rooting through the Future Shop in my pants, I gave him the money and jumped out.
At this time in my life, I was still living at Unit 102 which is now a full time theatre studio. When I got home, I grabbed my roommates vintage chair and proceeded to bash out the walls with it. All in all, I trashed the house pretty thoroughly. The next morning was pretty awkward. If you've never destroyed your own living space, there is an odd feeling of terror and pride that goes along with seeing your handiwork. On one hand you're grappling with the fact you went temporarily insane which is frightening. On the other hand, you were temporarily insane, which is kinda bad ass. Either way, I owed my roommate an explanation and a new vintage chair.
After this unfortunate incident, I stopped writing. So discouraged was I about all that I had lost, I simply couldn't bare the thought of starting all over again. In many ways, I still haven't fully recovered from the experience. At that time, I was writing at least every other day. Now, I'm lucky to string together a full hour of writing once a week.
This was why I started this blog. To get back into the habit. And what happens? I lose my writing again. So I haven't been able to write here until now.
The point? We need to re-evaluate our use of fanny packs. They are convenient, functional and with the growing trend of tighter pants on males, necessary. So the next time you see a friend wearing one, shut your god damn mouth, and let the poor bastard be. Only together can we make a difference.
Thanks for your time.
That Blogging bastard.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Avatar
When I first started this blog, I promised myself not to let it get too nerdy. I was wrong.
My opinion? Looking for any relevant meaning in Avatar is akin to looking for meaning in a bag of candy floss. If it is in any way offensive, it's surely because its producers were too busy rendering CGI plants to notice. Of course it's racist. It's also story-less, soulless and pointless. But it features three-dimensional renderings of Mech suits battling blue basketball players, so humanity has deemed it more important then financing public housing and blessed it with more dollar bills then Jesus has hairs in his goatee.
Let's speak frankly: Avatar is a theme park ride that lasts for three fucking hours. Remember when you waited in line for the newest ride at Canada's Wonderland, only to find the ride lasted all of 40 seconds? Remember when you got off and thought, "Sure the upside down loop was cool, but it should have been longer." No, it shouldn't have been. Getting our thrills in quick bursts stopped the rush from getting old. I mean, how many times could you have gone around that loop before it got ho-hum? If Avatar was sold to us in quick 2 minute 3-D bursts, we'd keep going back. But having my ass go numb is not something I will pay multiple times for.
We have entered a new phase in visual entertainment. With the advent of modern CGI, where truly anything is possible visually, people WILL spend money for something that looks cool. No one goes into Transformers or GI Joe expecting true cinema, they go to the theatre for artery-clogging food while leaving their intelligence somewhere in the restroom. No one goes to these movies for the acting, story, cinematography, musical score, framing techniques, or political/philosophical thought. They go in to see shit blow up.
So why do these movies even posture? Why tack on a story written by an 8 year old and
proof-read by a high school literary magazine? I understand you're still technically a "movie" but you're not selling us an art film and we know we aren't going to get one. It's a 3D experience and nothing more. So why is Avatar's running time 3+ hours? Because James Cameron takes himself way too fucking seriously.
Apparently his PR team says he "purposefully" made his movie to provoke dialogue on imperialism and genocide. Right. And when I take a shit, I'm making a statement about the political upheaval in Turkey.
Frankly, I would have liked Transformers if it was 20 minutes of robots fighting. Or GI Joe, if it was 20 minutes of battle suits running through the streets fighting. Or Avatar if it was 20 minutes of 3D smurfs flying pterodactyls into star ships fighting. It's the other 2 and half hours of Shia Lebeouf whining, Dennis Quaid sucking or Sigourney Weaver's talent being wasted that made me hate those movies.
I can't believe I'm saying this but here is my message to Hollywood:
Stop giving us story in Blockbuster movies. If you aren't going to do it right, don't do it at all. I would rather see a Terminator cyborg shoot a machine gun then hear Christian Bale scream nonsense. I would rather see Megan Fox in 3D then have her deliver lines.
There are no false pretenses. Give us what we want: Brain-dead bombast. If we want a film, we'll save it for the Cohen Brothers, got it? Stop wasting time we could be using on trying to figure out what the fuck Lost is actually about.
The dark ages our upon us.
That Blogging Bastard
P.S. Oh yeah, Avatar is mad racist. Imagine Jake Gyllenhaal going undercover in Africa in black face, meeting a native tribe, proving himself the natural leader and then leading the Africans against the English. Now, change the black to blue and you've got Avatar. But then again, there is a huge mechanical robot suit, so no harm, no foul.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Am I dick? Be honest.
If I were to tell you that I am writing this drunk, would it offend you? It would? Well good thing I'm writing this stone cold-sober.
(picking up martini) Good morning to those reading this! It is 4:41am and although it is considered morning to some, for me (and for those wishing to make anything before noon unproductive) it is only a hour or so before bedtime. But let us not dwell on time and its many intricacies. I have a question.
But before I ask it, some back story:
Recently I became a bartender at the Fairmont Royal York. As far as careers that require no formal education go, it's a pretty sweet gig and it jives great with my do-nothing artistic lifestyle.
Tonight, January 8th 2009, was our Christmas party. Or holiday party. Or who gives a fuck what your religious denomination is let's just get fucked up and eat hors d'oeuvres party. Call it what you will.
This time around, my work place decided to give us a party two weeks too late. Yes, yes, there was a recession and our profit did drop from a gajillion to a zillion. But still. I've worked at this god-forsaken place for five years and I will tell you, the Christmas party was a hoot. Everyone got dressed up, the Canadian ballroom (which holds over a thousand guests) got shiny and we all ate a brilliant three course meal laden with wine. Afterwards, we danced embarrassingly to top 40 music like a drunk uncle at a wedding. Then, and this was the best part, we all went back to our $60 hotel room and took the party to it's illogical sloppy conclusion. It was perfect.
But not this time. A "reception" on January 8th. So, being a bartender, the opportunity arose to work the event. Having but a mere $5.64 in my checking account (a sadly accurate figure) I decided it may be in my best interest to work it. Besides, who would go to this thing, considering our illustrious past and all we had lost?
EVERYONE. Every last bastard went to the party and, unhindered by a formal dinner, got right fucked by the very drinks I poured. Drinks that I could not drink, for I was working with EVERY SINGLE MANAGER I have in the room, drinking those very drinks I was entitled to have drunk.
It was a miscalculation on my part to say the least. Most bitingly, I was told 10 minutes before my bar closed (incidentally by my director who was having a *chug chug* smashing good time) that we'd keep the bar open another HOUR AND A HALF 'cuz everyone was simply having such a marvelous time that it would be a shame to close shop so early. A shame indeed. I rushed through my clean-up and cash-out hoping to catch one last dance to Fergie Boom Boom Powing, but, as if designed to fail, I was informed upon entering the ballroom that our event was over. The DJ was wrapping up. And not currently working, the bar was definitely closed.
So there I was, sitting in a friends hotel room (thank god someone remembered their history), sitting on a six-pack I had cunningly left in my locker, and hankering for a spankering. I had bared witness to a great party only to see it end before I could partake.
My friend Brad, he being of stout alcoholic blood, boldly wished to carry on despite the fact it was an hour before last call. Amazingly, his girlfriend Leslie agreed. Being not particularly bright nor capable of using reason while dealing with peers, I too agreed.
If you've ever been partying after midnight but before last call in Toronto on Front Street then you know you have two options; drink at Jack Astor's or call a cab. Not craving General Jack lager, we opted for a cab.
Long story short, we ended up at Crocodile Rock. If you've never been to this particular meat market, it's pretty much Hamilton encapsulated in a cougar bar. If you've never been to Hamilton, well consider your ass lucky.
Anyways I'm at Crocodile Rock, and it was even worse then I had remembered it (when I was underage, it was one of my safe zones). If you know me, then you know that I am entirely capable of taking annoying music and dancing to it annoyingly. Damn it, I was a Gino in high school, I could pretty much dance to anything with an electronic sensibility! But not this. It wasn't even Top 40, it was songs in the Top 40 genre that don't make the Top 40. It was awful. As I looked around the inbreeding grounds, I suddenly became flush with a realization that I was better than all this. All those years of uncertainty, dressing in Stitches outfitted clothing, going out with friends, inhabiting the worst clubs on Richmond and grasping to be some mythological 'playa' and I looked around and saw first hand how ridiculous it all was, is, and would forever be.
So I chuckled, and smirked, and thought everyone chumps while gleefully sipping on my $6 bottle of Canadian. While doing this I was wearing a suit, since I had anticipated hanging out with people at the Christmas "reception" when my shift was done. Taking a piss, I looked in the bathroom mirror. Seeing myself in a suit, at Crocodile Rock, smirking at others I realized: I can be such an incredible douche. Here I was, a guy in a suit thinking myself better then the people around me, the very epitome of the type of person I had dedicated my life to thwarting. What had I become?
So this is the question I pose: Have you ever found yourself being the very thing you hate? Because I will tell you, it's no fun.
(putting down martini) It's at this time I wish to go to bed and sit on these musings. And no it's not because the room is spinning. Cuz that's what happens when your drunk. And I'm not.
If you find yourself reading this and care to share your experiences, drop me a line. I promise to abuse your trust, sell your secrets to Stephen King, and get mad as his depiction of your experience is butchered on film.
And if you wanted to hear about all the things I promised to talk about in my ass-camera blog, well it's about time you realized that my word's so cheap it's on the McDonald's extra value menu.
Til next we meet I remain,
Luis Fernandes
That blogging bastard
(picking up martini) Good morning to those reading this! It is 4:41am and although it is considered morning to some, for me (and for those wishing to make anything before noon unproductive) it is only a hour or so before bedtime. But let us not dwell on time and its many intricacies. I have a question.
But before I ask it, some back story:
Recently I became a bartender at the Fairmont Royal York. As far as careers that require no formal education go, it's a pretty sweet gig and it jives great with my do-nothing artistic lifestyle.
Tonight, January 8th 2009, was our Christmas party. Or holiday party. Or who gives a fuck what your religious denomination is let's just get fucked up and eat hors d'oeuvres party. Call it what you will.
This time around, my work place decided to give us a party two weeks too late. Yes, yes, there was a recession and our profit did drop from a gajillion to a zillion. But still. I've worked at this god-forsaken place for five years and I will tell you, the Christmas party was a hoot. Everyone got dressed up, the Canadian ballroom (which holds over a thousand guests) got shiny and we all ate a brilliant three course meal laden with wine. Afterwards, we danced embarrassingly to top 40 music like a drunk uncle at a wedding. Then, and this was the best part, we all went back to our $60 hotel room and took the party to it's illogical sloppy conclusion. It was perfect.
But not this time. A "reception" on January 8th. So, being a bartender, the opportunity arose to work the event. Having but a mere $5.64 in my checking account (a sadly accurate figure) I decided it may be in my best interest to work it. Besides, who would go to this thing, considering our illustrious past and all we had lost?
EVERYONE. Every last bastard went to the party and, unhindered by a formal dinner, got right fucked by the very drinks I poured. Drinks that I could not drink, for I was working with EVERY SINGLE MANAGER I have in the room, drinking those very drinks I was entitled to have drunk.
It was a miscalculation on my part to say the least. Most bitingly, I was told 10 minutes before my bar closed (incidentally by my director who was having a *chug chug* smashing good time) that we'd keep the bar open another HOUR AND A HALF 'cuz everyone was simply having such a marvelous time that it would be a shame to close shop so early. A shame indeed. I rushed through my clean-up and cash-out hoping to catch one last dance to Fergie Boom Boom Powing, but, as if designed to fail, I was informed upon entering the ballroom that our event was over. The DJ was wrapping up. And not currently working, the bar was definitely closed.
So there I was, sitting in a friends hotel room (thank god someone remembered their history), sitting on a six-pack I had cunningly left in my locker, and hankering for a spankering. I had bared witness to a great party only to see it end before I could partake.
My friend Brad, he being of stout alcoholic blood, boldly wished to carry on despite the fact it was an hour before last call. Amazingly, his girlfriend Leslie agreed. Being not particularly bright nor capable of using reason while dealing with peers, I too agreed.
If you've ever been partying after midnight but before last call in Toronto on Front Street then you know you have two options; drink at Jack Astor's or call a cab. Not craving General Jack lager, we opted for a cab.
Long story short, we ended up at Crocodile Rock. If you've never been to this particular meat market, it's pretty much Hamilton encapsulated in a cougar bar. If you've never been to Hamilton, well consider your ass lucky.
Anyways I'm at Crocodile Rock, and it was even worse then I had remembered it (when I was underage, it was one of my safe zones). If you know me, then you know that I am entirely capable of taking annoying music and dancing to it annoyingly. Damn it, I was a Gino in high school, I could pretty much dance to anything with an electronic sensibility! But not this. It wasn't even Top 40, it was songs in the Top 40 genre that don't make the Top 40. It was awful. As I looked around the inbreeding grounds, I suddenly became flush with a realization that I was better than all this. All those years of uncertainty, dressing in Stitches outfitted clothing, going out with friends, inhabiting the worst clubs on Richmond and grasping to be some mythological 'playa' and I looked around and saw first hand how ridiculous it all was, is, and would forever be.
So I chuckled, and smirked, and thought everyone chumps while gleefully sipping on my $6 bottle of Canadian. While doing this I was wearing a suit, since I had anticipated hanging out with people at the Christmas "reception" when my shift was done. Taking a piss, I looked in the bathroom mirror. Seeing myself in a suit, at Crocodile Rock, smirking at others I realized: I can be such an incredible douche. Here I was, a guy in a suit thinking myself better then the people around me, the very epitome of the type of person I had dedicated my life to thwarting. What had I become?
So this is the question I pose: Have you ever found yourself being the very thing you hate? Because I will tell you, it's no fun.
(putting down martini) It's at this time I wish to go to bed and sit on these musings. And no it's not because the room is spinning. Cuz that's what happens when your drunk. And I'm not.
If you find yourself reading this and care to share your experiences, drop me a line. I promise to abuse your trust, sell your secrets to Stephen King, and get mad as his depiction of your experience is butchered on film.
And if you wanted to hear about all the things I promised to talk about in my ass-camera blog, well it's about time you realized that my word's so cheap it's on the McDonald's extra value menu.
Til next we meet I remain,
Luis Fernandes
That blogging bastard
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Finding meaning at the end of a tiny camera
HELLO!
My name is Luis and today marks my first foray into the blogsphere! I say blogshpere not knowing if that’s what it’s called. With my luck, the “blogsphere” is akin to saying the “internets” or “the World Wide Web”. Hey, I’m savvy enough to know when I’m not hip, so kindly ignore the mistake if it is indeed being made. For now:
Welcome to my blog printed up fresh on the blogsphere! It’s a place where my fractured psyche can dazzle you with its many bizarre and pot-induced thoughts! Now I know you’re asking yourself, "with so many blogs out there on the World Wide Web, why read this? Who is this Hispanic sounding man and why should I stop watching Dexter to read his blog?"
Well dummy, why ask questions? What the fuck, you think it’s easy for me to share my feelings? To put my words out here for your fucking amusement? I’ll fuck your mom, you stupid shit! [Edit this passage. It shows you have an explosive temper and it may alienate your readers…Dr. Bernard]
BECAUSE:
It shall be a place for general merriment! An exquisite blend of reality and art! A chance for ten million dollars in cash prizes! [Be more honest with your feelings…. Dr. Bernard]
I’ll level with you. There are no prizes, but I will occasionally write about dumb or inane thing that could be mildly amusing. Because here is where I will share with you the way I ACTUALLY see the world. And although I’m not as interesting as say, Kelly Clarkson, I am someone who has for the last few years been writing a journal in a notebook like a damn fool. Recently I realized, much like an elderly man realizes he’s been drooling on himself in the cold when he enters the bus, that I could put my writings on-line and call it a “blog” and make myself feel like I’m actually doing something with my time. As one of those artistic types roaming the Parkdale village in Toronto, this delusion is very important to me. But more important then all that was how this all began.
You see the other day I had a colonoscopy. Yes, that camera that goes up your ass and up through your digestive tract was up MY ass and as luck would have it, heading straight up my digestive tract. My doctor informed me that although I was a young buck I was going to need one which completely freaked me out as one often gets at the thought of such an invasive procedure. As it turns out, I have been losing red blood cells without explanation and it required the kind of investigation that brought us chills in such movies as “Fire in the sky”. Yes, it was that sci-fi genre trope that everyone and Lucas has used in the past: the alien probe. The sterile finger of science shoved uncaringly up the rectum.
Now mind you this fear was not born out of some childish heterosexual anxiety; I’m down with ass play in a controlled and loving environment. So please do not confuse this with some hockey room boys club notion of anal penetration, because this man fears not the brown town. No, It was the multiple FEET of camera that gave me the spooks. This thing was going in and it was going all the way. Through the lower intestine and out to the Promised Land.
And to make a shitty situation (ha) shittier, I also had to get a camera down my throat and into my stomach. I was to be spit-roasted like a glazed pig. A rotisserie chicken in a twisted chamber of cruelty. My thoughts turned to unimaginable torture. How was I to know the whole thing would be so damn enjoyable?
Let me qualify that: I’m someone who like to have things done to him. Okay, that doesn’t sound right. Rather, I like to have work done on me. I love the barber, for instance. Or say, going to the dentist. As I get older, I feel this narcissistic need to be important, and having professionals fawn on you kind of gives you that feeling. Sort of like in movies when you see the mob boss getting his face shaved with a straight razor or a pharaoh being fanned by a huge feather. It is the modern day equivalent of, “wench, get me my mead,” Now it’s, “Tony, a little off the top”. I say take what you can get.
So I didn’t mind in some ways having that “thing” to talk about. You know how it goes:
Mom: So what’s going on?
Luis: I’m having a colonostopy.
Mom: What?
Luis: A huge camera going up my ass.
Mom: Oh my god. Are you going to be okay?
Luis: Yes but I may need money, clothes and food.
Mom: Whatever you need son.
Luis: Great. I got to go now, I’m playing Frisbee golf and my friends are waiting for me to shoot.
OR
Friend: (crying) Man, Jenna isn’t even answering my calls anymore man. I can’t eat, I can’t sleep, I can’t go to work because I’ll see her, I just don’t know what the fuck to do! I’m so alone and I miss her so much.
Luis: Dude, I’m going to have a ten-foot camera up my ass.
Friend: That sucks dude. I’m sorry.
Luis: It’s cool.
You know I just liked having that something to make me feel real. And it was all going great until the day before the procedure.
If you have had a colonoscopy done to you, then you know it’s the day BEFORE that actually kills you. Not only do you take two pills of a strong laxative named Ducolax whilst spending two days on a NO DAIRY, NO RED LIQIUD, NO FIBRE and NO SEED diet (which leaves only sugar and beef as food options… I ate the Bacon-ater twice in two days), you have to drink (and this is not a typo) 4 LITRES of powerful bowel cleaner KLEAN-PREP which essentially turns you into a human Frosty machine.
Note: I apologize, as I write this I am getting very hungry and I have a ridiculous craving for Wendy’s, so I apologize for the overuse of Wendy’s related metaphors above.
So the day of the toilet was an unpleasant speed bump. But the procedure itself? Just dandy.
Let’s skip to the good stuff. So I get to the hospital. I wait in a room for thirty minutes although I’m on time for a scheduled appointment, great by most Canadian standards. Then an Asian women directs me to a shower room where I remove all my closes Auschwitz style and put on a two piece frock that gives greater access to my naughty bits. Then I’m put into a second waiting room with other people, also wearing frocks who are having there inner rectums filmed on HD digital, which was awkward but then again, what isn’t in this sort of circumstance? I was by far the youngest in the room.
After watching another great episode of Hanna Montana (which I later understood was another form of early anesthetic), I was ushered into a doctor’s room where I was instructed to lie down and given an IV. Then the fun began.
It’s funny when the doctor gives you a drug, you always sit there thinking, “I wonder when this will kick in?” The next thing you know its over and you’re lying there with a sweet and silly smile on your face. I was astounded by the simplicity of it all. I turned on my side and he began with no hesitation, nor did I, as I was dumbfounded by narcotics and happy to oblige. There above my bed was a screen, and I could actually see the camera going through my intestine. At first I wanted to turn away but then I realized how cool it was! I was actually seeing the inside of my body! And honestly, I have to say it was better then James Cameron's Avatar. I feel it's a fair statement to make, as I was equally high for both screenings.
At one point a person across from me let out a huge ripping fart, which amused me greatly in my infantile state. It was around this time that I noticed that I had a huge building pressure in my stomach and pelvis. Drunk off the anesthetic, I sloppily tried to get up, which startled a nurse. “You must rest,” she blurted out as my stone heavy head struggled to lift. “I think I need the washroom”, I drooled. You see, having drank enough laxative to permanently stain my mattress, I was certain this pressure could only be one thing and one thing only“Yes, just let out the gas,” she smiled, and closed the curtain around my bed. Let out the gas? Sure, I'm not embarrassed to say it. I had to fart. But what if it was more? Fear took me by the hand and played Stella-Ella-Ola. I didn't want to make a fool of myself here at Toronto Western! That's when another proud fart rang out across the room, a sudden wet implosion given with such vigor it paused my thoughts. It was then immediately followed by another one, this one long and draggy and off to my right. It was after that choice squeal I realized that this room had been built for only one purpose, to let people expunge gas. The pain building in my abdomen, I had no choice, I had to press out and pray like the others. So I did. And it was glorious. It was long and deep and it lasted at least thirty seconds, followed by a few staccato quick hits just for good measure. I was one of 99 red balloons deflating together , each squeeze bringing us more relief then the next. And for the next ten minutes, I was part of a beautiful symphony, a cacophony of human digestive systems fluttering in unison. It was as spiritual an experience as you will get in post-9/11 North America and I was happy to say I connected to strangers without words but with actions.
My point? It’s a cool procedure; you should definitely have one done. They say it becomes mandatory for men after 40 years old by why wait? It turns out it's as easy and breezy as Cover Girl. It would not be surprised if some Science Center in Europe had an exhibit where you could have a colonostopy done for kicks. Here’s the ball that makes your hair stand up annnnd there is the camera that let’s you see your colon. It’s too bad our North American lifestyle finds being drugged and penetrated so distasteful, it would be some educational good times.
Realizing the bizarre nature of this opinion is what made me understand that a blog was in order. It was time to inject some much needed honesty and bald-faced realism to this saucy bitch called the “blogsphere”. And I would be just the pimp to slap that bitch and get me my money.
So do please come again. In my next installment I talk about my famed theatre studio UNIT 102 and the true nature of money. In the meanwhile, I will question why I opened my blog with stories of defecation and uncomfortable medical procedures.
Excelsior!
Luis Fernandes
My name is Luis and today marks my first foray into the blogsphere! I say blogshpere not knowing if that’s what it’s called. With my luck, the “blogsphere” is akin to saying the “internets” or “the World Wide Web”. Hey, I’m savvy enough to know when I’m not hip, so kindly ignore the mistake if it is indeed being made. For now:
Welcome to my blog printed up fresh on the blogsphere! It’s a place where my fractured psyche can dazzle you with its many bizarre and pot-induced thoughts! Now I know you’re asking yourself, "with so many blogs out there on the World Wide Web, why read this? Who is this Hispanic sounding man and why should I stop watching Dexter to read his blog?"
Well dummy, why ask questions? What the fuck, you think it’s easy for me to share my feelings? To put my words out here for your fucking amusement? I’ll fuck your mom, you stupid shit! [Edit this passage. It shows you have an explosive temper and it may alienate your readers…Dr. Bernard]
BECAUSE:
It shall be a place for general merriment! An exquisite blend of reality and art! A chance for ten million dollars in cash prizes! [Be more honest with your feelings…. Dr. Bernard]
I’ll level with you. There are no prizes, but I will occasionally write about dumb or inane thing that could be mildly amusing. Because here is where I will share with you the way I ACTUALLY see the world. And although I’m not as interesting as say, Kelly Clarkson, I am someone who has for the last few years been writing a journal in a notebook like a damn fool. Recently I realized, much like an elderly man realizes he’s been drooling on himself in the cold when he enters the bus, that I could put my writings on-line and call it a “blog” and make myself feel like I’m actually doing something with my time. As one of those artistic types roaming the Parkdale village in Toronto, this delusion is very important to me. But more important then all that was how this all began.
You see the other day I had a colonoscopy. Yes, that camera that goes up your ass and up through your digestive tract was up MY ass and as luck would have it, heading straight up my digestive tract. My doctor informed me that although I was a young buck I was going to need one which completely freaked me out as one often gets at the thought of such an invasive procedure. As it turns out, I have been losing red blood cells without explanation and it required the kind of investigation that brought us chills in such movies as “Fire in the sky”. Yes, it was that sci-fi genre trope that everyone and Lucas has used in the past: the alien probe. The sterile finger of science shoved uncaringly up the rectum.
Now mind you this fear was not born out of some childish heterosexual anxiety; I’m down with ass play in a controlled and loving environment. So please do not confuse this with some hockey room boys club notion of anal penetration, because this man fears not the brown town. No, It was the multiple FEET of camera that gave me the spooks. This thing was going in and it was going all the way. Through the lower intestine and out to the Promised Land.
And to make a shitty situation (ha) shittier, I also had to get a camera down my throat and into my stomach. I was to be spit-roasted like a glazed pig. A rotisserie chicken in a twisted chamber of cruelty. My thoughts turned to unimaginable torture. How was I to know the whole thing would be so damn enjoyable?
Let me qualify that: I’m someone who like to have things done to him. Okay, that doesn’t sound right. Rather, I like to have work done on me. I love the barber, for instance. Or say, going to the dentist. As I get older, I feel this narcissistic need to be important, and having professionals fawn on you kind of gives you that feeling. Sort of like in movies when you see the mob boss getting his face shaved with a straight razor or a pharaoh being fanned by a huge feather. It is the modern day equivalent of, “wench, get me my mead,” Now it’s, “Tony, a little off the top”. I say take what you can get.
So I didn’t mind in some ways having that “thing” to talk about. You know how it goes:
Mom: So what’s going on?
Luis: I’m having a colonostopy.
Mom: What?
Luis: A huge camera going up my ass.
Mom: Oh my god. Are you going to be okay?
Luis: Yes but I may need money, clothes and food.
Mom: Whatever you need son.
Luis: Great. I got to go now, I’m playing Frisbee golf and my friends are waiting for me to shoot.
OR
Friend: (crying) Man, Jenna isn’t even answering my calls anymore man. I can’t eat, I can’t sleep, I can’t go to work because I’ll see her, I just don’t know what the fuck to do! I’m so alone and I miss her so much.
Luis: Dude, I’m going to have a ten-foot camera up my ass.
Friend: That sucks dude. I’m sorry.
Luis: It’s cool.
You know I just liked having that something to make me feel real. And it was all going great until the day before the procedure.
If you have had a colonoscopy done to you, then you know it’s the day BEFORE that actually kills you. Not only do you take two pills of a strong laxative named Ducolax whilst spending two days on a NO DAIRY, NO RED LIQIUD, NO FIBRE and NO SEED diet (which leaves only sugar and beef as food options… I ate the Bacon-ater twice in two days), you have to drink (and this is not a typo) 4 LITRES of powerful bowel cleaner KLEAN-PREP which essentially turns you into a human Frosty machine.
Note: I apologize, as I write this I am getting very hungry and I have a ridiculous craving for Wendy’s, so I apologize for the overuse of Wendy’s related metaphors above.
So the day of the toilet was an unpleasant speed bump. But the procedure itself? Just dandy.
Let’s skip to the good stuff. So I get to the hospital. I wait in a room for thirty minutes although I’m on time for a scheduled appointment, great by most Canadian standards. Then an Asian women directs me to a shower room where I remove all my closes Auschwitz style and put on a two piece frock that gives greater access to my naughty bits. Then I’m put into a second waiting room with other people, also wearing frocks who are having there inner rectums filmed on HD digital, which was awkward but then again, what isn’t in this sort of circumstance? I was by far the youngest in the room.
After watching another great episode of Hanna Montana (which I later understood was another form of early anesthetic), I was ushered into a doctor’s room where I was instructed to lie down and given an IV. Then the fun began.
It’s funny when the doctor gives you a drug, you always sit there thinking, “I wonder when this will kick in?” The next thing you know its over and you’re lying there with a sweet and silly smile on your face. I was astounded by the simplicity of it all. I turned on my side and he began with no hesitation, nor did I, as I was dumbfounded by narcotics and happy to oblige. There above my bed was a screen, and I could actually see the camera going through my intestine. At first I wanted to turn away but then I realized how cool it was! I was actually seeing the inside of my body! And honestly, I have to say it was better then James Cameron's Avatar. I feel it's a fair statement to make, as I was equally high for both screenings.
When the film ended, the Doctor asked me to turn around, which I goofily did, and he proceeded to put a ring in my mouth and feed pipe down my throat. I could see him feeding the piping into my stomach, which is scary yes, but all I could think of at the time was cotton candy. Why did it melt in your mouth? Next thing I know, I was being wheeled into a waiting room where all the other poor drugged up saps gurgled and lay around happy and free. It was like Woodstock II minus the music and mud…. You know, in retrospect it’s kind of ironic to think somewhere in Toronto there were a bunch of people doing the exact same thing, laying in some crack den all drugged up, only moments away from getting busted in by the cops while me and the 40-plus crowd got to do it on the government’s dime in some swank medical digs. Such is life when you’ve got an OHIP card. (score one for ol' Tommy Douglas)
At one point a person across from me let out a huge ripping fart, which amused me greatly in my infantile state. It was around this time that I noticed that I had a huge building pressure in my stomach and pelvis. Drunk off the anesthetic, I sloppily tried to get up, which startled a nurse. “You must rest,” she blurted out as my stone heavy head struggled to lift. “I think I need the washroom”, I drooled. You see, having drank enough laxative to permanently stain my mattress, I was certain this pressure could only be one thing and one thing only“Yes, just let out the gas,” she smiled, and closed the curtain around my bed. Let out the gas? Sure, I'm not embarrassed to say it. I had to fart. But what if it was more? Fear took me by the hand and played Stella-Ella-Ola. I didn't want to make a fool of myself here at Toronto Western! That's when another proud fart rang out across the room, a sudden wet implosion given with such vigor it paused my thoughts. It was then immediately followed by another one, this one long and draggy and off to my right. It was after that choice squeal I realized that this room had been built for only one purpose, to let people expunge gas. The pain building in my abdomen, I had no choice, I had to press out and pray like the others. So I did. And it was glorious. It was long and deep and it lasted at least thirty seconds, followed by a few staccato quick hits just for good measure. I was one of 99 red balloons deflating together , each squeeze bringing us more relief then the next. And for the next ten minutes, I was part of a beautiful symphony, a cacophony of human digestive systems fluttering in unison. It was as spiritual an experience as you will get in post-9/11 North America and I was happy to say I connected to strangers without words but with actions.
My point? It’s a cool procedure; you should definitely have one done. They say it becomes mandatory for men after 40 years old by why wait? It turns out it's as easy and breezy as Cover Girl. It would not be surprised if some Science Center in Europe had an exhibit where you could have a colonostopy done for kicks. Here’s the ball that makes your hair stand up annnnd there is the camera that let’s you see your colon. It’s too bad our North American lifestyle finds being drugged and penetrated so distasteful, it would be some educational good times.
Realizing the bizarre nature of this opinion is what made me understand that a blog was in order. It was time to inject some much needed honesty and bald-faced realism to this saucy bitch called the “blogsphere”. And I would be just the pimp to slap that bitch and get me my money.
So do please come again. In my next installment I talk about my famed theatre studio UNIT 102 and the true nature of money. In the meanwhile, I will question why I opened my blog with stories of defecation and uncomfortable medical procedures.
Excelsior!
Luis Fernandes
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