BLOG.
The word blog is a strange one isn't it? Its not a very attractive word. It feels like someone was about to say something profound, but then burped while talking. It sits with booger, slag and flak as something you don't want as a last name. "Mister Blog, your table is ready". Ugh.
I promised I would write this blog on a weekly basis. But I forgot that to write something, you have to be thinking of something to actually write. My mind being a whirlwind of randomness, finding that something is actually pretty difficult. I'm sure with a proper diagnosis, there would be a pill to fix all this. But if I were to fix it, then I'd have money, a good paying job, a proper home, two kids, a minivan, a horse named Wallaby, a ranch full of cattle, a personal gyro-copter, a Blackberry, an underground bunker capable of withstanding nuclear blasts, a George Foreman grill (deluxe sized; two steaks at once baby!), a subscription to Reader's Digest, a billiards room, a flux capacitor, a butterfly menagerie, an open field of wild corn, a swimming pool and a harem of virgin women. And who wants all that?
No, I think I'll stick to being a barely functioning theatre practitioner. Drugs isn't the answer, its just a fun way to spend a Sunday afternoon.
In keeping with this, I've decided to make this weeks entry about nothing in particular. Sort of like Seinfeld, minus a cast of lovable characters, good writing and a viewership of over a million people. Think of it as the Chat Roulette of Blogs: a point by point inventory of the inane clutter sitting trapped in my walnut sized brain. Hey, size only matters in the men's change room. And in the bedroom. And in nuclear armament. And in pumpkin weighing competitions at the county fair. And....OK fine, size matters. Let's move on.
-Chat Roulette- The idea of sitting in front of my computer allowing random men to dance their penises in front of me is not appealing. As much as I love surprises, I feel they come best wrapped in paper. With Facebook, I already have a shit whack of friends who I never speak to. And with life, a bunch of good friends I never see. What' s the point of randomly inserting a man from Peru dressed in a rubber suit into my life? Other then to find true love, I mean.
-Texting-I remember in the old days I thought this concept silly. Here we have a wireless devices capable of transmitting our voices from anywhere in the world via satellites orbiting the planet, and we decide that rather then take advantage of this scientific marvel we'd prefer to go all 1806 and revert back to the written word. Why make a 30 second phone call when you can take 10 minutes sending 25 three word messages back and forth?
-you there?
-Yeah. Who is this?
-Luis.
-Hey!
-Hey.
-What's up?
-Seeing what you're saying.
- Not much. Watching t.v.
-Cool. What you watching?
-Uhh, nothing really. What you saying?
-Nothing. Looking for something to do.
-Yeah, I'm bored too.
-Yeah. Want to go see A Team?
-Naw. I got to work.
-Shitty.
-Yeah.
-Give me a shout. I'm free all week.
-Ok. Will do.
That was 18 fucking text messages! To say what? Do you want to do something? That takes 12.5 seconds in a phone call! So for me, texting was a gimmick used by little girls to pass messages in class. HOWEVER, what I didn't realize was how much people hate being responsible for themselves. Let me explain. I'm chronically late. Often, I find myself waking up with only minutes to spare and a need to inform someone somewhere that I am an irresponsible lout. But to actually SPEAK to them is a shameful experience: you can hear their annoyance with your tardiness, they can hear you stuttering while you drop your bullshit lies; the sounds of your cat mewing in the background at odds with the TTC delay you are supposedly experiencing. With text messaging, lying becomes simple. You see, talking reveals emotion, whereas writing is a premeditated action. With texting, I can tell you that you're dying of malaria without hearing the tears, that I dropped your camera in the toilet without hearing you curse my name and that I slept with your wife without hearing the cock of your shotgun. I want to INFORM you, not TALK to you. And so these days, texting is all right in my books.
-Toronto Post G20-I was leaving Sneaky Dee's at College and Bathurst last week and my friend Joe and I walked by the Scadding Court Community centre. This center holds many memories for me, as it was where my father played ball hockey, where I learned to suck at basketball and it contains the library where I picked up my very first Choose Your Own Adventure novel. You remember those, don't you? They went something like this:
You turn the corner only to find yourself pressed against a large, chain link fence. Trapped, you turn to go back the other way, only to find yourself face to face with Mel Gibson. Do you:
Rant on and on about how the Jews and Blacks are destroying our planet, hoping to befriend him? Turn to page 46
Discuss which was better punishment pornography: SAW IV or the Passion of the Christ? Turn to page 75
Ask him what it was like to work with Danny Glover on Lethal Weapon III? Turn to page 103
Hit him with a large mallet? Page 22
Turning to Page 46.....
Quickly you begin to spout incendiary comments about Jewish run Hollywood. Mel Gibson, unable to contain himself, begins to rant on and on about how they forced his girlfriend to dress provocatively while he secretly wishes to see 'those people' exterminated. Smartly, you record all this on your iPhone, send it over to TMZ and make a cool $2000 dollars for the exclusive rights to air it. YOU WIN!
Man, I miss those books. Where was I? Oh yes. So I'm walking by Scadding Court and we hear the boisterous sounds of play coming from the outdoor pool. Keep in mind it is almost 3 am at this point. Coming to the pool we realize that over 100 people, through a hole in the fence, were swimming illegally in an impromptu pool party. Without hesitation, we ripped off our clothes and with underwear as trunks, jumped in. I don't think I've had that much fun in ages. I even saw my friend Julia there and, putting her on my shoulders, engaged in the time worn Jock game of "knock the broad off my shoulders". It was a four way battle royal, and although I swallowed copious amounts of chlorinated water, I won the showdown. Normally I refuse to engage in any sort of athletic competition that could possibly embarrass me (as I often lose such competitions) but the simple pleasure of trespassing in a large group overrode my need to protect myself from feelings of inadequacy. When the cops showed up, which was inevitable, they merely made their presence known long enough for us to get up and leave. For a man left scarred from the G20 police presence, this simple act of rebellion lifted my hearts and gave me hope that Toronto had reverted back to normal.
Not so.
Flash forward a week, and we again found ourselves at the same pool. This time, I was nursing a bit of a cold and had some female attention waiting for me so I opted to skip the pool party, albeit with a heavy heart. Lucky for me I did because that night the cops were waiting. They blocked off all exits, harassed the swimmers, issued out $150 tickets for trespassing and HIT PEOPLE WITH BATONS. That's right. Somehow the innocent act of swimming at night required the use of force. But who can blame the cops? They saw a fence and immediately fell back into their role as protectors of the world's leaders. I mean they were given the right to use force only a few weeks ago, and as we all know, absolute power corrupts absolutely. At this rate, littering will be a crime worthy of capital punishment.
I think N.W.A said it best, FUCK THA POLICE. Now where are they, this homeless guy is staring at me....
-Twitter-
LUIS397
I'm walking to the bathroom
LUIS397
Im in the bathroom, trying to find a clean toilet
LUIS397
OMG, there are no clean toilets. Going to have to put down toilet paper
LUIS397
Taking a dump.
LUIS397
Wall says, "I fucked your mom" Someone wrote underneath, "Ok dad, you're drunk, time to go home"
LUIS397
LOL
LUIS397
Why do I exist?
This is stupid. I don't care what people think.
-Blossom-Does anybody remember this show? Remember? The one with the annoying girl with the big nose who always wore that weird hat? In its heyday it was as popular as The Fresh Prince of Bel Air but nobody talks about it with the same sort of nostalgic glow. Perhaps its because much like Chernobyl, the vicious scar left by Joey Lawrence still effects us to this day. Whoa.
The room where I write this blog is too bloody hot. I'm going to call this one in. Thank you for reading. I'm sorry I've got nothing better to talk about.
Join me next week when I talk about....meh. I don't know. We'll see.
Mel Gibson is crazy. Lindsey Lohan is in jail. Jamie's got a gun. God is dead. And I'm...
That Blogging Bastard.
P.S. I don't agree with Nietzsche. God isn't dead. He's just ignoring us. Probably on Twitter.
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