Let's make a deal!

For this blog entry, I want to get serious. There are serious matters at hand, and I want to discuss them in a no-nonsense, rapid fire sort of way. It's me and you right now, kiddo.

One on One.

Face to Face.

But let's stop looking at each other in the face because it's awkward.

Besides, we've got to dig deep into the hardened top-soil of lies and stare dark truth in the face instead. Oh yeah, this is SERIOUS BUSINESS, baby. So sit down with me, and maybe we can strike a deal....

First off: I love Count Chocula. What's that you say? Too sugary?

I'll level with you: the shit is as sugary as a Meg Ryan flick, got more marshmallows then actual crunchy cereal AND it turns the milk into chocolate. So yeah, it's Perfect. Sure your bones won't get stronger, your teeth will hurt and your skin will start to look like a pimply ol' ass.

That's because it's just a big candy bar you pour milk over.

Look, no one eats a breakfast that is healthy, we eat HEALTHY breakfasts. Come on, we're all eating bacon, eggs, toast, cereals , COFFEE with sugar and/or cream , cereal bars, Pop Tarts, waffles with butter and syrup, sausages, muffins, hash browns ...everyone indulges when they are half awake and barely cognizant. What's that mister moneybags? You eat berries and granola for breakfast right after your morning jog? Well I'm sorry that we all can't afford berries and live in a happy cocoon where you don't have to steal transit and delay rent payments and eat bowls of 100% Our compliments refined sugar and chocolate pieces left over from Christmas with milk as a simulation of your favorite breakfast cereal! Maybe you just....just...

(breaking down in tears)

I miss my cereals.

(Wipes tears, collects himself, and grabs a cigarette. Lighting it, he....wait, why am I narrating this?)

Alright, let's cut to the chase. Papa Louie needs to come up with a little scratch, see? Or else Papa Louie is going to be dining at your local dumpster. No, not the Golden Griddle, I mean a literal dumpster. This is getting serious now. Just got off the phone with my agent (acting not secret) and he's saying that McDicks ain't sending me cash til after the first of April. So now using our collective minds on the blogosphere, I write to you in hopes of striking a deal.

Brass tacks:

I'm an energetic, hard-working, and work (relatively) cheap. I'm fluent in the English language, I can deliver a line (IE I can bullshit) and I'm not afraid to get my hands dirty. I'm a great companion, love to cook (but can't) and have an extensive knowledge of eighties to early nineties X-men comics.

I can clear most video games in under 10 hours, got a few dance moves in the ole derriere , can kick a funky rhyme and know where all the cheap spots in the city are. I can edit, revise, collate and copy. Basic Frolf skills, Mac skills, Microsoft word skills, Settlers of Catan Skills and skills that pay the god damn bills. I'm a rare find, a diamond in the rough like Disney's white Aladdin. Right now I'm a free agent, and I can be yours for a very low price.

That brings me to you.....

What do YOU need?

Maybe it's as simple as a coffee brought to you in the morning or having your dog walked while you work. Maybe you'd like someone to prepare a meal, do chores or entertain for guests. Or perhaps a bitter rival has gone too far and only the cold blade of a masked assassin will teach him the error of his ways....with LUIS FERNANDES you get quality work done at an exceptional price.

Between March 24-27 and March 29-31 LUIS FERNANDES is for hire.

Contact me on Facebook or here at youbloggingbastard@blogspot.com or email me at luisfernandes397@hotmail.com.

I will do all the dirty work. You? Relax.

So that's my final offer. Take it or leave it. In truth, I'd rather work for you then McDonald's anyway. No pressure, but if you don't hire me, I'm going to start dealing Meth to your young family members.

Now get me to paint your back yard fence already and keep me off these ever-loving streets!

Professional as all hell,

That Blogging Bastard

BROKE. no joke.

Well fuck me: its still March, I'm still broke and God of War 3-less. I have no upcoming shifts at work, and the money Ronald McDonald owes me has yet to surface.

Many would think that being on television pays a lot of money. While this is not necessarily untrue, one thing many do not know is that unlike most jobs, there is no designated "payday". The money just sort of comes when it comes. Could be in a week, could be in three months. So every morning I wake, get dressed, and run to the mailbox only to find I owe FIDO another $91.08. Much like the Ancients prayed for rain to fall on their crops, I pray to the Canadian God of Post to send me with haste a banquet of cash.

There is nothing like the feeling of knowing you have money coming to you while being penny-less.

Friend: Hey Luis, want to grab a coffee?

Luis: Well you see, I can't cuz I have money but I'm broke.

Friend: You have money and your broke?

Luis: Well, you see I've already worked, so I'm owed the money... so technically I've MADE it, I just don't HAVE it.

Friend: But you've made it?

Luis: Yeah. I just don't possess it.

Friend: If you don't HAVE it, then you don't have it.

Luis: Right...

Friend: So your broke.

Luis: Right.

Friend: So just say that your broke.

Luis: But it's not like I haven't worked. Broke people aren't working. I've worked.

Friend: You're broke. Who cares if you worked?

Luis: But I'm saying I'm not a bum. I'm owed. I'm a victim here.

Friend: You worked and you never got compensated?

Luis: Exactly.

Friend: Then you're an idiot.

Luis: .....

Friend: Right?

Luis: I guess.

Friend: Get an actual job, and you'll get actual money.

Luis: Yeah, I've got to figure out something. So can you spot me for a coffee?

Friend: Sure, I guess.

What you've just read is how I get free coffee. It's also how I get free beer, cigarettes and soda pop.

And these are the tactics one resorts to in a time of great economic duress. And times of great economic duress seem to be coming at me with alarming frequency. I am reaching levels of poverty not seen since my late teens. When you start saving the night stamps on your streetcar transfers, you know things are getting bad.

Two years ago around Christmas I was about to hit rock bottom when I magically found a $4000 camera lens lying discarded in the trash. It was a miraculous of stroke luck if you believe that I found it. If you don't, lets just say its none of your god damn business how I got it. Either way, I sold it online and saved myself a few months grace.

But I can't always find $4000 camera lenses. And I can't always mistake tripods for trash cans. It's time to take action and make some downgrades!

Effective immediately:

-Carlsberg Tall cans -----downgraded to-------Pabst Blue Ribbon Tall Cans

I still refuse to drink Lakeport honey because it tastes like Winnie the Pooh's piss when warm and I'm not man enough to go back to malt liquor. It looks like six packs of Bavaria will no doubt come into play and sadly, when it gets really bad I'll have to resort to (wretch) Old millaukee Ice. After that....paint thinner? Maria Christina? Toilet Duck?

Frosted Mini Wheats------downgraded to------Wheat Mini's with Frosting

Cereal has long been one of my most costly luxuries. No longer can I go for brand names when Our Compliments has such cheap rip-off brands. So now instead of Frosted Flakes, I'll eat Tiger Sugar Flakes. Instead of Honey Nut Cheerios, I'll have Honey Crunch Rings. And instead of Count Chocula, I'll have Our Compliment's 100% Refined Sugar.

TTC Metro Pass-----------downgraded to------stealing

This is my most risky endeavor but one I have mastered from my youth. It requires low morals and a heart of steel, and while my heart may only be a strong aluminum, my morals are low enough to compensate. First off, it helps very much that I live off of Queen Street where thePOP (Proof of Payment) system is in effect. Bascially, you can walk on through the back doors without the teller checking your fare. The idea is that randomly, you may be asked to show your proof of payment. This happens once every 20 rides or so. I'm not embarrassed to play the odds and risk having to say, "Oh, I must have dropped it" and step off the street car if need be.

As well, the street car transfer is an easily forged document. Basically the transfer has numbers running along the side that represent hours. The driver rips it at the correct hour to mark the time it was given. Have you ever noticed that sometimes you get a really long transfer and other times you get a super short one? It's all dependent of the time you entered the streetcar. At night, rather then print out a separate evening transfer, a night stamp is placed at the top of the transfer; a colored rectangle that says NIGHT. These stamps are color coded to the transfer of that particular day. What I like to do is collect night stamps of every color. On a day where I must use the TTC, I scour for a long transfer so that when I board, I can rip off the correct time and add a night stamp from my stash. Pathetic, yes. But effective. Paffective if you will.

Or I could just look for a job. I've got three as it stands, and not a single one of them is giving me shifts. One of them is slinging beer at the Skydome, which used to be quite lucrative. There was a time when a Tallboy cost $8.50. People would give you a $10 and you'd keep it, meaning you walked off with $1.50 per beer. Sell six cases and you were sitting pretty. Then they moved it to $9. Walked away with a buck per beer. Then $9.25. Then $9.50. If you can believe this, word on the street is they're actually going to sell it for $9.75 a can this summer. At that price point, I'm lucky to walk off with a quarter instead of a punch to the face. Plus with the Blue Jays looking like contenders for shittiest sports club in Toronto (not an easy award to win), I'll be lucky if there are any patrons in the building to slug me in the face.

Let's face it, I've been vending at the Skydome since I was 16 years old. When the Raptor's played there. When Joe Carter was still a Blue Jay. When two dollars was a bill. Maybe its time for something NEW AND EXCITING like....

Ok I got nothing. But as always, necessity is the mother of all invention and right now necessity's water just broke. I'm going to wet nurse this sucker and get back to you.

Theatre degree afflicted, please send drugs.

That Blogging Bastard

Being a Whore: The actors true gift

WELCOME TO MARCH!

It's that blogging bastard back with a bountiful bunch of boisterous blogging!

I've been away from my computer whilst wretched poverty hath slapped me in the wallet but today is ye' ol payday, and I was able to procure a two-liter bottle of Labatt Strong from yonder LCBO kiosk.

Three swigs in and BAM! Here I am.

The Olympics, eh? What a crazy few weeks, no? Gold medals just littering the floor, am I right?

Someone else: Is that yours sir?

Luis: What? This gold medal by my foot?

Someone else: Yes. I seemed to have lost mine.

Luis: Nope, no. This is my medal sir, I'm sorry.

Someone else: Oh! Never mind. I just found mine in my back pocket!

Man, we got more gold then Leo DiCaprio's pubic hair. It just shows you: pumping ludicrous amounts of money into something IS the fastest way to get results. I'm just glad we spent it on winter sports instead of hunger and affordable housing....what a waste that would have been!

I won't lie, I did enjoy Vancouver 2010. With no fear of lost masculinity (for I have none to lose), I teared up when Tessa Virtue and Scott Moir won the gold medal for Ice Dance. Upon winning that gold, Moir apparently told Virtue who was too scared to look at the final score that they had won silver when they had actually won gold. Then when asked how he was going to celebrate his winning gold, Virtue screamed out with mock white boy swagger: "YOU ABOUT TO FIND OUT!" . I can't wait to see him on Intervention.

Shaun White, the american celebrity snowboarder, proved that he does indeed deserve a video game bearing his name. I hadn't seen moves like that since watching circus pornography. If he didn't look like Carrot Top's retarded brother, I'd have sex with him.

HOCKEY!HOCKEY!HOCKEY!HOCKEY!

Sidney Crosby has now replaced Dudley Do-Right as most brazen Canadian stereotype. Not only does he win the Stanley Cup but he also scores the game winning goal at the olympic Gold medal game. When I was 22, I was too busy prematurely ejaculating to get that much accomplished. Expect to see Crosby on television hucking Goldschlager, Gold Bond Lotion, Golden Grahams, Golden Honey Tim Bits and Yukon Gold Potatoes like a real Canadian hero!

Speaking of Commercials:

I just landed a role in a McDonald's commercial. For a man with little income, this is great news. As an artist, it is the beginning of what I see as a gradual decline into whoring. Yes, believe it or not, there was a time when I thought myself above money and was prepared for a life of desperate artistic integrity. It was after eating my millionth can of Zoodles that something changed.

Perhaps you have heard me say this lately:

"You don't have to wait, they're here now"

It was with these immortal words (verifying the sound design and excellent value of Ford vehicles )that I entered the world of commercial acting. The fact that I have never driven, have no drivers licence and know absolutely nothing about cars is quite an irony considering I'm on television telling you otherwise. And that's because (spoiler alert!) commercials are false.

Everyone who has seen a Menthos ad knows that the scenario depicted is a heaping load of malarky. But we hope that once in a while a real person might just show up. Like the doctor on the Government ad preaching flu injection or the women on the Acne medication who's life has changed from its use. Even if it's scripted, even if we know they were paid to say it, we take solace in the fact that at least they are who they say they are. And sadly, they aren't. Most of the time it's just an actor reciting script. I even know of an actor in a WSIB ad who played a wheelchair bound man who had lost his legs in a horrible factory accident.

He was a jogger off-camera.

And that is the inheirent problem with commercial acting: It is devoid of any real meaning, therefore its participants are unable to extract any true meaning from it.

For me it will always be a pay cheque.... a pay cheque I need so, so, so fucking badly.

God of War III is coming out and I'm eating ketchup sandwiches here! So give me your Nissans, Coke and Pepto Bismal! Sidney Crosby can do it and so can I! Go Canada!

The one thing that peeves me? I've been telling people I'm an actor for over 10 years, and it was the Ford commercial that finally made people believe me. I've performed in countless plays and comedy shows but it was a two-second close up of my face talking about the Ford Taurus that got me the most praise from family and friends. Couple that with the three-seconds I'm going to get in this new ad, and I'm heading into full blown celebrity status here.

Watch out Listerine Man, there is a new player on the thirty-second stage!

Now if I can just find the time to take all these Gold Medals lying around over to Oliver Jewelers for some quick cash (OH YEAH!) I might be able to afford my rent next month. Or at the very least my next bottle of Labatt Strong.

Blah,

That Blogging Bastard

All Signs Point To Old

At the still sexy age of 28, I've begun to experience situations that remind me that I am no longer a young and enthusiastic man. Small, niggly things are starting to poke holes in my immature logic, logic I've spent the better part of a decade in developing. These moments of reality have reinforced my darkest fear: that I'm old and no longer "with it". Here are few things I have noticed:

-Every time I step into a Queen West dance bar I feel like a high school chaperone.

-When I drink I get 'old man' drunk instead of 'fun times Charlie' drunk. Long gone is the rush of destructive behaviour and free spiritedness I used to get when drinking; now I get tired, mean and brooding. Instead of dancing til dawn, I sit at home reading the Believer while lamenting that I'm not out dancing til dawn. Welcome to the Carlsberg years. (incidentally, I drink Carlsberg).

-Any physical activity comes with two days of dull throbbing pains that keep me completely inactive. Do the math. I'm not an athlete.

-All my friends kid sisters are now really FUCKING HOT.

-I inexplicably feel bad for lusting after my friends kid sisters.

-All regions of hair on my body have now become one.

-I've begun to write poetry that reflects my "feelings". Check out the video below to see what I mean.

- Grapefruit isn't bitter, it's sweet. Black licorice isn't nasty, it's an aquired taste.

Rum isn't mixed, it stands alone. Hmmmm... Suddenly my tastes are a lot like my grandfathers. If I start an herb garden and marry a seventy year old Portuguese women the transformation will be complete.

-I can watch a baseball game from beginning to end.

- Sitting at home rapping in front of the computer doesn't feel like a productive day anymore. Even when I record it!

- I can admit that American Idol, while stupid, is pretty damn entertaining. On the flip side, Wrestling is now just plain stupid. What a complete 180!

-Stephen Harper is my Prime Minister and I don't want to take to the streets and violently oust him anymore. You could stick a semi-retarded iguana in the position and I wouldn't bat an eye.

-I drink coffee to wake up, I drink it to stay awake, I drink it at work, I drink it at home, I drink it to FUNCTION.

-I can't stay awake for any movie with more than an hour and a half running time.

-I make martini's instead of drinking Colt 45 even though I'm still making the same income I did 10 years ago. As a result, I'm even broker now then I was 10 years ago. Damn you Bond!

-I think of sex only 60% of the time now and can perform it only 10% of the time.

-When I shave, I don't have a baby face, I have a mug. (Perfect for mug shots!)

-I have to stop playing video games every few hours because my eyes hurt.

-I had a colonoscopy.

-Everyone keeps asking me when I'm going to get married, get a real job, start investing, etc. C'mon guys, you know I'm too emotionally immature to have thought about any of that stuff.

The list goes on and on. Needless to say, I'm on the decline. To quote Herman Dune:

"I feels like I'll never get my shit together

27 and I'm fucked

Well its 10 years from teenage

and that's a freaking lot"

Fuck you Herman Dune! I'm 28!

Withering to dust,

That Blogging Bastard

P.S. To all my readers who are older then 28, I'm sorry, but it's not my fault you're going to die.

Horseshit

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.

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.

Avatar

When I first started this blog, I promised myself not to let it get too nerdy. I was wrong.

I was reading an article in the Toronto Star that mentioned there was a huge on-line debate brewing regarding James Cameron's new multi-billion dollar 3-D cash grab Avatar. Apparently a large number of people view the movie as racist. You know, the fact that a white, barely literate marine goes undercover into a native populace, learns their ways, wins them over and then empowers them to defeat their white aggressors was found to be a smidge distasteful.

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.