This is your captain speaking...

Perhaps it is pure folly to think otherwise, but its somewhat pathetic that mankind – with our ability to reach for the stars, chart the turbulent seas and imagine worlds unending – can be reduced to the basest form of being when encountering a network of free-standing waist-high structures connected by flimsy strips of cloth. Behold us, we who held our heads high, now shuffling like sheep to the slaughterhouse.

Or perhaps in the spirit of this day of thanks – like turkeys to the chopping block.

The queue (yes, we are being British today) is a stunningly simple tool to control the herd through the concept of group-think. Forced to follow through a one-way procession, our high ideal of individuality sublimates to docility. Wait your turn, no cutting ahead, approach the next available counter when told to; like infants we humbly obey.

Of course, this isn’t always the case – The New York Times delved into the cultural and psychological implications of lines in their September 18^th edition – mainland Chinese visitors to Hong Kong Disneyland displayed uncouth line etiquette, while Hong Kong natives stood patiently. The article is definitely worth an examination and I would offer the link here, but alas, the publication feels that old news is not fit to print – at least without some proper compensation. In 2004, Clive Thompson and some of his readers launched into the greater implications newspapers face with online archiving – which brings us to the “joke” that Thompson cites – “If you’re not in Google, you don’t exist.”

Oh, the many metaphysical debates that could ensue deserve another post at another time.

But as my associate astutely alluded, chaos is the name of the game – or rather orderly chaos. That’s the paradigm Google is trying to enforce for those of us riding the information superhighway. Whether ranking sites by popularity, bringing the beauty of geography to our screens, or cataloguing literally every written word known to man, the former search engine is quickly embodying the phrase scientia est potentia. And since a day in uncluttered wouldn’t be complete without uncovering some left-field zaniness: voila.

We can only speculate what fills the blank: Google = ________

"Sand will cover this place...Sand will cover you."
- Paul Atreides from Frank Herbert's Dune

So I was a month into graduate school and already the above sentiment seemed to accurately describe the prevailing scenario. Apart from the academic obligations of trying to glean new ideas from the writings of dead economists, there has been a surfeit of logistical ennui to deal with. For one, it appears that the gifted luminaries who comprise the faculty of this university still haven't figured out how to connect a laptop to an overhead projector. Such highly specialized tasks are apparently the responsibility of qualified IT personnel at McGill. To make matters yet more appalling, said individuals then spend the first half hour of a lecture subjecting the room's occupants to a display of unprecedented technological ineptitude.

Needless to say, I walked out.

Now, Nick is likely to criticize me for dwelling extensively on such seeming trivialities when the human race is, as he would put it, in the advanced stages of a countdown to extinction. But, bear with me, as all these presumably disparate ideas will soon fall neatly into perspective.

My first introduction to fractals came a few years ago when my then roommate, Andrew Ringler was creating some absolutely tripped out images on his computer screen using an innocuous set of mathematical formulae. Fractals, for those unfamiliar with the subject are mathematical patterns that exist on the so-called 'edge of chaos'. Their other remarkable property is that they scale infinitely. In other words, no matter what distance you observe a fractal from, it looks just as fucked up. Take a look at a few good samples here.

So essentially, fractal dynamics applied to the social realm would tell us that the explosion of violent crime in Toronto and my aforementioned projector episode really belong to the same 'fractal tree' of human folly, albeit at different levels. In short, Nick and I are ranting about the same thing at different levels of magnification.

While on the topic of chaos, my roommate Ari and I (and you?) are about to create some next weekend. The inaugurating shindig at our loft-style apartment on the main promises to be, as a friend once put it, 'ridicu-tarded'. The good Dr. Yeo will be on hand to provide outbursts of revolutionary zeal. Sethaniel D will attempt to preserve the moral fabric. Be there:

3507 St. Laurent Apt. 3
Oct. 14, 11pm
Bring your own drugs and sample some of ours

Front-formation of the day: an unsoothed itch

Prashant is right (words so infrequently used that my fingers struggle to finish the phrase) – Megadeth is nary a whisper in the wind – unless you count the idiotic legal duet Mustaine and Ellefson are performing – but as they say, any publicity is good publicity. Let loose the PR machine driven by buzz and watch it raze our senses silly.

Incidentally, I stumbled upon the most curious of webpages: Buzztracker. As its name implies, the site graphically depicts which cities are occupying copy space in the world’s newspapers, as determined by Google News. So what’s on the menu for today? The usual Gaza, Washington and Baghdad are to be expected, but evidently not Bali… not even a day has passed since that picturesque tourist locale again experienced explosive violence and its newsworthiness has relegated it to second-tier status. The only saving grace of this debacle is that Jakarta is still in the mix, at least reminding the reading public of world geography.

Does this just illustrate how fickle the media can be, oxymoronically shifting its focus from one corner of the globe to another? The current incarnation of Buzztracker certainly puts a new spin on how we see the world – I would like to see it mutate into a multimedia spectacle, through the medium of motion. When presented as a movie, we can see how quickly a major story can break and dominate the world’s headlines. We will also witness its precipitous decline as younger, stronger tidbits wrestle their way to the front pages.

Soon enough (October 5 to be exact), a new story will grip this nation’s eyes, ears and souls – the return of hockey, also known as Rebranding 101. Only time will tell if the on-ice product will withstand semi-enthused American indifference. Up here however, the only thing left to say is “DROP THE PUCK ALREADY.”

I'll see you at the bar.

115 days

Three months is all it takes to throw the world upside down – what with natural disasters, economic turmoil, a ravaging war and a Dear Leader who continually loses and finds his marbles. A summer where our collective psyche pounded with newscast after newscast: London, Baghdad, Gaza, New Orleans. Three months where the hard questions of life were pondered: Jacko’s supposed innocence, holidaying teenagers going AWOL, countless celebrity shenanigans.

To paraphrase an English poet: People, people, wherefore art thou insane?

Idiocy ran rampant through the streets of my adopted home, as if the sudden hail of bullets created a new paradigm: the bodies pile high as gun-related crimes besiege Toronto scream the critics. Alas, poor misguided fools - violence is a fundamental aspect of humanity. When we became cognisant of what is “mine” and what is “yours,” the seeds of wanton desire were planted. Our ingenuity to utilise tools to placate the hunger ultimately leads to a symphony of destruction. The stagnant and humid air that hung heavily didn’t dilute the continuous howl of sirens that pierced our subconscious; instead, it became a welcome environment for nervousness to flourish.

We are living in tense times – the rat race that threatens to consume our very essence blinds us to truth. On a planet that will nonchalantly wipe out a swath of houses, homes and habitats; in a society that teeters dangerously at the precipice of utter chaos; in an age where the most powerful resource available to mankind is routinely censored, filtered and re-interpreted a hundredfold – endangered no longer applies to cuddly koalas and grandiose gorillas.

I make my not-so-triumphant return to the blogosphere ready to take on our ever-shrinking world with my Rant-o-matic5000 rested and refuelled. Batten down the hatches, boys and girls, a new wave of pomposity is on the horizon.

Brendan O'Neill, Lyndon Larouche and the Coldblair conspiracy

A few months ago, while semi-drunkenly strolling through harvard square, Nick and I were confronted by some of the most curious grassroots activists. Toting a whiteboard with obscure geometry problems and delivering impromptu operatic performances, these were the followers of a nutbar by the name of Lyndon Larouche. At the time, we were fascinated. After probing them with the usual salvo of cynical questions, we grabbed a handful of their propoganda literature and proceeded with the day's business i.e. stumbling into the nearest darkened pub. Later in the day, though, after a bit of online research and looking through their flyers, it became clear that this was yet another muddle-headed cult incapable of distinguishing their asses from their elbows with any regularity. For example, one of the key tenets of their geopolitical worldview is the existence of a "Blair-Cheney perpetual war conspiracy. "

Cut to the present day and Brendan O'Neill's backlash on Salon against what he sees as the sinister alliance between Coldplay's Chris Martin and Tony Blair.

Much like the Larouchies who delusionally overestimate Blair's significance in the field of international power-brokerage (can you say lap-dog?), O'Neill vastly blows out of proportion what is just another mundane case of back-scratching. After all, Coldplay are darlings of big media for their saccharine pop stylings and Blair is an astute politician always looking to expand his power base. Such liaisions are nothing new and to make over-arching inferences based on them about British class relations or the state of contemporary music is ludicrous. Especially, when said inferences are confused, misinformed or factually wrong. Allow me to elucidate:

Although peripheral to the article's main focus, O'Neill confidently asserts that "Both went on to Ivy League universities -- Blair to Oxford in the 1970s, and Martin to University College London in the 1990s.." I had no idea that the Ivy League had extended its membership across the Atlantic. A few sentences later, we get another cosmic revelation: "Blair gave us the Third Way, a new politics of compromise and caution that was neither full-on capitalism nor socialism, neither right nor left, but something in the middle." Clearly, the author is of the view that an armed overseas occupation in support of forced regime change constitutes 'centrist' foreign policy. Dude, whatever you're smoking - I want some.

Speaking of which, the piece then suddenly veers into the realm of contemporary music and the use of mood-altering substances. Aside from the BRILLIANT comparisions between Coldplay, Radiohead and Oasis (someone please forward this article to the pitchfork editorial staff), O'Neill makes a wild leap of reasoning (faith?) to state that Thom Yorke would probably disapprove of drug use at a 1969 Rolling Stones concert. The author's understanding of the prevailing attitudes towards substance use in progressive music circles is also in a word: BRILL.

Finally, the piece launches an unrelated and unprovoked attack on prog rock. Apparently, Floyd and King Crimson were also (unwittingly?) part of the giant plot to repress O'Neill's mythical, unified punk rock nation. Bring back Johnny Rotten!, he zealously proclaims in closing. Come to think of it, Mr. O'Neill, why not bring back that timeless punk icon Johnny Ramone as well? After all, he was a staunch Reaganite and card-carrying member of the NRA. That'll show Chris Martin! Right?

For the time is at hand

Not quite as biblical, but I think these past few days can aptly be called the Week of Revelations. American history buffs now have the answer to what might have been considered the greatest mystery in domestic politics: Who is Deep Throat? W. Mark Felt’s name can now be scratched into textbooks, while the levee breaks with the expected flood of Watergate books.

Revelation #2, although not as earth-shattering and shocking, is that Canadian women are pretty. Rather, one Torontonian (in actuality, a Russian immigrant) was deemed by a handful of judges worthy enough to spend the next year smiling, waving and cutting ribbons. In fact the only revelation at hand is that my country has finally caught on to the mantra employed by our southern neighbours in all international competitions, vacuous or not: if you can’t win with your own people, steal them from someone else.

The dream of the United States of Europe will probably never be fully realised, if revelling nationalists have their say. The chorus of resounding nons and nees threaten the ratification of the European Union’s proposed Constitution, leaving its supporters to scratch their collective heads, and adding credence to the claim that when you want something done right, you don’t rely on sheep.

Revelation or confirmation? Salon columnist Sidney Blumenthal does reveal his inner fashion critic, as he criticises the Bush administration, “cloaked in myopic self-righteousness,” for its vagrant attempts to justify its outrageous behaviour (or is that the other way around?). Whether you believe in its policies, despise those wielding power, or just plain don’t give a damn, its proclivity to unleash the hounds on all enemies is still astounding. Amnesty International joins Newsweek, Jim Lehrer and others on the long list of those who rebelled against the dictum of “If you’re not with us, you’re against us.”

A week where our eyelids were stretched wide like Malcolm McDowell's in that Kubrickian torture flick, as images of incredulity flash across the screen, forcing us to face the truth. Wouldn't you know: the Greek word for revelation is αποκάλυψις, better known and pronounced as: apocalypse.

At least I had good seats...

I watched it, pondered it, slept on it, and weighed the countless arguments for and against. And despite my love for epic stories, science fiction and elaborate action sequences, my only opinion of the latest (and hopefully last) instalment of the space opera that spawned hollywoodus blockbusteritis can be summed up in the three-letter word left imprinted on my brain:

Meh.

Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith – it’s not a great film: sub-par acting and poor dialogue knocks it down a notch. It’s not even a good film: with clear knowledge of who wins (or loses, depending on your inclination), we’re left with a lacklustre story and an anti-climatic ending. At best, this movie was simply OK: its perhaps fitting that the biggest anticipation many had going into the movie was the re-introduction of the bass voice of James Earl Jones, interspersed with the iconic breathing. I may have been entertained for most of the duration, but in the end, this movie lacked a certain je ne sais quoi.

A second viewing may redeem the film, but perhaps what irks me the most is the knowledge that there are legions upon legions of movie-goers who will claim that this movie is the greatest ever. As the box office receipts keep piling up, fanatics in full regalia are prostrating themselves before the Temple of Lucas and giving thanks for absolute fulfillment.

This “irrational” behaviour of those on the dork side shares its origin with seemingly unrelated partners in crime. The jihadists who explode themselves in crowded marketplaces, the collective dream of Red Sox nation that lasted 86 years, and theists of all shades and philosophers of all persuasions who deliberate and defend their beliefs – all draw their strength from the same well: faith.

To allude to the performer with the penchant for public penis presentations: you gotta have faith. Without it, life will kick you in the gut, leave you winded and gasping for breath, as the question “why?” circles your head like the stars that spin around the dizzy cartoon character. Whatever tickles your fancy, believe it in. And to my friend (who may or may not read this) - stay strong buddy. I have faith in you.

Lethargy is a not a phase

It’s often the most hideous, despicable and vomit-inspiring phrase that brings a smile to one’s face – automatic or not. I cannot even begin to describe the stares and guffaws that I get when wearing the *proud* slogan of my alma mater’s humour magazine:

“Babies: Fun to Make, Fun To Eat”

Ludicrous indeed, but outrageous statements and actions force the noggin to consider the alternative. The flinging of the human body for example, adhering to Newton’s second (or is that third?) law of motion, challenges the mind. A normal occurence on the gridiron – barring freak accidents that result in the termination of one’s career. Whereas the ragdoll victim flops on the concrete street, a scene I witnessed tonight at the local watering hole with the sweet strains of a Detroit quartet spilling onto the patio, as what may be considered a look of dismay flashed across my companion’s face.

A David and Goliath moment – drunk hobo vs. determined bouncer. Whatever organic material left in my stone cold heart vainly tugs, but to no avail. As Confucius once said (according to the collegiate poster that adorned my Montreal digs): Shit happens.

Two words that sum up what may be considered a watershed moment in Canadian political history, and all we’re left with is an empty bottle of Reisling and the feeling of discontent. The only remedy for my malaise may be one of the celestial quotes favoured by my budding novelist friend, but it’s a line from a Showcase softcore program that best encapsulates my current mood: “Reach for the unknown - touch the stars.”

Stay Tuned

Watching television a singular experience: whatever strands of meaning I extract from the boob tube, whatever arouses my intellect in that desert of the un-real, matters only to me. To defend one’s television habits would be to defend masturbation – only one person derives any pleasure from either activity.

Only in the rarest of circumstances can that pleasure be shared between two, let alone a group. Circle jerks are one thing (as we wait for the juveniles amongst us to fish their minds out of the sewage canal), but I’m referring to the glorious feeling of being entertained.

Throughout human history and in times of extreme boredom, we have searched for ways to shatter that suffocation – the silver screen, the jester, the chamber quartet, the busker. Each medium opens our eyes, minds and hearts to the realm of possibility. In essence, that is what entertainment is – a deluge that bends and buckles the boundaries that dictate our belief structure.

And yet as we continually smack our foreheads at the collective oeuvre that lamely pass itself off as entertainment, we keep harping for more. Perhaps it’s our uncanny ability to be optimistic – somewhere underneath the crap polluting the airwaves, the musical equivalent of the legendary white whale must be swimming around. If we Tivo every legal and illegal satellite feed available, surely some sparkling allotropic show will emerge from the rough.

Those politically astute cynics in the crowd may counter with a theme that has been rehashed in newspapers, theses and drunken discussions: all the entertainment one ever needs lie in the sorry state of worldly affairs. I agree that the majority of slop deemed newsworthy is barely worthy of that moniker, but that requires its own critique.

Nonetheless, we are a strange species – we suffer without our daily fix, relying on the manic imagination of strangers to suppress the last vestiges of our insanity. Consider a world without it – if the rights to that concept haven’t already been sold and pre-production started…

A professor, a rock star and an ambassador walk into a bar...

Another town I’ve left behind, another drink completely blind
Another hotel I can’t find…

While not necessarily breaking one of Professor Kohn’s cardinal rules about historical essays (Never start with a quote unless absolutely necessary), those lyrics, courtesy of Lemmy & Co., paint a perfect picture. A picture that immediately popped into my head when I read the results of an online youth forum poll: according to that bastion of ballot tabulation, Listerine and MuchMusic, the tenth most popular dream job amongst kids is: concert roadie.

Being in a road crew on that never-ending tour might mean being free, but consider the more liberating, but primal experience that violence has to offer. Such an animalistic cathartic expression available to us – whether to relieve tension via a punching bag following a day of being wound up tighter than a fresh inmate’s bunghole, its many eruptions across the globe in the pages of every daily, rag and chronicle, or being the star player and motivating force behind the period of escapism I call: The Weekly Escapades of Bauer et al.

This week’s presentation proved to be a real zinger. Even though the level of ludicrousness was kicked up a notch with a covert attack on the Chinese consulate (woe betide the hapless viewer who launches himself into this thrilling series as it approaches its finale), the spectre of utilitarian morals raised its head and peered over the fourth wall: would you sacrifice the life of one to save the lives of many?

Fancy that – it’s not often that philosophy gets broadcasted to such a large audience. Who knew that dynamic entertainment could be coupled so neatly with moral questions – that’s quite the noggin exercise. Perhaps closing off with the Hetfield version of life on the road will sum things up nicely:

But I'll take my time anywhere
Free to speak my mind anywhere
And I'll redefine anywhere

This is your brain on...

What could be more perfect on a pleasant Monday evening in Toronto than listening to the noodlings of a masked, KFC bucket-wearing guitar virtuoso? While the sweet strains of Colma settle my eardrums, my thoughts focused on what was supposedly uttered by Maurice Ravel when asked what he was doing on a balcony: J’attends.

Much like Vladimir and Estragon were hanging around for some mysterious entity, so are our lives structured around waiting. The French composer was waiting for death, though our periods of lingering aren’t quite as morbid. Waiting for the new pope to be announced; waiting for revelations of sponsorship scandals; waiting for the party poopers to leave the room so the real fun begins.

Still, we hang around for the next station on the road of life, as each event brings us one step closer to the ultimate goal in life – absolute contentment. Hedonistic perhaps, but it sure beats a lifetime of what-ifs and wishful thinking.

Democracy Experiments

Notwithstanding my erstwhile colleague’s noble attempt to generate debate, I feel that he is completely mistaken in his assessment.

It seems that Prashant is trying to argue from a Baudrillardian point of view, that whatever that we have seen with regards to the Orange Revolution has been, in his words, “manufactured.” Jean Baudrillard proposed that the first Gulf War did not take place, in the sense that the idea of a war fought to liberate Kuwaitis was a farce. Now, Baudrillard is not denying that something happened on the ground in Iraq. One of the marvellous things about the first Gulf War was the introduction of the viewer as a spectator, and therefore a participant of the event. Thanks to the night-vision induced scenes of “warfare” courtesy of CNN, Baudrillard argues that our conception and remembrance of the Gulf War was seeded and developed by the media. WYSIWYG…

While I cannot argue that the “corporate media” would have us believe certain things, Prashant has muddied reality with his analysis. One: the choice, while perhaps forcing the voter to opt for the lesser of two evils, was not artificial; voters ultimately have a third option: abstention. That voter turnout was 77% indicates a good number of Ukrainians chose not to go to the polls. Two: their consent was not manufactured. Yanukovych still managed to get 44.19% of all votes cast; had Yushchenko won in a landslide, we would be having a different debate. Three: the Ukrainian populace selected a leader without electoral interference – the reason why the first vote was denounced as illegitimate, and why the December 26 run-off was called.

In fact, what happened in Ukraine is a perfect example of democracy as an experiment. In an interview with The Globalist, Cornel West said, "Democracy is not just a system of governance, as we tend to think of it, but a cultural way of being." As he details in his book, Democracy Matters:

We should not be seduced by the simplistic and self-serving statements from the Bush administration about the commitment to instill democracy … as though democracy is something that can be so easily imposed from the outside...

While the above passage refers to Afghanistan, Iraq and the Middle East region, that same sentiment can be applied to any country on the world. Democracy is an experiment to be developed by a country’s citizens. While this may irk some (as China’s Hu Jintao did last September, stating that “indiscriminately copying western political systems is a blind alley for China”), what’s good for the goose, may not necessarily be good for the gander.

A Year of Change and Spontaneity

While winter is making its final tour of the great white north, leaving me with salt-stained jeans and slush-soaked cuffs, the rest of the world witnessed a rash of resignations – from Togo (Faure Gnassingbe), to Hong Kong (Tung Chee Hwa), to Lebanon (Omar Karami). In fact, the global community has recently been riding the wave of political change and electoral success – Ukrainians and Palestinians selected their respective leaders, while Iraqis began their process of rebuilding their country. This is certainly not the year for despots and dictators – if things proceed at the rate that they have already, 2005 may be known as the Year of Change.

One thing that seems synonymous with change (particularly the political flavour) is the presence of the crowd. Protestors in Lomé clashed with the police, objecting to the unconstitutional instatement of Gnassingbe’s replacement. Martyrs Square has been filled with Lebanese since the assassination of Rafik Hariri, calling for the end of Syrian influence and interference. There is something seductive about a focused crowd, intent on achieving its objective. It entices us on a primal level, sending shivers down our collective spines as the mob chants their incantations. Whether it is political, festive (outdoor concerts) or just plain destructive (riots following sports events), we cannot help but watch in awe at the power of the crowd.

Is this the exhibition of the power of the masses, that the gathering of people can affect change? Consider that a spontaneous protest not only requires a shocking event, but must manifest where there are deep-rooted sentiments. When the event is juxtaposed against the Zeitgeist, therein lies its birth. The Cedar Revolution has shown that the sudden gathering of people can make a difference.

Myer, Grouch, astronotus ocellatus. A singing wiener, a distempered green muppet and a South American freshwater fish. While all three share the name of that naked statuette that will make the rounds tonight, I can only hope for their appearance onstage, perhaps to flip the bird at that golden mantelpiece decoration.

I marvel at my ability to withstand years of oppression and abuse upon my sanity, mercilessly doled out by The Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences like a cantankerous lunch lady. Yet like some hopeless drug addict clamouring for one final fix while wasting away on the streets of an inner-city ghetto, I keep crawling back to witness and watch every year, as I throw caution to the wind and renounce any semblance of common sense.

Award shows are a funny creation. On the one hand, the whole charade smells of shameless self-promotion. In the run-up to a ceremony where an industry is supposed to be celebrating excellence in movie-making, we are faced with arse-kissing campaigns reminiscent of student politics. The well-oiled P.R. machines and studios have engaged in a masturbatory display of adulation, trying to one-up each other in the minds of the voting members. “My list of nominations is bigger than yours…”

At the same time however, the show continues to dedicate a portion of its broadcast to remembrance: one of the few highlights of each year is the annual scrolling of those who are no more, ceased to be, expired and gone to meet their respective makers. Even the coldest and blackest of hearts must be warmed as the well-dressed pay tribute to their fallen comrades.

Enough pre-show musing. To borrow an oft used phrase, let’s get it on!

(What follows has been pieced together from scribbles found scratched into stale slices of bread with what appears to be a rusty pair of knitting needles. Preliminary analysis shows that the author suffered from a mental breakdown.)

golden statuettes are dancing around my head….one of them started speaking to me about Marx…Albert Brooks thinks White Chicks was the bomb…James Bond is croaking to a computer animated midget with a German accent...have I waltzed into a fantastical amalgamation of technology and espionage? I swear I’ve seen the same trick done countless times before… is that roadkill atop Adam Duritz’s tête – someone call the SPCA… Strapless gowns and backless dresses, rented tuxes and overpriced suits, thick rimmed glasses and wrap-around shades (but a notable lack of Jack) – a field day for fashionistas…respectful applause for Brando - one almost expects a final slap from beyond the grave...

Fear, Loathing and a Tangential Exploration of the Unknown

I may be off-base here, but I would surmise that the members of my generation (the ubiquitous 18-24 sect) will remember the dearly demised doctor through one of two mediums – comic strips and film. Not being well versed in Doonesbury, I’ll instead touch upon what Robert Mitchum on Pitchfork wrote: “the cultural distortion of his personality into a grinning Johnny Depp gripping a cigarette holder between his teeth and popping mescaline.” No doubt many of my contemporaries and peers will have that cinematic image imprinted into our collective minds. Anyone worth his weight in mescaline will gleefully recall the immortal words first uttered in the film (and printed in the book): We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold.

Chemical dependencies aside, cultural distortion, when used above, certainly raises some interesting questions. Has Depp created a situation where art imitates life so successfully that it actually supersedes the source? When we think of the words “godfather” and “mafia”, is not the first image that materialises in our craniums a mumbling Marlon Brando?

But what about life imitating art? In Tennessee, two boys were arrested for re-enacting an admittedly violent video game – Grand Theft Auto. Out of sheer boredom, the boys aged 13 and 15, decided to shoot at real vehicles on a real highway, and ultimately, resulting in a real death. Or what about the hyperbolic vitriol spewed forth by groups in the US over Spongebob Squarepants and the promotion of accepting homosexuality (as far as I can discern, the original complaint stems from the fact that Sponge and his male starfish pal, Patrick, are seen holding hands). If these fools are to argue that a single instance of cartoon character can, and will, influence children, my only question would be: where were you all when really appalling behaviour is being broadcast? Where were the howls of outrage when grown men and women (read: people our children should be looking up to) are forced to consume animal testicles and jump off cliffs for cash?

Of course, the cultural phenomenon of voyeurism is so abrasively amped up several notches in the Far East. Thanks to the wonders of piracy and the Internet, I had the “pleasure” of viewing a particularly grotesque form of torture. Not the graphic humiliation of school girls in pornographic snuff films though; what I witnessed was a televised event broadcast in Japan. Given my rusty handle on the language, and the half-baked interpretation I received, the story unfolds like so:

Two years ago, at the start of the Nippon Professional Baseball Season, two television comedians made a wager on whose team would win the league. The loser of this particular bet would undergo the greatest public humiliation known to mankind – for 23 minutes, the winner will essentially “own” the loser. Whatever the winner says, the loser must do, without protesting or reacting.

His punishment arrives in the form of the cream-pie-in-the-face-gag. What starts out as an innocent joke (a cream pie for every minute passed), quickly escalates into pure mob rule. Laughing and giggling the entire time, his tormentors proceed to throw that single rule out the window, and pelt the loser at choice moments. When he’s told to light a cigarette. When he’s told to fetch the newspaper. When he’s told to sit on the can. A particularly awful segment involved the loser being ordered to take a shower, only to be met with fresh pies to the head, chest and groin. The final blow was served by the winner himself, as the loser, naked and pinned to his bed by a group of men, pleads for mercy.

Ouch.

While I do cringe at the whole debacle, I must tip my hat to the winner for devising the entire spectacle. “When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro.” Oh, how true you were Doctor, how true you were.

Dr. Hunter S. Thompson, 1937 – 2005.

Permit me, if you will, for the brief intrusion by the Boy Wonder of the original, campy Batman series:

“Holy hutzpah, Batman!” (Genuinely uttered by Robin, if this website’s facts are in order).

Today’s topic of incredulity is payola – not the mispronounced, yet delectable Spanish rice dish, but that egregious act of dropping dollar sign labelled sacks of cold, hard cash on the laps of commentators, columnists and pundits. In plain English: paying someone to promote a point of view, to argue from a specific standpoint, to come out in favour of a particular policy. In a word: bribery.

I guess the emcee was right: money does make the world go round, the world go round…

Even my own skewed version of ethics can place the recent discoveries of paid proselytizers Armstrong Williams, Maggie Gallagher and Michael McManus into the “baaaaaaaaaaaad” category. For those who have been living under the proverbial rock these past few weeks, revel in their respective exposés on GoogleNews.

(Mind you, if offered $240,000, who among us does not immediately replace their pupils with $$ à la Bugs Bunny et al.?)

To shill or not to shill, that is the question…many (presumably unsullied) commentators have harped about how implicitly wrong it is for writers of any feather to accept money for promoting a stance. And if it does happen, then gosh, you better darn well disclose it! As you would expect however, there are 259 different sides to this coin. For a frank look at the nuanced opinions on payola, check out Editor & Publisher’s examination of what colleagues of Williams, Gallagher & McManus have to say.

The one thing that puzzles me the most from this media brouhaha are the desires of Williams and co. to have their cake and eat it to. They insist that they already believe in the policies that they advanced (in their cases, education and marriage). Maybe I’ve been inundated with an antiquated view of writing, but if you truly believe in something, why the materialism? If you really want to get paid for writing about your beliefs, join a think tank or become a university professor…

I think a grand sweeping statement is in order: People prefer to hear opinions over news. The popularity of Rush Limbaugh and Jon Stewart (and yes, he's simply espousing his opinion) can certainly attest to the validity of said sweeping statement. While our consciousnesses are peppered daily with events that educate us about the global scene, is there anything grander that watching, reading or listening to our favourite commentator ripping into what irks him or her at that very point in time?

Hey – why isn’t anyone paying me?

You can never really appreciate the absurdity of the Bush administration. From a certain point of view, a cast of colourful characters and caricatures are running the hyperpower of the 21^st century. To help develop that tableau, Salon.com has compiled a list of 34 scandals currently plaguing the White House. A good read, some pretty damning stuff, particularly the figures involved with Halliburton. No one in their right mind can deny that the only word to describe it is: absurd.

Perhaps on the other end of the absurd-o-spectrometer was this 20-minute sequence of characters performing a strange ritual on television. No, not some Monday evening Discovery Channel Special on pagan cultures, but professional wrestling. (You can’t help being impressed by it: these are serious men & women in peak physical condition performing constantly). A little background info is warranted: Monday Night Raw was being held here in Toronto, with a match between two Canadians, Chris Benoit and Chris Jericho. Naturally you’d expect the crowd display their respect to these two men through the usual whoops, chants and unintelligible warbles associated with ‘rassling…

Instead, the TV audience was treated with a good old fashioned Canadian feel-good love-in: everyone sitting quietly in their seats, politely applauding the performers and the show they are presenting. It was almost as if the sports entertainment broadcast from Hogtown was magically transformed into a gold medal event at the Olympics. Only in Canada?

Still, the image of the ho-hum, well-mannered, “nice” Canadian is (subconsciously or not) reinforced – not a bad thing per se. There are many advantages to being polite…

But right in the middle, balancing my mind out, was this single thought: what a glorious time to be alive and witness these daily spectacles!

On a different note, I think time is an intriguing concept. What does time mean? What does it mean to us? Our lives are so structured by a concept. Perhaps this is presumptuous and pretentious of me, but I intend to explore that concept. Keep me brain ticking. But don’t expect some philosophical breakthrough any time soon: I’ll be going at my own pace (pun woefully intended).

While yaks, blogs and other such may be a tremendously engaging subject for some, they have failed to spark more than a fleeting interest on my part. This, to the extent, that I have generally found this medium a little tedious and more than a little unsatisfactory.

Essentially, in the spectrum of modes that constitute self-expression, the blog is a curious halfway house. In most forms of mass distribution media, content tends to be researched, polished and targeted at a sizable audience. The blog obviates such requirements and allows for a more instant, informal style. For me, however, this negates the very appeal of writing. The time I would spend formulating proto-conversational prose is better spent, as far as I'm concerned, actually conversing. Given the size of our readership, it would probably even take less time to talk to each person individually than it would to compose some vapid pontification.

And so this is my last post.

Wow.

That's the only word that comes to mind during my daily reflections (of which more will be posted online, I promise...) Simply put, I have never been as amazed at the world as I am these fresh few days of 2005. From the disaster in South & Southeast Asia (more on that later), to the idiocy that I witness everyday, I am continually stunned. But not completly speechless. If there's one thing that's certain in life, it's that when given a chance, people open their big mouths to gripe...including me.

And first on the agenda are the tsunamis currently sweeping through the world as I type. I'm not referring to the natural disasters that have taken so many lives. Instead I refer to overwhelming flood of news that has followed in the wake of December 26. Much like after Sept. 11, 2001, every form of media (new and old, wired and waved) have contributed to raising the world's awareness. And that's a damn good thing.

Let's hope that in the months that come, we don't forget Aceh, Galle, and Nicobar for whatever latest celebrity titillation that enamours the public mind.

As for what's happening on the uncluttered front, my understanding is that Prashant is currently taking a leave of absence. Yes, the jabs, jokes and jests may now commence - his contributions have always been sparse, I know. Even so, let us wish him well on his future endeavors, which I understand involve yaks in Central Asia... more on that as I find out.

As for me? I have plans in the works. But let me first pose a question to our "readers" (and I know you're out there....)

What does time mean to you?