The Realist Manifesto: Part 1

The following is a Herculean attempt to understand humanity as it stands, and to chart out a path to save it. Over time I will add and adapt this philosophy, and I invite you to comment and critique it.


The Realist Manifesto
A pragmatic approach to the world

Marvin Gaye had it right when he crooned three simple words, in response to the growing anxiety American society faced in the early 1970s. "What's Going On?" can equally applied to the situation that we find ourselves in. Half of the world's population are under the age of 25 - that's 3.3 billion young men and women, nervous at what the future holds.

Like any sound philosophy, before we peer into the crystal ball, let me propose some undeniable truths:

1. At our current rate of consumption, the planet will not be able to sustain itself.
2. Information is the most prized and valued commodity.
3. Collaboration at all levels is necessary for success and shared prosperity.
4. Our diversity needs to be celebrated.

The origins of every problem plaguing humanity can be traced to the negation of at least one of these principles. Conflicts arise when basic needs and resources are unevenly distributed or hoarded by a select few; tension and strife are natural reactions when our appetites remain unsatisfied. Power traditionally rests in the hands who control information: chieftains, monarchs, governments; the temptation for abuse leads to corruption and distrust. Human beings are a social animal - we strive for interaction and are remorseful when left alone for too long; separation, isolation and denial fuel desire's flames. Distrust is bred on a diet of perceived differences - skin colour, religious beliefs, social status; when exploited, this fear drives man to commit atrocities on unimaginable scales.

Lack of resources : Power centres : Divisions : Fear : Destruction

This cycle of violence can only be sustained for so long.

We need to address the inequalities that arise from each stage. Doing so means wholly embracing each fundamental axiom I listed above. And like the phoenix rising from the ashes, an alternative holistic system will take shape, one that would hopefully result in a collective consciousness that has evolved beyond our current state.

You are cordially invited...

It seems somewhat appropriate that humankind's mortality and gluttony meet face to face in that last stronghold of brutality and barbarism in a civilized democracy – capital punishment. A final drag on a cigarette, as the shackled revolutionary defiantly stares down raised barrels, or the opportunity to etch one's place in the annals of history with a cutting barb à la Marx ("Go on, get out. Last words are for fools who haven't said enough.”), it's the final countdown to placate our ever-hungry never-satisfied appetites.

Whether or not you agree with the sanctioned extermination of a human being's life, we all havea certain morbid curiosity with what tastes grace the palates of death row inmates, and if this list is any indication, plain and simple seems to be the trend.

Which makes My Last Supper such an enlightening peek into the minds of celebrity chefs. Multi-course exotic feasts juxtaposed against mother's home cooked meals – it seems even these culinary masters are divergent when it comes to gustation – go figure. As one victim astutely points out, you really have only two choices: “to have a meal you've never had before, or to relive a meal you've already experienced.”

In his introduction, Anthony Bourdain sheds light on why the last supper (not that one!) enthrals the mind of the cuisin-artist:

“If cooking professionally is about control – about manipulating the people, the ingredients, and the strange, physical forces of the kitchen universe to do one's bidding; always anticipating, always preparing, always dominating one's environment – then eating well is about submission. About letting go.”

Extreme sports enthusiasts will say that's the reason they attempt insane skiing stunts at the top of mountains, flying over ancient Chinese battlements, or facing certain doom with a well pressed shirt. Death, that ultimate finality, the stamp on our passport that seals our fate, is the ultimate thrill ride. Or at least the threat of it...

For who among us are ready to take that final shuffle off this mortal coil? Suicidal readers need not raise your hands... Are you ready to look the grim reaper in the eye, take one sweet last breath and step into the light? Death is what defines our life – we are truly remembered by our peers when we are long gone, and they sit around a blazing fire, making toast in our honour. The king is dead, long live the king...

So what about my last supper? That menu has yet to be composed, but when the time comes, your place will be reserved.

Still don't know what I was waiting for...

Holy crap, last post was in the summer... how time flies when you're not paying attention, whether having fun or bored out of your mind or playing the fool and acting the goat.

Ziggy Stardust jammed it good, but alas I don't have my Weird and Gilly - I'm just a "writer" in my mind, burning holes to wile away time.

But every so often, the urge comes along, and shocks my system. Political assassinations, blood-drenched protestors and weird science whore themselves for my attention - time is a precious commodity, though last I checked, it doesn't cost $100/barrel.

Oh well.

A new year, a new start? We shall see...rules may be made to be broken...a testament to our restless lives

My distorted reality, Part 1

On the surface, video game enthusiasts, Monday morning quarterbacks, pop philosophers and quantum physicists may not have anything in common. However, once you peel back the superficiality of each label, we reveal a characteristic that infects every human being: overactive imaginations.

Consider Dr. Nick Bostrom's article “Are You Living In A Computer Simulation?” which examines the likelihood of the scenario popularly proposed by the Wachowski brothers. After computing the probabilities of various statements, Dr. Bostrom arrives at the conclusion that one of the following is true:

(1) The fraction of human-level civilizations that reach a posthuman stage is very close to zero
(2) The fraction of posthuman civilizations that are interested in running ancestor-simulations is very close to zero
(3) The fraction of all people with our kind of experiences that are living in a simulation is very close to one.

A neat argument but I was surprised by Bostrom's comment in The New York Times: “My gut feeling, and it’s nothing more than that,” he says, “is that there’s a 20 percent chance we’re living in a computer simulation.” Thanks to his bemused prediction, we are likely to remember Bostrom for posing an intriguing Gedankenexperiment – if we reach a point in history where Statement (3) comes to fruition, we'll merely chuckle and proclaim him to be a great thinker.

Not so for Rob Bryanton unfortunately. This musician-cum-philosopher has been ridiculed for his presumption that there are only 10 dimensions. While quantum mechanic string theory practitioners may gripe about Bryanton's faux-science, simplifying complex concepts without academic rigour, I think the real issue at hand seems to be the flashy animation he uses to explain his theory.

In a nutshell – they are jealous that he has been able to succinctly communicate his ideas. Thanks to the emotions of an exclusive clique of thinkers, the idea that the totality of all possible existences can be represented as a dot on the 10th dimension will probably never be taken seriously.

Shouldn't we praise thinking outside of the vat? Is that not what all intellectual discourse be about? Stay tuned for part 2 – where fictional characters come to life and human beings lose their individuality in the swimming pool of creativity.

Identity Crisis

There is a part of my being that roots for him every night. With bated breath, I join the throngs, eager to witness history in the making. Like horny high school sweethearts, we wonder if tonight be the night. But with the storm clouds of allegations swirling around his stature, he stands at the brink of greatness and infamy. Still, it would be sweet poetic justice if he's forever stuck at 754. No asterisk needed, just another footnote in the long history of the sport.

I'm now sleepwalking the silent streets, chemically intoxicated, but like an unfazed Horatio Caine, I survey the scene: larger-than-life creatures preen and prune themselves, birds of paradise caught in an urban jungle. Hiding behind vapid masks and fumes of machismo, they challenge me to refute their maxim: I think that I am, therefore I am.

The ghost of Descartes is gagging, but the words of Wilber peer through the ether. Our identity is constructed from four distinct and fundamental perspectives: interior, exterior, collective, individual. We are the product a bubbling mixture of images – either forced upon or gladly swallowed. We are a projecting species, not unlike Arctor's scramble suit.

Look in the mirror – do you recognize who you see? I touch the image before my eyes and flinch. Daltrey's primitive howl shatters my visage, and I won't be fooled again.

Alea jacta est

It's summertime, and while the living is easy, restlessness hangs in the air. Its muggy tendrils slither down throats, gently suffocating our collective psyche. In the land of make believe, boulevards of broken dreams bring me to a scorched and barren wasteland. My imagination raped and brown bunnies mocking, I struggle to comprehend this Inland Empire. A clever stratagem, shock and awe: on the battlefield, sheer dominance leaves combatants battered and bruised and always confused. Something is rotten in this state of hyper-reality...

Hush now, do you hear the siren's seductive call? Her symphony of destruction entices and enchants. Oh, to be Odysseus... satisfaction is risky business. Transfixed upon the why, I stand on the banks of the Rubicon and hesitate. Frozen in this moment, I'm reminded of a tautology from the good words of Melvin Kaminsky: Everything that happens now, is happening now. Time is never time at all, it keeps on slipping into the future.

I've been searching for truth and clarity, and all I see are the ripples I've caused.

But that's the whole point, n'est-ce pas? I wouldn't want to disappoint.

Reach out and touch me

That groan you just heard? Technologistas across the globe just collectively orgasmed. First the iPod, now the iPhone – Apple is proving once again that style and substance can go hand in hand like childhood sweethearts. Is it a phone, an MP3 player, a mobile office? Does it even matter? The thing looks fucking cool...

Welcome to the realm of the image: a land where the visual reigns supreme, where clothes make the man, where photoshopping is an accepted practice and where our eyeballs are bombarded with brilliant kaleidoscopes, fast cutaways and product placements. See me, buy me, be me.

Everything is presented visually – take a look at this “personal discovery tool.” Graphically presented for ease of use, the website encourages users to seek out new bands and films similar to their favourite artistes and auteurs. And while I may disagree with the dubious decision of delineating Pink Floyd as “similar” to Neil Young, what's fascinating is the ability to represent a concept that some are subconsciously aware of: the network. It shouldn't be a surprise anyone that networks are important to life. Career choices, wireless providers, CNN – all networks, all the time.

Life everything else that exists, networks are subject to change and evolution. Take the natural network that we were each bestowed with at birth – new synapses are created when reading the latest issue of the New Yorker and neurons are destroyed by the latest designer cocktail of drugs and alcohol. We construct social networks to mark our place in the world - “It's not who you are, it's who you know / Others' lives are the basis of your own” - making and breaking friendships when needed.

And the most important network? It's the one that you're using right now, allowing these words to be displayed on a computer screen miles and miles away, across this ever-shrinking world. Communication and transmission is the name of the game, especially in a place where rumours and hearsay run rampant, wilder than a stampede in the wild, wild west. Remember the “creator of the Internet"?

Six years later, Gore's back in the limelight, this time proselytizing a message of doom. Don't worry, I'm not about to shoot down the concept of global warming, or cynically comment that the environmental movement is being infected with Geldof-itis. But consider this: if you were stirred by An Inconvenient Truth to do your part, are you aware of the true costs of effective carbon emissions reduction?

There may be tough times ahead, but it's true we need to “work collectively and aggressively for bold new policies,” to share resources and strengths to overcome flaws and weaknesses. Like the latest gadgets from Jobs et al, the more people who have it, the more people will want it. As progressive thought becomes more en vogue, progressive policies will follow. A new way of life may be possible if we recognize that the world is a living network, and as individual nodes, its our duty to call for action, and the time is now.

Proletarier aller Länder, vereinigt euch, anyone?

Good, evil or ambivalent?

Thirty-three million people roared in unison as the country's collective heads swell with pride and hearts sent aflutter. Three straight gold medals at the World Junior Hockey Championships and once again Canadian wombs continue to assure our dominance at this elegant sport.

“Elegant?” one might ask. Consider the goalie's pinpoint hand-eye coordination needed to catch a puck hurtling at speeds of up to 100mph. Or the balance required to burst down the ice and stop on a dime, supported by only a thin steel blade. Basketball may have showboating slam-dunks, and soccer fancy footwork, but nothing quite compares to a dazzling deke. Pure poetry in motion.

“But, but, the violence!” you protest. No doubt there is a brutish element – we'll never forget The Bertuzzi Incident. And the fighting – the only professional team sport where fisticuffs is somewhat condoned. On any other playing field, players land in serious ca-ca, but in the rink, you get a 5-minute major penalty for dropping the gloves.

Like all organized sports, hockey is a perfect example of a moral absolutism in play – strict guidelines and appointed zebra-clad judges to call fair or foul. This particular ethical system succeeds not only because it is organized and happens within a contained environment, but mainly because when you step on the ice, you acknowledge said laws and acquiesce to the system.

(In the heyday of my career as a student of philosophy, my stock answer about my personal ethical system was that “Ethics is a sham.” To be honest, this frivolous response stemmed from the simple reason that I disliked my ethics classes. When pressed to elucidate, I would rely on two key weapons of mass distraction: Olympian language and convoluted logic. Usually sooner, but sometimes later, I would have confounded my opponent such that they forthwith declare to eschew abstract discussions...)

Unlike the world of sports where participants accept their lot, the game of life is a little different. Without a overarching moral scheme in place, humans will endlessly debate over what is good and evil, what one ought to do and what one ought not. In this empty void, many feel compelled to fill it with religion – as many as 75% of the world's population. Religion is rife with moral absolutism; the paramount example the Ten Commandments. Which George Carlin promptly shreds to pieces...a spectacle I had the pleasure of witnessing in Montreal.

So where does that leave us? No closer to the truth than before. Everyone makes their own choices and reacts to situations differently. Still, from the pulpit I preach this two-word maxim:

Be yourself.

Break a fiver?

The police sedan blisters down the one way street, sirens piercing the once silent night, shattering an already fragile paradigm. This used to be a safe neighbourhood, she said, and now every night there's a domestic disturbance, a drug deal gone bad, a break-in in progress.

T-Dot's practically balmy. Half-expecting Missouri-force snowstorms, he's greeted with relatively tropical weather, so much so that it warrants island dress. Scores of meteorologists, legions of tree huggers and Al Gore may be correct, but it still boggles the mind.

This is the bane of human existence; when presented with a situation so utterly unexpected, something so inane that our 3 pounds of spongy matter does a double take. It may have been Creation's little trick: in giving us thought, we were also gifted (or cursed) with a hunger to satisfy murderous attitudes towards felines. Whether it lies in religious tomes, scientific pursuits, spiritual meditation or symbolic art, we seek the ultimate answer to the ultimate question: Why?

While many have struggled to provide rational explanations, the late great Douglas Adams once wrote in his five part trilogy:

There is a theory which states that if ever anyone discovers exactly what the Universe is for and why it is here, it will instantly disappear and be replaced by something more bizarrely inexplicable.

There is another theory which states that this has already happened.

Flippant? Perhaps, but within those two sentences lie a kernel of truth that cannot be ignored. If there is anything that is certain and constant in this universe, it is that things change.

Our very lives are dictated by changing states. The smell of a moist roast unleashes a Proustian flood of memories. The price of gasoline drops 12 cents in 2.5 hours. Time is the linear measurement of the difference between Point A to Point B. Civilizations rise and fall, cities prosper and fail, economies boom, bust and echo.

And of course, uncluttered has changed. In my first post, I was advocating evolved thought, confident in my ability to proselytize to the masses. Now, the soapbox has been placed in storage, the lights dimmed. In this post, I'm one vote shy of being charged guilty of meandering. As 2006 draws to a close, and 2007 raises even more questions, my cliché answer to that burning question is simply:

Why not?

The latest Tool album is terrible. Actually, all Tool albums are terrible aside from the moments of 'how the hell did they get that sound??'. The fact is, Maynard is the real tool....Adam Jones needs to start a band with Billy Howerdel, get Melissa Auf Der Maur to play bass, have Liam Howlett do drum loops and get Femi Kuti doing voice-overs about demo-kraaaaayzee....

So why am I losing it? Probably has something to do with the crappy dep wine and reading endless accounts of the Piedmontese silk industry in 1860...did u know it was a natural oligopoly?!? thrilling....

Still, there's always the trusty old Ibanez that I can strum at moments like this...oh wait....someone stole it while I was out of town....fuck....well I guess I'll just play air guitar with my tennis racket...it has more strings too...

At least the cold hasn't started biting yet...and Nick's birthday should kick ass...

and now the guy down the hall is saying that something is 'incroyable'....

And now for something completely different

Winter is fast approaching, and the most important piece of clothing isn't something you can find at your regular clothing store, but rather your local pub. Yes, its time to dust off those beer jackets...

You remember the first time you felt invincible against the elements – alcohol does that to the human body. Your first martini never tasted sweeter, and you danced dangerously with your gag reflex at your first keg stand. Sooner or later, copious drinking ensues – whether in celebration or in mourning, with friends or in solitude. We've all been there – binging and blacking out, waking up in the puke-stained alley/a stranger's bed/on an island. We don't remember how or why, but the first that comes to mind – never again. Until the next time...

Drunken shenanigans on boats, embarrassing episodes revisited by heartless “pals,” passionate arguments with interrupted with blank stares. All sights on this tour towards drinking maturity – been there, done that. And yet, despite this curriculum vitae in beer-ology, I'm occasionally asked to show proof of age.

I'm not mad at the the beer girl at the ball game – she is just doing her job; the button above her left breast can attest to that: “We ID anyone under 30.” Rules are rules, even if they are meant to be broken.

I'm not saying to lower the drinking age – the last thing I need are more prepubescent boys and girls bragging about how drunk they were the night before. They dress horribly as it is – let's keep the alcohol out of their crazy hands for now. What I am advocating however, is responsible drinking in the only way government can provide: drinking licenses.

That's right ladies and gents, if you are serious about your alcohol, prove to the powers that be that you can be trusted with a bottle of booze. Hell, we are required to do the same when driving, and to me, maneuvering a ton of metal, while other equally monstrous hunks of metal are hurtling right beside you is scary enough. At least with alcohol, the only real risk is to yourself.

How would you go about obtaining a drinking license? For starters, take a written exam that tests your knowledge on various topics: fermentation, blood alcohol levels, laws, history of booze, statistics. Then the practical. It's a known fact that alcohol affects every one differently, so it's only fair that your own physiology be put to the test. In a controlled environment, proctors can assess whether you are more liable to get plastered on beer, hard liquor or wine coolers. They can measure the rate of absorption, or chart your descent from an upstanding citizen into a blubbering shell of your former self.

Would this actually work? Who knows, in a perfect world it might. But one thing is for certain: the online mutterings of a cynical drunken fool can only be tolerated for so long.

Deceit, Deceive, Decide just what you believe...

The haggard old bag lady wandered Toronto's streets at night, pausing briefly in front of the emergency entrance to a hospital. Perhaps provoked by some unseen dislike of health care, she launches into a commentary of her life, shouting out obscenities, professing her lack of control over her situation and cursing names that drift away in the wind.

Where did she come from? Why is she homeless? Did her family leave her on the curb, when the toll of alcohol and drug abuse became to painful a burden to bear? Or is she struck with a mental disorder that distorts her reality, and has been let loose on the urban jungle? Are the people she blames real, or figments of her imagination?

These questions may seem trivial in the face of potential nuclear destruction on the Korean peninsula, but it dawns on me, like the first shaft of the morning sun piercing skyscrapers and condominiums, that this individual is living proof of perhaps the greatest skill known to mankind: the ability to falsify.

Everyone lies – that's the plain simple truth. Whether they are huge whoppers (Iraq had WMDs), entertaining exaggerations (I once caught a fish this big), or convenient falsities (Not tonight honey, I have a headache), lies allow individuals to carry out their lives by avoiding confrontation. Quoting Nietzsche: “The most common sort of lie is that by which a man deceives himself: the deception of others is a relatively rare offence.”

Other species on this rock are content fulfilling their animalistic needs: I need food, I hunt or graze. I don't want to dehydrate, so I find a watering hole. Every so often, I get raunchy and the need to procreate takes over. Simple needs, simple solutions...if only we were so lucky. In fact, our capacity to think (and consequently, to believe) is what separates us from the rest of the earth's inhabitants – it allows us to continue existing in falsehood.

At a very fundamental level, each and everyone of us plays an ongoing game of deception. We create an ideal “me” that is projected outwards and continue to repress the real “me” under a technicolour dream coat of deceit. I'm not fat, I'm just big-boned – these size 30 jeans fit perfectly, even though my love handles sag like an out-of-control souffle. Kim Il Jong sincerely believes his atomic crotch-grabbing will force bilateral negotiations with the US, even though the likelihood of that happening is slimmer than whatever celebrity waif graces the covers of this week's tabloids.

We create our own realities – there's nothing wrong that, mind you, since a good imagination is a terrible thing to waste. We just have to be cognizant that doing so utilises un-truth, deception and fakery – appropriately enough, the central theme of Martin Scorcese's The Departed, an adaptation of Infernal Affairs.

Adaptation: the word itself means changing something to make it suitable for a new situation. Like the book adapted to a play, or a movie into a comic book, adaptations are an easy way to make a quick buck in the world of entertainment. The movie industry has finally admitted the truth in storytelling, namely that there are no more new, original stories to tell. Every narrative is another permutation of mythical archetypes, every filmmaker is influenced by his forerunners - its just easier to “borrow” from another source.

Back to the film: For those in the dark, here's a brief synopsis: The mob has a mole in the police, and the police has mole in the mob. Each has created a web of lies that threaten at each twist and turn. Both moles (or rats) must discover his counterpart before succumbing to the pressures of living a false life. Perhaps Scorcese's return to cinematic glory, this thriller excites, entrances and shocks the audience. It also shatters their preconceptions of how a story should end. Without spoiling it (go see it already), let's just say the ending ain't pretty for Msrs. DiCaprio and Damon.

As tonight's title (from Metallica's “The God That Failed”) dictates, at the end of the day we make the decision, conscious or not, to fool ourselves.

27 Hours & Counting...

The deep bass rumbles ominously, as light patterns oscillates above my head. The thick fog recalls film noir, as the train of people disappears ahead of me. California Dreaming...

Someone stole a black pawn.

It's a sorry state of affairs when a free, all-night contemporary art exhibition in this city is marred by petty theft. Although the perpetrator may have decided to showcase his own art of stealth and larceny, Toronto's first Nuit Blanche was a huge success. This 12 hour extravaganza was full to the brim of enthusiastic and grumpy participants, waltzing and skipping their way through the exhibitions into the wee hours of the day.

The impromptu tango never manifests. Can homosexuality be reliably manifested in caricature – even in the form of balloon penguins? Like reflected stars, the illuminated lilies coax serenity.

Its not often that I (or the average city-dweller) gets an opportunity to immerse myself in expressionism in its modern artistic form – but on the flip side, as my date for the evening remarked - “Art overload.” Even though I sampled but a fraction of the 130+ exhibits on display across 3 zones, I'm definitely over-saturated with colours, themes, sounds, images and everything in between. Hence my inner desire to awaken the artiste in moi to perform literary diarrhea...

A penny for my thoughts: My choice is passion (or is my passion choice)? A fresh french loaf never tasted better than at 7 am. Giant floating pills tethered to balconies bring a whole new meaning to getting high...

The arrogant aesthete that also occupies my being is proud to be one of the handful of stragglers who survived the ordeal. As I shivered in the brisk morning air, I wondered how many people were aware that a city wide exhibition had taken place, and not simply encountering the herd, saw an installation or two and remarked “Well wasn't that neat?” Indeed, the Saturday night club crowd seemed oblivious in their drunken shuffling home, even as the white night made the streets seem even brighter than normal.

Lorenzo, Makiko (or was that Makika?) - never trust a 17 year old blitzed on SoCo with pliers. Grazing sheep have never been so calming – even if the group behind me wanted something to attack them. Quantum Theory = a testosterone fueled disco dodge ball game gone awry.

Heidegger remarks that “Art lets truth originate” - whether through visual, sonic, tactile or lettered media, every artist pulled back the curtain of our normal existence and revealed some shimmering absolute, enlightening others, bathing them in what is. Truth is manifested through art, and as such, the artist continues to play an important role in today's society. No matter how the economy fluctuates, how often racial/religious conflict flare up or how senseless violence is waged in our streets and schools, take solace in the fact that there are some things in this world that force you to step back, contemplate and transcend to a higher state of understanding.

Fuzzy colours remind me of old men and caterpillars. The rodent painting kit is useless as they don't have opposable digits. I can't remember what thought I held when told – but I do know this: it was right for the moment.

At least they didn't steal the king – the red velour cushion, an adequate substitute for the lowly pawn, would not have done square e8 any justice.

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.