Jul 07
By the exponential decline in comments from our readers of late, I can infer one of two things. Either the content of our posts is breaking new ground in the area of soporific writing, or as Nick has suggested, you’re all a bunch of apathetic lackies.
Frankly, it may well be that this blog has temporarily lost its momentum. After all, there’s only so much self-important ranting that one can indulge in. But the overwhelming lack of enthusiasm hasn’t helped either. Nevertheless, we continue undeterred.
Last night I had the pleasure of watching an interesting piece of avant-garde film: ’24 hour party people’, a pseudo-documentary chronicling the rise of post-modern culture a la Manchester. While it can be hard to empathize with the scenes of people licking liquid methadone off an airport floor, or for that matter, feeding rat-poison laced bread to pigeons and proceeding to watch them drop out of the sky, its a film of sheer genius.
At the same time, it reveals one of the recurring flaws that seems to plague all progressive cultural movements: flakiness. The film poignantly depicts the decay of The Hacienda, a uniquely innovative nightclub, from counter-culture hub to gang-war battleground to abandoned warehouse. In the mean time, everyone is too fucked up on (insert drug of choice here) to care.
Now, if only these wankers were to get their acts together from time to time, our generation might not have been held hostage by vapid pop-culture for so long.
Jun 22
Virtues of a Virgin Voter: Or Why I’m Voting NDP
As vociferous a reader I am, Tuesday June 22, 2004 will mark the first time in my 21 years of existence that I have bought a book on the day it is released to the public. I have committed that “sin” with other forms of media: opening day for films; the purchase of an album on its release; every Wednesday I purchase new graphical literature (comic books). Normally with books I carefully peruse the relevant reviews and ratings (online and word-of-mouth) that they have received before making my selection.
However, with My Life, by Bill Clinton (which at 900+ pages is a tome, not a book), I instead am taking a blind plunge into the literary unknown. Why Clinton’s memoirs, you may ask? Simply, he was the first US president that I can clearly remember. I grew up during the Reagan years, and I very vaguely recall Bush 41, but Clinton was the one president that I can associate with that country south of the 49th parallel. That being said, there’s a lot I don’t know about him and hopefully My Life will sate my curiosity.
This leads me directly into the meaty section of today’s post (which should placate the cerebral urges of some of our readership). Monday June 28, 2004 will also be a day to mark in my life calendar, as I will join many across Canada in my very first general election. The last election, which elected the second official that I have some recollection of, Jean Chrétien, was held 2 days before my 18th birthday, so unable to participate in this “joyous” of civic duties, I eagerly look forward to next week when I elect my MP.
I use “joyous” in quotation marks, because, like many in my demographic (the beloved 18-to-24 slice), I honestly have been ambivalent and to a certain extent, ignorant, of Canadian politics. (I shamefully admit that I probably know more about American elections than Canadian, but my associate The Smalrus probably understands this predicament, with him being a Canada-&-Franco-phile American). I belong to the youth that needs to “Rock The Vote,” to participate more, to show an interest in government.
So why the New Democratic Party (NDP)? My choice was 80% made up when the election was called, and these past 2-3 weeks of campaigning has solidified my decision. There are a multitude of reasons why I’m voting NDP; for one, Jack Layton has a moustache. Another reason is that my riding will be represented by Olivia Chow. Yes, my primary choices are base, superficial and nonsensical (but honestly, Layton wears his ‘stache with a certain je ne sais quoi).
Ultimately, campaign promises and platforms don’t mean much to me as: a) I’ve reached an age where policies only begin to apply; b) I haven’t any loyalty to any other party before; and c) I like to consider myself a progressive leftie.
In the end, I can’t guarantee that I will continue participating in future elections. But as they say: there’s a first time for everything.
Jun 17
(System Of A Down, System Of A Down)
I’m playing System Of A Down’s self-titled album (no, this is not a “review”) as the black dog that shares my current domicile seems to be going apeshit upstairs. I’m calmly sipping water from a brandy snifter, staring at a room which looks cleaner than it has ever been in the past 5 months. Welcome to my life.
I’m making this point, as this is the anti-thesis of the generic blog you find populating digital domains. For one, I’m sure our more intrepid readers have noted that infrequent nature of our posts. One of the reasons that Prashant and I began this venture was to give ourselves a platform to voice our often tangential views. We agreed however that the best way to express ourselves was in our own sweet time, so to those who complain: Screw You!
A more personal reason for me to convert these various swirling thoughts into electronic immortality is that I can’t stand shitty writing. And believe you me; there are cartloads of elephant dung out on the Internet. Hopefully we’re not contributing to that festering pile. I’d like to imagine that our writing is collective, as Mao would proudly say, “First among equals.”
I have been called an egotistical bastard by some, that my writing carries about it a pretentious stench. I take pride in the fact that what I write and say touches nerves and sets people off.
(The Who, Meaty Beaty Big And Bouncy)
I’ve never been a fan of the compilation. While Best Of’s tend to showcase, arguably, the best songs recorded by a band, I take to heart a lesson I was taught many moons ago. An album is a snapshot of a musician’s current state of mind, and should stay a snapshot.
That being said, compilations are an excellent way to introduce virgin ears to the exquisite experience that is (insert favourite band name here).
(Vivaldi, The Four Seasons)
For those keeping track, yes, it has taken me about 2 hours to write this drivel. On the other hand, I could have spewed this literary diarrhea in one minute. But you wouldn’t know.
Coherency is simply an illusion created by the oppressors. Revel in the chaos that is stream of consciousness.
Is there some relevant point to all of this? Robert Frost said that it was just a poem about another road.
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