Crumpled Beauty

I took the subway today because I have drinking plans after work. Something about the anonymity of that human herring-packed metal tube always gets me thinking. It's crazy that one can be surrounded by so many humans, yet you can't help but feel if you just burst out in tears no one would notice. Sure, a few may momentarily glance over the tops of their Metro tabloid news round-up, but you'd still be crying alone. And once you got off at the next stop, they'd forget you, like that crumpled up tabloid left on a seat for someone else to pick up, peruse and dispose of, once again.

People do this to people. I have come to realize that. Even the most trusted, intimate people in your life crumple you up and leave you on a subway seat. But you know what, there is beauty in it. It's a natural occurrence, like a force of nature: A devastating flood or an earthquake. Everything dies and is reborn, as do friendships and loveships. But there is beauty, always, even if it sometimes is hidden under ash and silt. Even ash and silt can be beautiful- depends on your depth of perspective.

What I have learned -- no, what I am learning, is that the only way to ameliorate your own suffering is to lessen the suffering you cause others. Although I believe suffering is an inescapable part of being human, causing others to suffer is a choice -- an act of will.

I am now searching for beauty even though many of us tend to "give bad names to beautiful things". I am searching for beauty in love; beauty in pain; beauty in nature; beauty in thought and perception; and beauty in expression. And from now on, I will try to choose subway cars filled by other beauty-seekers, so they, too, can see the value of my tabloidy crumpledness.

My "Self"

Yesterday's discussion flushed out an impossible age-old question: What is self? Can you lose yourself? Is there really any true, enduring intrinsic self to speak of? My feeling: Don't try to quantify the qualitative or you'll end up a mathematician- or worse- a psychiatrist!

I'm not sure what self is, but I think I have a pretty good idea about how it is expressed. A forensic map leading into our skulls and souls can be found through our preferences, acts, desires and what makes us happiest. They are the ontological footprints of our impermanent being. In light of my current saga of self re-discovery, I thought it might be useful to me, and perhaps of passing mundane interest to you, to list a few personal loves. So, in the spirit of Julie Andrews (OMG- did I really just write that?) here are a few of my favourite things:

• Philosophy and epistemology; critical thinking; Buddha.
• Loving kisses and hugs from children. They can't fake it. Ever.
• MUSICS OF ALL SORTS: But mostly groovy ambient and world musics; modern jazz; hard core, loud, raging metal and tongue in cheek, smart ass punk; real rasta reggae; salsa.
• Sex and all that it entails - academically, physically and spiritually.
• Drugs of all sorts in responsible doses.
• Belgian ales on cool, rainy nights; hot sake on cold wintry nights; sweet and red or light fruity bouquets on hot days.
• Prolonged, strenuous exercise in sweltering heat.
• Stupid humour. Really stupid clever stupid fucking humour. Especially when it helps you laugh in the face of death.
• People of all socio-economic, phenotypical and cultural description.
• Language- foul, foreign and flowery.
• Selfish attempts at selflessness.
• Heart-felt back scratching and light tickling: To me there is no greater form of physical pleasure.
• Heated or gentle conversation between sensitive, intelligent people.
• Gender and the exclusive languages and unique ways we use to bond with women and men.
• World cuisine, especially with complex ingredients and spices and fragrant, strong flavours.
• Rock sluts!

I could go on forever. Well, until I die at least. To be continued...cross your fingers.

Amsterdamned Forever

Days like this are some of my favourite. The smell of coffee wafting along Bloor Street as the rain mists my face; Chris Isaak's Wicked Game soothing my iHead while limousines shuffle Hollywood-type pre-film fest sojourners to their booked-a-year-ago suites. Though this is present day Toronto, on days like this I am time-shifted back to damp Amsterdam, where I once lived for a short time.

I could barely control my urge to stride past my office this morning and find some comforting place harbouring warm croissants and earthy koffie creamed with sweet, vanilla-y koffiemelk. But that kind of spontaneity only comes in small bubbles these days: The casualty of an important, responsible workaday role. Pfft.

There may be nothing better in this cruel world than the feeling of carelessly wiling away hours at a canal-side cafe, by yourself, thumbing through Camus and eyeing some gorgeous blonde beauty from behind your desperately sweating pint of Oranjeboom. Or cradling a hot mug of Turkish java in the open window of a Dam coffee shop, with the thick incense of sweet hash in your throat and nostrils and Burning Spear gently massaging your soul from the smokey womb of dark wood floors and panels.

The depth of such experience is only measurable by the state of relaxation it inspires. The head room for introspection cannot be bought or sold. It can only come from abandon. And for the first time in years, I feel that reaching that depth is once again a distinct possibility. I am renewing the lease on my soul -- on my terms.

WARNING: Over the next while, (well, for as far as I can see from this limited vantage point) you might want to visit my archives - or the COMMENTS section for each post- if you are looking for the regular blasphemous, foul shite. I am in a deeply introspective mood lately (in case you haven't noticed), so these pages may make you want to puke, fall in love with me or leave me forever. All options are not only understandable, but encouraged.

I Remember Now

I remember the crisp, new feeling of rebirth on the first day back to school. Every electrified nerve in my body bristled against that skin tight, fresh pair of unfaded Levis. Every ghostly kilojoule of my soul hurled me towards those smooth-bodied tender gifts waiting to be unwrapped on cool autumn nights by clumsy, sex-drunken hands.

I remember the all-encompassing hormone induced narcossis, in which the key to control of the universe lay in a hastily scrawled phone number on a crumpled note passed in class, or understanding what lurked behind a coquettish smile in the hall. For a short time, those moments possessed the romantic urgency of a first burning orgasm or a first sweet tongue tracing braces on a Friday night.

Now, I am at a crossroads. I am once again entering an ultra-excited era of optimism --unencumbered by the soul-sucking shackles of matrimonial underachievement. I am once again becoming that teenage heat-seeking missile of a kid. I am once again a free spirit on the hunt for the fair exchange of kindred human comfort.

Problem is, I am scarred-over and bruised by a year of previously unimaginable turmoil, deceit and betrayal. I am now more fully aware of the sullied, drab reality of adulthood; the profound disappointment in those you thought were friends; the redirection of energies into rebuilding the heart and soul; and the burden of memory. I am now gun-shy at wasting precious thoughts and touches on the unworthy.

You know, I've always welcomed change like a long lost lover. But I have to say, my heart could really use a syringe full of teenage naivete plunged inward right now. Who knows, perhaps the fall winds will blow a suitable opiate my way?

Thanks for listening, K

Reflections on Eastern Thought

Years living in, and studying Japan at the grad level taught me a lot about life - and death. The experience brought me closer to gleaning some insight into universal truths about human nature, the constitution of the universe and the nature of the energy that flows within, from and into other living things, and ultimately, into death and back again. Being exposed to Buddha's teachings and realizing through Chan (Zen) that we all exist in a ceaseless empty circle of being, superficially coloured by both delight and torment, changed my life and the way I look at those I share this journey with.

That's how now, after all this time, I have come to realize one pure truth:
You have to like stupid people. If you don't, there really are not many people left to like on the face of this globe.

So this weekend, I'm suggesting you go out there and have dinner with, rollerblade with, talk about American Idol with, or just plain sport fuck a stupid person. It's only right.

Have a great day, you big stupid bunch of sexified stupid-heads.

10 Point Kwestion

Diamonds are for pussies with no creativity, who have to pay for sex.
Leather is forever.

Discuss. (5 boner points for thinking outside of the box)

Merry Consumerist Orgy!

Let me preface this inevitable searching for the higher meaning of Christmas post by saying that I am not a Christian. At best, my faith system is based on a hypocritical melange of Buddhism, asceticism, hedonism, bushido and the balanced employ of controlled, and sometimes illicit, substances. But recently, the realization that my daughter is old enough to get the Santa thing has cross-checked me from behind into a bloody uncomfortable philosophical corner.

I probably grew up like most of you: Each December, I would spend hours feverishly scanning the Consumers Distributing catalogue for what I wanted for Christmas. I'd carefully circle the things I yearned for, along with the things I thought I had a reasonable shot at actually receiving. On Christmas morning though, I would be absolutely thrilled with whatever I got, because, even though I came from a struggling one-parent family, my Mother would always sacrifice enough to make sure we had something we loved.

Over the past 10 years though, I have become overcome by cynicism about the disgusting consumerist orgy that occurs from September onward. In fact, I despise it. It violates serious intellectual and spiritual principles that I hold sacrosanct in my head and heart. Not to mention the trifling fact that there is absolutely no religious reason for me to celebrate the holiday. Of course, we still put up a tree and decorations, which makes absolutely no logical sense, except that I guess it fills some traditional gap that would be empty if we didn't. I mean, I love the pretty glittery things, but Jesus ain't exactly my homeboy. Not that there is anything wrong with that.

Enter Li'l Miss Kay-Dough. I don't know what to do with her. She had already been exposed to images of Santa through our broader culture before I even had a chance to formulate some plan of dealing with my own confusing X-Mas hypocrisy. Santa is already a cultural legend to her. I'm not stupid. I know she will grow up expecting luxuries to be bestowed upon her like every other kid. And I really don't want to deny her that childish wonderment because of my own heady, abstract beliefs. Thus, my brain is becoming cobwebbed with heart strings.

I look around me and wonder "when did conspicuous, unsustainable consumption become a suitable substitute for compassion and love?" What the fuck is wrong with us? Why do people contract out caregiving for their kids, just to work all year to buy them Playstations as proof of love? Not to mention the fact that people stress themselves out to a ridiculous point at Christmas. People dread driving all over the place; they dread placating demands for their time put on them by increasingly complex and divided families- thanks to the miracle of divorce; they dread shopping before and the drowning tide of bills after Christmas. I just don't get it. Hey- it just occurred to me: Maybe it's the people I don't like, not Christmas.

Anyway, back to Li'l Miss Kay-Dough. As she grows up, she will be distracted by superficial shiny things too. She will be fallible, greedy, self-centred and fuck people around like we all do. I guess all I can do in the mean time is resolve to make sure that I teach her right and wrong and instil a sense of the true meaning of family, friends and love. In the end, if all we have is breaking bread, drinking, laughing and caring we have all we need. Actually, that is what I teach her every day. Why should Christmas be any different?

War Stories and Faded Glories

I remember, when I was child, asking my grandfather to tell me war stories. To an assuming young neighbourhood kid who loved playing "guns" and "army" with the other boys, the fact that my grandfather had survived the First World War was about as cool as if he were Guy Lafleur. At times, I'd be sitting on his knee, asking eagerly "Did you ever kill anyone?".

He told me about how, in 1914, he had lied to recruiters in Canada about his age, so he could travel to Europe and fight. He was only 14 at the time and full of piss and vinegar and a naive spirit of adventure. He told me about wiping his ass with German money in the woods of France. He told me about the faded tattoo on his forearm that read "Winnie", who, according to him, was his cousin. He told me about the time he bayonetted a giant German, right between the ribs, only to be shot in the head and sent back to England. It was there, in the infirmary, that King George had chatted with him and presented him with a token medal. He had named his first daughter Victoria Patricia in George's honour.

By the time I had grown into early adolescence, it occurred to me that I should record some of the conversations I had with my granddad. And it is in those recordings that I found out the truth about what he felt about war. I had asked my grandfather to recount stories, by then well-known to me, about his youth and travels.

Sure, I loved the one about how he sang in a Vaudeville group called the Dumbbells and entertained audiences across the country as a female impersonator. Or the time he sang in Saint Paul's Cathedral in a choir as a young boy. Or how he trapped rattlesnakes with his hands, way up north in Buckhorn, with his Dad and shipped them to a firm in Toronto that paid for their skins.

But inevitably, in one section of the tape, I returned to my favourite question about the war. I prompted him by asking "So granddad, you were in the war, right?". "Yep", he replied in a stern voice I'd never heard before in such conversations. "Yep", "but, ahhhh, that doesn't mean anything". And thus, unglamorously had ended my journalistic foray into his military past. He had refused to read into the record the stories of death, or German brutality or wiping his ass with the Kaiser.

And now I realize why my grandfather always spurned my repeated requests for him to march in the veterans parade every November 11th. I was proud, but he wasn't. While they called it Remembrance Day, to him it was a day of sadness and regret. To me, the old world naive bravado that fuelled those celebrations and were the reason for his regret should have died with him in 1984.

So, why now can't we let those things die? Why must we continue letting our sons and daughters kill and be killed in the name of foreign interests? Political, nationalistic or macho explanations are just not good enough for me. They surely weren't enough for my grandfather in the end, when he finally grew up and gave up the illusion that war is noble.

The Needs of Strangers

Today was different. This morning, I walked to the subway, along a street torn apart to make way for a new streetcar right-of-way that has been hotly contested over the past few years. Amidst the smashed concrete slabs, coffee-slurping orange-vested dusty throngs of city workers and whining machinery, I had one of those recurring movie-like vignettes.

In a historically vibrant moment, a lone, scarred streetpost popped out of the secenery and commanded my attention. The post had one leaflet left on it- they are regularly removed by city workers. The leaflet stood out as a bold, lone survivor amidst the skeletal staple graveyard of wasted efforts. The headline on the small piece of paper said "BRING THE TROOPS HOME NOW" and beckoned people to attend a "Pan-Canadian Day of Action" on Oct., 28 to call for Canada's withdrawal from Afghanistan. I know I've written about this subject a hell of a lot in recent months, but it was at that moment that it truly hit me: We are at war. Granted, that statement means nothing unless measured by the yardstick of one's experience in life.

I'm 38 years old. In the 80s, my youth was intellectually tormented by angst about the coming nuclear holocaust that we would all surely be experiencing. Mine was a generation that was acutely aware of the concepts of M.A.D. and the circles I travelled in read social philosophy and pondered regularly questions of global security relating to the Soviet and US spheres of influence over some modern jazz and hash.

But we, as Canada was, were always bystanders to the cynical, destructive games that the evil superpowers played around the world. The comfort of our armchair position and the warmth and wisdom with which we regarded all cultures and civilizations was a badge we wore with pride. How naive we were - or maybe just too high?

One of the guys I was impressed with back then was this incredibly erudite and sensitive son of an exiled Russian noble named Michael Ignatieff. I don't know- maybe it was my fondness for Solzhenitzyn or my own Slavic descent that made me identify with Ignatieff. I remember a treatise that he wrote called "The Needs of Strangers". In others' words , that book talked about "a wide-spread failure on the part of humanity to provide the passionate sense of community "in which our need for belonging can be met." The implications of this kind of compassionate thinking were not lost on us. Russians could love Americans and the world could be safe from extinction one day. Hey, if Woodrow Wilson- an American- had thought so at some point, then why shouldn't we be optimistic?

Looking at that anti-war pamphlet now and the black marker scrawling on the plastic cover of the Toronto Star box below it, which read "Fuck Ignatieff", really hammered home two things that I had not consciously connected before this morning. One is that the country I love has lost its way and found itself in the middle of a game of spheres of influence being perpetrated by higher powers. Second, is that possibly - just possibly- Michael Ignatieff, that sensitive philosopher who believed in compassion, could be the only man able to pull us back on track.

Dishing the Brain Dirt

Good morning, you sexified little love kittens and porn doggies. Nothing much going on in the K-brain today besides a shroud of day-after-way-too-much-drinking-for-a-week night haziness. Since I let y'all in on one of my trade secrets yesterday, I thought I would stick to the same open and vulnerable theme today.

I did one of those methodologically suspect personality trait test things a while ago and thought I'd post the results, just so you can glean profound psycho-forensic insights into the K-personality. Aww, who am I kidding- I'm barren of an original thought today, because the blood flow to my gourd has been severely compromised by a dehydrated cranial membrane and smartness capillaries.

Anyway, below I have revealed what the super-scientific online personality generator spat back at me after answering several hundred strange questions. I say we use the thread today to dish the personality dirt on each other. I encourage you all to share something unique, contentious or taboo about yourselves today that you haven't before. Let the games begin!

Apparently- this is me: ENTJ - Commandant
You scored 81% I to E, 42% N to S, 90% F to T, and 36% J to P! The single word to describe your type is fieldmarshal or commandant. You also belong to the larger group called rationals. You love to organize others in matters of logic. Even as a child, you likely naturally assumed the role of leader in groups. You share your personality type with 2% of the population. When you lead, you are more concerned with policy and goals than rules and regulations. You have a tendency to become a workaholic. You are impatient with repetition of error. You are friendly and outgoing, though. You don't mince words and willingly share your many strong opinions.

As a romantic partner, you are inspiring, but also somewhat challenging. You have a strong desire to be in charge and your clear need for an organized life and home can be overwelming to a partner. You like to confront conflict directly, discuss problems unflinchingly, solve them, then put them behind you. However, you can be too impatient or unwilling to take the time to listen to your partner and give them a chance to express themselves fully so that they also have a sense of closure. You are generally uncomfortable dealing with emotions, so you are apt to dismiss your partner's emotions as illogical. You feel most appreciated when your partner asks for your opinions, takes your adivce, and relies on you to get a job done right.Your group summary: rationals (NT) Your type summary: ENTJ

Weeding out the Psycho-Geeks

What is wrong with our society, when sociopathic, loser nutcases like Kimveer Gill can live amongst us and escape our social distant early warning system? Well, for one thing, I believe that social DEW has been rendered impotent by the proliferation of online teen culture. The warnings are everywhere. The digital evidence is preserved like fresh blood-filled footprints in the posts that these selfish, narcissistic freaks leave on web sites, yet no one confronts them. Why?

Gill wrote this on his Vampirefreaks.com profile "Life is a video game, you've got to die sometime'' and talked about dying in a hail of bullets. Umm, if you saw your friend, kid or even a stranger writing stuff like that online, in front of the world, don't you think you might investigate a little further? Maybe not. Gill was just another in an increasingly long line of young, disenfrachised, lazy-ass e-geek stereotypes.

You see his kind of pseudo-bravado everywhere on myspace for instance. Gill apparently used the name Angel of Death online. A quick search on myspace brings up 667 other Angels of Death hovering around the electronic netherworld. Goths and the like post pictures of themselves bloodied, mangled or posing as pale corpses regularly. It's fun for them. It's commonplace and pervasive. So, how do we weed out the psycho-geeks from the innocent horror-loving EMO kids, goths and metal fans- let alone from the population of jocks and seemingly average kids?

Vague laws and ISPs and internet users who assume absolutely no social responsibility are no help. They need to step up and set and enforce standards. I'm not advocating censorship- god forbid- but holding kids accountable for saying things online like "I'm going to kill everyone". Why can you say that on a vampire lovers' site if you are dressed up like a freakin' Transylvanian Duke, but not in a line up at an airport terminal? It's logically absurd.

If it were up to me, we would thin the herd- in a legal manner, of course. I have no sympathy for such dispossessed lonely people or their families. We, as a society, breed them - it's our fault. We need to cut them at the hamstrings before they leap. The tender, caring approach does not work with these people. If you are that broken you have no place in our society and should be locked up forever, no matter what age. Monsters like Gill aren't created over night. They grow and flourish and all the while the warning signs are ignored by the cowardly.

5 Years of Repair

At this time 5 years ago, I was rushing around in a panic preparing to propose to my girlfriend for life (what I called my current wife at the time). We had a flight booked for September 26th, which would whisk us away us to my favourite old haunt - the calming, inspirational and aura-drenched city of Amsterdam. As the day approached, I withstood waves of anxiety and excitement intermittently and carried on my day to day business with my feet barely touching the ground. I even bought a ring.

Then came that Tuesday morning. By the time I got to work at around 8:55 am, everyone was gathered around the nerve centre of my office at the time- the TV. Over the course of the next few hours, I stood with the others wide-mouthed as buildings fell, thousands died and the Pentagon was attacked. We were there, if only as impotent spectators. All planes headed to America were diverted- many of which were rerouted to Canadian airports. My colleagues and I scanned the azure skies as we smoked cigarettes and imagined planes dropping from out of the the blue all over our city, because clearly North America was under attack. Who knew how many would-be assassins were now going to take out whomever they could since their US targets were now unreachable?

Needless to say, I spent the next two weeks before our flight to Amsterdam in constant anxiety. Many people we knew were cancelling their flight plans. Musing with my friends about the philosophical similarities between getting married and going down in a fiery wreck did little to ease my heavy mind. However, despite our trepidation, in a small act of bravery, we got on that plane two weeks after 9-11. This all happened notwithstanding the fact that our carrier- Air Transat had experienced a complete loss of engine power and crash-landed one of their planes on a similar trans-Atlantic flight just before 9-11. Talk about stress: The emotional rollercoaster of getting engaged; mass panic about the possibility of further suicide attacks using commercial airliners; and flying a carrier that had experienced a recent extremely serious mid-air mishap. The sheer weight of what had transpired back in North America hung over our European trip on a daily basis. Though the actual proposition - with the aid of a great dinner, several strong Belgian brews in Brussels and a beautiful woman and partner- was picturesque.

We flew into New York City four months later. There we visited a dear Japanese friend, who worked close to the towers, who we had called numerous times on the day of the attacks to make sure she was safe. Obviously, she was. I recall the profoundly eerie calm we experienced walking slowly towards ground zero, as hawkers sold pictures and T-shirts bearing the fiery images of burning skyscrapers on the streets of lower Manhattan- just mere blocks from that gaping grave in the ground. Testimonials, prayers and pictures of loved ones plastered the long wall that lined the street from the church to where the towers once stood. As I watched from the side of the road, staring at workers still clearing tons of rubble, there were no politics, religion or hate on my mind. I felt like crying but I couldn't. It just seemed too insignificant to do so at that moment, while I stared something greater than I could comprehend in its ugly, anonymous face.

For months following, every time I emerged from the subway in the morning I half-expected the CN Tower, which unfailingly looms over Toronto's trees and buildings, to be cut in half or simply to not be there. Or at my desk, every time I heard sirens, there was that spector in my head saying "could this be our turn". These things still happen every so often. One might think that the survivors in New York, or anyone touched by the event around the world may forever be sentenced to fear and painful memories of the dark past. While my memories may not be as painful by degree as those of others, I believe one thing is certain: human souls repair themselves. If not completely here and now, then in a next life.

Ruminations on Mortality

While it's true that the world's oldest person died yesterday, coincidentally, a bunch of the world's youngest people were born around the same time. Of course, they are now no longer the youngest. The competition is tough.

38 Years of Hard Core Rebellion

When I was a kid I was one crazy mofo. I did anything on a dare. I drank excessively, swallowed handfuls of illicit drugs, partook in large quantities of promiscuous sex and was completely disrespectful of any kind of authority or convention. I lived fast and loud and said F-U to anyone who had a problem with it.

This morning something hit me. I was getting dressed and realized the extent of my rebellion these days is sadly illustrated by the following anecdote: I recently bought 7 pairs of socks - each pair embroidered with the name of the day of the week on them. But I'm no plastic follower. No way. Not only do I not wear them on the proper corresponding day, but I never wear a matching set. So, today kids, for my feet at least, it's fuckin' Wednesday AND Saturday. Yeah baby, screw the system! Down with the man! Rock hard- ride free!

Happy weekend freaks.

K

Human Rights in Slow Motion

Yesterday, on the way to work, I had one of those epiphanic moments. I don't know if this happens to you, but sometimes my mind zooms in on an urban vignette somewhere in the city, like a tight cinematic close-up. Often, the profound thoughts this sparks are lost in the subsequent hurricane of daily tasks. But sometimes, I remember.

Every day, I bike past the Chinese consulate in Toronto. And every day, some elderly Falun Gong practitioner stands in front of the cold gates, performing Tai Chi-like poses, in quiet, passive protest against China's brutal persecution of their group. In reality, these geriatric, turtle-like exercisers pose no threat to anyone. But the communist government in China is afraid of any kind of organized movement and thus (allegedly) kills, maims and tortures them.

Yesterday. the remarkable vision of that little old woman slowly stretching her muscles, bones and tendons, in a free country -- in plain view of her enemies -- with the somehow anachronistic white buds of iPod headphones sticking out from under her rain hat was not lost on me. A history of palpable violence and stern defiance lurked behind the seeming peacefulness of her wrinkled face. That little woman represented the best that Canada has to offer the world; the judicious power of a commitment to maintain human rights.

Sweet F-All

Hi all. Just in case you are EFFING wondering what I'm up to: I'm EFFING busy!!! Life passes you by at times like these. If you are not rushing to work, you are rushing to play and then rushing to bed; waking up way too early, popping a handful of Advil, inhaling a jug full of espresso and then rushing off again. I saw a poster for one of those remote Buddhist week-long retreats on a street pole the other day with a picture of a beautiful meditation camp up North. I didn't have an extra 20 fucking seconds to write down the phone number.

Why couldn't I have just remained a lazy, irresponsible artist?

More Sex Says Pope

The Pope recently criticized Canada for being too secular, which according to the infinite wisdom of the Catholic cult, errrr, church, is the reason we have a low birth rate. Duh, maybe it has something to do with the fact that the socio-economic reasons behind having numerous children went out with burning witches and the bubonic plague?

Seriously though. What relevance does the Catholic church hold these days in developed nations? Faith is a wonderful thing. Everyone needs it. If you don't have it you should really spend some time divining it. But who, in their right minds, listens to a bunch of frocked antiquarians sermon about morals and global population growth? Is that what we need right now? More humans on this earth? Especially in a country consumed by consumption, that leaves an environmental footprint the comparative size of Sasquatch feet?

Look I've got nothing much against you good Pope, but keep your pagan old world superstitions to yourself. Wake the fuck up dude.

He's a New World Man

A few comments on my last post touched off a spark of urban versus suburban animosity. Having spent most of my Mothers Day weekend among the mass-fabbed row by rows of uniform mediocrity, I have a few observations.

I, myself, am a self-admitted urban elite snob. I adore the fact that I can step out my front door and instantly be connected with diverse food, culture, transit, community spirit, recreation and arts. I love that I can stroll along the bustling avenue and be greeted by store owners and restaurateurs who know me by name. Conversely, I love being able to disappear into a crowd of commuters or melt in to a shuffle of downtown hoods with my tunes blasting and a good book.

I grew up in the burbs. They were lifeless, dull, dreary and devoid of culture. The only way to kill my need for more was to get drunk and stoned, fuck and fight. It was not such a bad existence for some, but it was not nearly enough for me.

Now, things have changed: I have a daughter. Although I want her to experience all that this great city has to offer, sometimes I think about the physical size of our grossly over-valued century home and am tempted by the fact that the suburbs offer much, much more more for way less. But in the end, I always come back to the cultural allure. Do I want my daughter to grow up thinking the big box mall is the centre of her cultural life? No. Do I want her to be forced to drive the family's third car at 16 to her ethnically homogenous high school everyday? Nope. Do I want her to think that East Side Mario's is the epitome of ethnic cuisine? Un uh.

I know that we all think our own little weltanschaung is the correct view of the world. But in a country that boasts to be multi-ethnic, I can think of no better place to be than in the centre of a vibrant concrete jungle that hosts such a wonderfully diverse human eco-system.

Tory Legal Philosophy

Supreme Court of Canada Chief Justice Beverley McLachlin, in a very strange turn of events, publicly chastised Conservative MP Maurice Vellacott for saying something like duhhh, them judges act like they know everything. It was as if the drooling, snotty-nosed, gum eating boy was paddled by the stern head mistress.

Let's pause and just reflect here for a second on what the geist of the comments were of this window-licking, Stetson-fucking, single-celled idiot: Duhhh, that CHIEF JUSTICE of the SUPREME COURT OF CANADA thinks she knows everything. Like, ya, ok, what-ev-er. She's stupid.

Um, aren't judges supposed to act like they know everything? Isn't that appearance the foundation of our sense of trust and confidence in our legal system? Doesn't the Supreme Court offer the last bastion in our country against fascism? This jackass' comments reminds us of that shrewd, erudite Conservative campaign argument "them judges is hijacking our law system. When is they gonna stop trying to make up laws and stuff. Why can't it just be the way we want it"?

The Medium Is the Message

A fellow blogger recently criticized David Emerson for avoiding the media in the middle of this crisis. The guy said "Disrespect of the media is an abomination. They are there for the good of democracy and to increase transparency." I was shocked by his idealism. I think he was confusing the concept "media" with "freedom of speech". The "media" are working stiffs like us, that communications professionals try to tame, court, feed, seduce, avoid, play- well in general, live every waking hour trying to manipulate in some organizational form or another.

The very notion that the message must get out, even when there isn't one, is what has led us to the sorry state we are in democratically. Politicans are obsessed with talking, and the volume of talking they do, leads to spewing empty phrases even when they manage to stick to message. The media are the megaphone for the triumph of style over substance, hardly champions of democracy. Of course, I am generalizing when I say "media".

Ok- stay with me here. Marshall McLuhan once said "the medium is the message". His media were machines and means of communication - static technology. The "media" we are talking about are hardly static, predictable machines (though some may argue that point). Our media are dynamic, living, imperfect, stressed out, tempermental humans driven by emotions, thoughts and editorial constraints. But what McLuhan was getting at was that the important thing to consider when looking at the tools by which we communicate is the effect that those tools have on humans. Political messaging is merely the content of a medium, not the medium itself. Reporters themselves are not the "medium"- they are channels to a medium (i.e. print, TV, electronic media). While purveyors of political messaging have tried in vain to grow with the pace of instant, digital technology, they have been doomed to failure.

The very nature of messaging is that it is static- rooted in a moment in time. Digital technology is like a nervous system. Constantly changing and reacting, not proacting. That is why traditional ideas of fixed messages don't work well in the instantaneous world of the web- the two are incongruous. Politicians repeating their well-crafted, but often empty-sounding messages are dinosoaurs in the world of communications technology. That is why thinking on one's feet will once again become an essential skill in public life. It's too bad that the corporate communications infrastructure has doomed politicians - the primary sources for media content- to a bygone world. Emerson was avoiding the media because a) spin experts who 'knew better' could think of nothing crafty to say OR b) he had no confidence in his ability to think on his feet. It's a shame that communications has come to this, but it happens every day. canada, politics, k-dough, canada, political, liberal, conservative, Harper, Canada, politics, k-dough