Religion reform #16

Surely religious services would be more enjoyable (that is, tolerable) if the participants were permitted to get baked beforehand. Proposal: a smoking section in every mosque, church, temple, damp basement or wherever the hell it is people go to abandon their sense of logic and mull over fairy tales.

This smoking section would consist of a sealed-off partition with its own ventilation. At the front there would be a small stove upon which would be placed a hefty brick of delicious herb. The people sitting in their pews -- nay, couches -- would then reach for the conveniently-placed tube originating from under their seats and inhale the sweet, sweet cheeba. Holy smoke, man. Whoa, that was completely accidental. Hahahaha! But it would be wicked, right?  Another idea: could we hand out Doritos instead of the Eucharist? What? Too crunchy? I hear you brah. Is cool.

Over the course of the sermon, the partition would fill with smoke until it resembled a giant and gently undulating white box. It would be warm to the touch and sound like coughing and muted utterances of "dude."  God willing, it would contain a foosball table.  It would be pretty glorious.  And there is little doubt in my mind that that the message of any religion would be amplified both in efficacy and in "awesomeness" through the hazy lens of this pot-filled vestibule.

In a way, this smoky white box is the perfect metaphor for religion; it's opaque, filled with passive dunderheads, and easily dispelled with a few purposeful swipes of an arm.  Zing!

(And I didn't even mention the hot air or carcinogens.)

Keine Streiche erlaubt

With a slight tip of his hat, the Nazi soldier pulls open the door and salutes the Oberstleutnant.  The high-ranking officer moves slowly, bringing silence to the barracks. His thin lips are pressed tightly together and his dark eyes slide about looking for evidence.

He carefully steps across the rank of soldiers as they stand at attention, quietly breathing.  He moves in close, as though his breath could deliquesce the resolve of the guilty soldier.  The only sound in the barracks are the muted thudding of the Oberstleutnant's footsteps against the dry floorboards.

At the end of the line of soldiers stands Isaac.  He is tapping a nervous toe inside his too-large boots. Like the rest of the soldiers, he knows who committed the crime, but that's not the source of his unease. He is nose-to-nose with the Oberstleutnant.

"Name?"

"Abelard Hoffman," replies the Feldwebel holding the door.

"Was wissen Sie darüber?"

Isaac's toe is frenetic and he can feel the dampness on his brow starting to coalesce.  A small bead snakes its way down the left side of his face. Isaac concentrates hard to keep it on his face, but the droplet releases its grip.  Issac's eyes descend with the drop, as it lands with a soundless splash.

As he looks down he notices the Oberstleutnant's boots opposite his own.  They are ebony, uncreased and well-shined; the boots of a model soldier.  They would be perfect except for a single piece of toilet paper stuck to the heel.  At the sight of this, Isaac lets out a quiet chuckle.

With the silence punctuated, every head in the room turns toward Isaac. The other privates look at him as though he had swallowed a live grenade.  The Oberstleutnant says nothing. His eyes widen slightly and he gently tilts his head.

But Isaac does not stop laughing. He can't stop.  The quiet chuckle has rolled into a less-quiet titter, emerging like the steady drip from a leaky faucet.

The other soldiers watch with a combination of horror and amusement.  A few are pressing their tongues between their teeth, trying to avoid Issac's plight. Across the room, a snort escapes into the air.  Like an eagle, the Oberstleutnant spins his head to the offending soldier. The snorting solder is giggling, and like a virus, his neighbours are beginning to vibrate with burgeoning laughter. The Oberstleutnant turns away from Isaac and watches the two walls of soldiers, crumbling into hysterics.  His lips are unsealed and his eyes are incredulous at the tumult of cachinnation in the barracks.

The sound of his footsteps are not heard he walks to the door. The Feldwebel at the door is looking at the ceiling and working hard to suppress a grin.

"Schweigen!"

The room quiets to a few giggles and stifled guffaws.  The Oberstleutnant's throws open the barracks' door to reveal his personal jeep, parked outside, covered with toilet paper, straw, rocks and feces.

"Ich brauche dieses saubere bis heute abend."

The soldiers straighten up.  "Jawohl Oberstleutnant!"

The Oberstleutnant leaves the entire barracks exhausted from laughter.  Isaac stands at the back of the room, his mouth still curled into a smile. As he closes his eyes and exhales, tears stream down his face.

Compatibility test

Before a first date I like to ask the following three questions.  Depending on the answers to these questions, I can gauge whether or not the relationship will be a success.

You are waiting in line at Burger King and the person in front of you is taking a long time to order.  You're on a date with a person you really like, and you're both too hungry to find another restaurant. Do you:

1. Tap your foot impatiently then sigh loudly.
2. Patiently wait until it's your turn.
3. Blurt out, "Jesus Christ could you hurry the fuck up?"
4. Strangle the straggler with your bare fucking hands.

After a long day at work, you board the commuter train and spot only one seat left.  You and an elderly woman notice it at the same time.  You know the right thing to do, but you're tired.  Do you:

1. Move quickly to take the seat before she does, and pretend you didn't notice her.
2. Offer the seat as a kind gesture.
3. Glare at the old woman until she backs down.
4. Push the lady off the train at the next stop.

You are at an outdoor concert for your favourite band, U2, and it starts raining.  Problem is, you're wearing your favourite leather bomber jacket.  You don't want to leave what's sure to be an amazing show.  A person nearby has an umbrella.  Do you:

1.  Ask politely to step under the umbrella.
2. Ask politely to borrow the umbrella.
3. Take the fucking umbrella.
4. Get wet and enjoy the rest of the concert singing out loud with glee.

Consider for yourself what your best answers would be.  If you chose "A" for all your options, you fail.  Ditto if you chose all "B"s or "C"s.  If you answered "D": are you fucking kidding me?

Or any of the answers really.  Because this is more than an compatibility test, it's an aptitude test.  And if you can just sit there calmly while I hypothesize that your favourite band is U2, then sorry, this isn't going to work out.

The ideal candidate would answer (a little) something like this:

1. "Why am I on a date at Burger King?"
2. Either "B" or "If I lived in the 'burbs I would decapitate myself with garden shears."
3. "I would strangle Bono with my bare fucking hands." or "Obnoxiously request "Discotheque" until I am escorted out of the concert by force."

I would also accept sexual overtures for partial credit.

Canadian Tire Money

Dear Canadian Tire,

I don't know much but I know I don't like Canadian Tire Money.  It's very obviously a scam and I'm on to you.  There is no reason I should be handing you money in exchange for goods, and have you hand me a bit of your own currency too.  I studied economics and this seems a bit superfluous.  I'm sure you would save some (real) money if you just avoided printing these bogus bucks; hell, you could pass some of the savings along to us.

Instead you print out this shill money with ridiculously tiny denominations.  A five cent bill?  This money's worth less than Rubles.  No one feels good about themselves carrying around these bills.  What if I accidentally slipped one to a stripper?

And making us pay with Canadian Tire Bonus Bucks is perhaps the gravest indignity of them all.  Buying light bulbs with a shopping bag filled with crumpled bills is not the best thing for anyone's self esteem.  Let's get rid of them.

Kindly,

Harvey Kornbluth

Capital O change

I don't expect much from twenty-ten. It's just another sequel after all.  Besides, I've heard rumours that it went way over budget and there were a lot of post-production issues. (I mean, I'll see it, but I'm keeping my expectations low.)

That said, I'm happy to see this year go. Twenty-oh-niner was a bully. He pressed my face into the mud and dotted me with spitballs. He pantsed me oh-so-many times and worst of all, he asked me questions I couldn't answer: Where do you come from? Who are you? Where are you going?

Hardly Guantanamo-esque interrogatives, I know. But when you're grinding coffee beans at noon with your eyes barely open, existential queries like these threaten your ability to survive breakfast.

Cue the fanfare.  Next year will be different. I will embrace capital O (for Obama) change, and raise a standard of almost theatrical confidence. And I'll wave the damn thing too. I will shout platitudes. I will traverse latitudes. I will change my attitude, and I will wield my resolve to capital O change with both hands, like a sword. And I will swing this sword wildly at the naysaying tagalongs whose faces so closely resemble mine. And I will do more pushups.

*   *   *

No, fuck this -- cut the music -- this isn't new thinking. This is capital O optimism of the worst kind.  The Optimism that mistakes genuine hope for reform itself.  As though adjusting your sentiments is sufficient for true change.

If I really want next year to be different, I must skip the resolutions.  Let's have fewer resolutions and more revelations. And here's a good one to start: the dawn of a new year (or decade) isn't a turning point.  It is no desert oasis, nor the starting line to a marathon, nor a warm gun in my hand.  It's just a mile marker on a really long road.  It's possible to be inspired by a signpost without having to pretend that tomorrow I will set forth on hallowed pavement.  If I figure out the answers to last year's questions let it be by accident, or luck, or Because.

Next year will be different.  I will set down the flag, and endeavour merely to try a little bit harder, and not be ashamed by the effort.

Religion reform #15

Our celebration of Christmas is totally fucked up.  Tannenbaum, elves, reindeer, batshit crazy consumerism, cranberry sauce (both real and jellied), superfluous bell-ringing, five weeks of pop-culture soaked in saccarine and covered with tinsel, Ilex aquifolium, wassailing, way-too-much smiling and singing, adding lights to everything, using rare words like "spirit" and "merry", propagating the false existence of Santa to children everywhere — are you kidding me?  What's the point of all this?  It's just some dude's birthday.

I propose we go back to basics, namely, a cake with candles.  If you want to don conical party hats, go bananas.  But there's no need to prepare a twenty-four pound bird, or erect a tree in your living room, or play that fucking irritating Mariah Carey song.  The Son of God would prefer something a bit more tasteful.

Oh, and if you're wondering what to get him, a gift certificate to the iTunes store will work swimmingly.  But really, he's got everything he needs.

Happy birthday Jesus!  You don't look a day over 30.

Dead teens

You just can't say anything bad about a murder victim.  Especially if they're under eighteen. Every news story about a slain teenager describes a straight-A student with a helpful demeanour, who "never got into any trouble."

Who are these people, and why do they keep getting iced?  Exactly zero teenagers I knew growing up meet this description, including me.  I had mostly Bs and Cs and sought various mild forms of trouble.  As for "helpful" and "always had a smile on his face"?  Fuck that.

Most teenagers are fucking assholes.  Egotistical nitwits that contribute zero to society and produce nothing but poorly-worded scorn and video game scores.  I'd happily execute a couple a day with a crowbar for exercise.  I'd snap their fucking skateboards in half too.

But I digress.  Really, I'd just love to read an honest news story about a teen that died.  To wit:

OAKVILLE — Barely 7 people gathered on the weekend for a half-hearted candlelight vigil at Coronation Park to pay tribute to murdered teenager and local jerk Harvey Kornbluth.

The remains of the 17-year-old man were discovered in a remote, wooded area in Coronation Park surrounded by Crispy Crunch wrappers and pornographic magazines.  An autopsy detected lethal amounts of stab wounds to his head, face, mouth and cranial area.

He had also been shot through the chest.

Kornbluth, who was last seen 12 November, was not well-liked by his school or community.  An average student, he did not belong to any clubs or groups.  He was known for his drunken-outbursts, his unkempt appearance, rowdy behaviour, and making out with your girlfriend.  Many students didn't know him, but those who did said they remember a bitter man, who was always ready with a snide or awkward comment.

Among those who attended Saturday’s vigil were a couple of relatives, and three acquaintances hoping to collect on debts owed to them.  Chuck Kessler was among the mourning visitors.

"Harvey touched a lot of lives," he said. "And almost exclusively in a negative way.  There aren't a lot of positive things I can say about a murder, but [Kornbluth's subsequent non-existence] is probably one of them."

Kornbluth's only cousin, who asked not to be named, said he’s overwhelmed by the number of people who have offered their support and condolences to his family.

"It's surprising; he was really such an asshole." he said. "And a pretty weird guy.  What was he doing in that forest anyway?"

The loss will prove inconsequential to the community, as Kornbluth was a staunch non-contributor and misanthrope.  Vigil organizer Lisa Dupont said she wanted to see if any of the guests would know about the $130 Korbluth owed her.

A funeral will take place this Thursday at St. Jude's Church.  Police have a suspect in custody who has confessed to the killing.  They are considering laying charges.

I'm glad I lived to not see that one.

I found this scrawled...

I wrote this late one night, prob-possibly high and poss-probably extremely high.  It appears to be the legend for a menu for a restaurant from the future. (You might want to read that again.) I'm not sure why the intoxicated me is so enraptured by the promise of things to come. God bless him, he tries so hard.  Fortunately, I know better; the future is nothing more than the past with more plastic and smoother corners.

Perhaps, if we're lucky, they'll approve those sex-domes I've always wanted, but more than likely:

• we will still wage wars with coloreds
• other coloreds will continue to starve
• people will bitch about download speeds
• cars will remain firmly on the ground
• George Clooney's appeal will continue unfettered
• Florida might finally disappear underwater and
• world politics will flop like a restless sleeper or else collapse into a fascist theocracy

Here's exactly what I wrote that night:

Captain Zoom's Outer Space Eatery

Background radiation = french fries
Hawking radiation = curly fries
Weak nuclear force = onion rings

Quasar = burger
Pulsar = cheese burger
Parsec = veggie burger

Supernova = milkshakes
White dwarf = sundae
Black hole = cola
Ever-increasing entropy = diet-soda
Nebulae =

And that's where I leave off, unable to think of a suitable candidate for "nebulae."  Since we're here, can I offer perhaps, "root beer"?  Or "Sprite"?

I'm not sure what the purpose of this was, or how I thought I was ever going to use this.  Besides, reviewing it now, it seems so implausible that an Earthling of the Future would walk into a restaurant and order a "pulsar with a side of Hawking radiation and a black hole."

Actually, that sounded amazing.  Was I planning on opening a restaurant?  Where would I get the seed money?  I must have had some sort of a plan.  (It's also possible that I thought you could literally fashion these food items out of the astronomical phenomena listed.  I was baked, dude.)  The problem with high me, is that he's frightfully optimistic.  I know the success rate of restos in this city.  Something tells me Captain Zoom's wouldn't cut it.

Real letters from real freaks

A friend of mine needs an old GSM phone for a trip, so I'm lending him my trusty old Nokia. I got it from a sketchy Russian dude, and I'm happy to see it make its way back to the Old Country. I found the phone lurking in the recesses of my closet and, wiping off two years of dust, I set out to delete all my old text messages and photos.

The most interesting thing I found however was a (rather long) voice recording. I recorded it back when I lived in the 'burbs, while driving home from some long-forgotten thing. For your entertainment, I've transcribed it.  I thought about editing it for length and clarity, but then it would be about two sentences long and articulate and readable.

It's a letter to Celica:

Well, here's another fantastic letter to yourself. Or, er, that is: you.

Most, you know, of my correspondence is wordy, highly obtuse stuff that doesn't really say anything (though it says it well).  It's usually meandering, there's no point, or story. It's all foreword in fact.

I've realized that this is my strength; I should be the writer of forewords. You know: that cordial part of a book that no one ever reads? You skip past it immediately?  But it says stuff.  I mean, I don't read them personally, but I've been told they do.  It sets up the story with an anecdote, or some origin story about the book, but is not an essential part of the story.  I think that's a good metaphor for the way I write.  A meandering anecdote about a story -- but isn't, er, important.  Like for example:

"I thought about my earlier travels when read..."

 Or,

 "This book is timely because..."

And so forth. Unless it's fiction and then you have prologues. Which I guess is a preamble to the story, I think.  Er, I don't know what the point is. I’m not really one for them. But the foreword, I can write.  Any unnecessary bulge that sounds sorta like this, you know, with some details of the story, tangentially related, but is nevertheless, uh, not interesting.  That’s me.

So, I'm driving my car now, and talking alone in a space like this I feel like I'm on CBC radio, er, your equivalent I guess would be National Public Radio; basically bland, banal voices in an empty studio, no sound effects, no, uh, you know, “KB and the weird guy” in the morning, it's just, you know, just plain jane, dull radio, not really about anything. Interviews with obscure guests like a horticulturist from Santa Ana... who's got something clever to say, or-not-even-clever, I don't know; I don't even listen to the radio that much. 

I was listening to CBC Radio today though. It was about a curator of a shoe museum. I think that's self explanatory.

I'm really enjoying the isolation of this Little Car Bubble Radio Studio. I spend a lot of my day surrounded by people and I might hate that.  A lot. I think that's what really bothers me. It's be nice to have some time alone or with people I actually enjoy spending time with, but people at work… well, I guess they're OK.  I don't mind the people at work.  It's the people I’m literally surrounded by that bother me.  The people on transit.

They are just the worse people ever.  People in transit… something about people on their way somewhere makes… it makes you insane… it makes you evil.  Makes you capable of violence you would not ordinarily be capable of, but because you're travelling it, well, it makes you crazy.

 It’s the uh, same phenomenon as, for example, if you're walking up the street or, no, if you’re driving in your car with a tape recorder to your mouth, you're, I don't know, you're more inclined to do it while the car is in motion, but somehow when I stop I feel self conscious.  Like it’s weird to be talking to myself.  But I’m doing 100 KPH right now so it’s fine.  I'm even willing to do crazy things like beat box.

I’m not going to beat box. 

But you see my point.  Motion makes people crazy. And this is such an important discovery, I’m surprised that most scientific research today isn't devoted strictly on advances in that area. That’s a stretch, I guess. Regardless, I’m in motion now, and I guess that makes me crazy, and that is why I am recording this. This preamble. This irrelevant foreword.

Anyway, long-story-short, that is why I didn't write my previous letter to you. Because I realised it would suck.

I was given another opportunity just last week when I heard that you had moved to Louisville, KY, and of course it makes me happy to know that you are feeding goats. I should have suspected as much, to be honest. 

How interesting that you've traveled so far, and come so close to goats, since we were last within spitting distance. Because what I've achieved is far (long pause) far less in comparison because... 

You see, I just stopped talking there, because I was at a red light. I was feeling a little self-conscious about taking into this thing. Strange though it may it seem I must re-state: motion makes you crazy. 

Anyway, I have had a lot of lofty goals. Namely moving out, and going back to school. Both of those are on the “backburner” as they say. And you know when somebody tells you that, it’s a cue to roll your eyes and just imagine that in 40 years they're doing the exact same thing as they're doing now but balder and fatter and much more miserable. At least that's what I do. Or at least, that is what I would recommend to you in this instance.

No, I think, er, they're just on the backburner because I'm just too busy being "fistfucked" at work. And... (pause) you know, which is awesome, because as odd as this will sound, I sort of like it. I do – fuck, I regret saying that. I really shouldn't have gone there, it's just terrible. Um.

No, it's good, I’m busy…. (pause) I’m stopped again, that's why I can't talk. I'm even sort of whispering which is ridiculous because there's no one else in the car here. Are you even... oh, never mind.

It seems that as you slow down, the insanity slows too, and you become normal, and become inclined to do normal things (like your taxes), and... I'm waiting for this cyclist who is going so slow. Why are you going so slow? And what is this clown doing? Just turn.

And now I’m in my driveway, and talking into my cell phone in the middle of the night -- to no one.  This is crazy talk. I guess that this car is idling makes it mildly acceptable, but once I turn this key it’s back to the real world.  Goodnight.

I wish I could say I was drunk when I recorded this, but I was clearly behind the wheel.  My favourite part of this mess is something I couldn't transcribe.  It's the futility and urgency in my voice when I ask, "Are you even... oh, never mind."  I'm pretty sure I was going to ask "are you even going to hear these words?" And I knew the answer before I even started the thought.

My least favourite part is the rest of it.  At least I successfully demonstrated the effects of high speeds on correspondence.  I'm sorry you experienced it.

The irony is, despite my thesis that motion makes you crazy, this was a time in my life when I felt I was going nowhere, and I think that was the true source of my insanity, my letters and night-time recordings.  Motion doesn't make you crazy: spinning your wheels does.  You might also say I was running backwards writing forewords, but perhaps that's a bit too pat.

At any rate it's now illegal to ramble incoherently into a cell phone while driving.  Thank God for that.

Welcome back

Well, well, well.

Look what the cat dragged in. And where exactly have you been? Gallivanting around, no doubt. 'Off to the coast, you know,' and whatnot. Clearly. Look at those arms. Like a couple of burned sausages. My God, you're as swarthy as the gardener, I can't believe it.

Well, hope you had a good time. Mm-hmm, of course you did. Must have been wall-to-wall excitement for you; didn't even have a chance to write. I mean, it would have been nice to hear from you. Nothing major, just drop me a line, tell me you're OK. Oh, don't bother apologizing. It's OK. I'm just twisting you up.

Besides, you didn't miss anything much. Well, Reg and me are getting divorced and Martha's son Nathan -- remember him? He was supposed to start law school last year, and was engaged to that pretty girl, what-was-her-name? It's something French. Renée.-- well, he committed suicide. We were all pretty surprised. Well, everyone but me. I saw it coming. I think he was a closet... you know.

Oh, and those irises on the walk-up are new. Did you notice them? So pretty, but they're gonna die on me. I know it.

It's been a long time you know. Do you know that? It was spring last time I saw you and you were about to meet a new girl. How did that work out?

Oh, well it doesn't matter. I'm just glad to have you back, wherever you were. I swear, I don't know what gets into you. When you disappear for so long, I mean, I know it's morbid but

I just thought ---


I just thought --


I just thought something might have happened to you, Harvey. Oh, hush. Don't worry about that. You just do me a favour and write, OK?

* * *

And though she didn't really need an apology, I said it again. And again once more, in fact -- and then I teetered there awkwardly. I wasn't sure what else to say. What to say really; I hadn't really said anything yet.

But I stayed quiet, as though hoarse from the months of silence. And she disappeared. And I was in my room again.

I consider the open notebook on my desk. The pages are full, and I flip them idly; why didn't I write? I look at the clock on my desk, encircled in a robot's chest. The ticking doesn't bother me; why doesn't it bother me? I ponder my arms; how did they get so dark in this rain-soaked summer? I didn't go anywhere. So where have I been?

Nostalgic post

Have you noticed the return of No Name's original package design? I was grocery shopping the other day and there was no mistaking it: Don Watt's iconic boxes of yellow and black are back.

I guess the re-branding is meant to refocus consumers' attention to the simplicity and low cost of No Name products. I picked up a carton of crackers and the change was striking. All colors, images, pizazz: gone. I suppose it's not a bad way to lure increasingly frugal shoppers in today's ever-sinking economy. If it looks cheap, thinks the financially-strapped consumer, then I must be saving money.

But for reasons unrelated to the state of the economy, it warms my heart to see the return of black Helvetian text on fields of yellow. It reminds me of my childhood.

I grew up across the street from a No Frills store. (I believe it was Scott's, but who the Hell cares.) I was fascinated by it. It was just a giant yellow brick prism that I could stare at from our living room window.

"What does "frills" mean?" I recall asking my mother. She told me something about pleating on dresses. I didn't get it.

Saturday afternoon we would trek to the grocery store. My mother would unfold her grocery cart and take me by the hand, and we'd cross the busy street, pass through the seemingly magic automatic doors, walk past the musical coin-op pony, where my feet would drag and my mother would insist "come-on", and then through the turnstile, and into a land of savings. Signs proclaimed that No Frills would not be beat on an assortment of staples, and I believed them.

And though I actually didn't enjoy nor participate in the shopping, I loved No Name products. Not only did the boxes match the intense nuclear yellow of the store façade, but the bold, black print on the boxes was entrancing. My young mind (then devouring a solid six hours a day of television) understood the concept of marketing and I could not ignore the extraordinary purity of the descriptive labels. No Name described their contents in way that none of their neighbours on the shelves did; with banal and pristine accuracy: "Bran Cereal", "Unsweetened Orange Juice", "Frozen Peas", "Women's Pantyhose".

There were no marketing euphemisms, no advertising slogans, no misleading imagery, no jazz, no frills, nothing. Nothing beyond a rote description in our two national languages.

To me, No Name represented the promise a very simple and accessible world. A world where one walks into a perfectly yellow cube, fills a cart with smaller geometric solids, equally yellow and accordingly labeled, pays, and leaves. A world with no brands, but only goods cherished for their intrinsic value. Where consumerism means nothing more than picking the cube that suits your needs and leaving the store. A world only a child could treasure really. Uncomplicated and serene. And bright fucking yellow.

(My fantasy has a certain communist charm to it, I'll admit. But I'm not a pinko.)

Eventually, as the Neon '90s gained momentum, the No Name non-brand ethos became a brand itself, and irony died of a coughing fit. The pseudo-Soviet curves of black Helvetica melted into script and serifs. Other (non-yellow) colours and pictures(!) crept on to the packaging, and No Name because indistinguishable from other store brands. Somehow in trying to become less generic, No Name became generic completely.

In an economy overrun with options, preferences, personalization and selection, it's refreshing to see simplicity return to the grocery shelves. But oddly, while they might be the only honest form of advertising in the store, to me, they also represent a lie I've held on to since childhood. Namely, the manifestation of a false utopia, simplistic, and saffron, and shielded from the vagaries of the free market.

An experiment

Can someone please explain pedophile moustaches? You know what I'm talking about. It's impossible to ignore the wispy, usually lightly-coloured, stripe of peach fuzz perched on the upper lip of a boy-lover. And while they're all too common, has anyone ever really thought about this phenomenon? They're too distinct and prevalent to be an accident. Of course, not all people who lust after 'tweens wear these pencil-thin lip caterpillars, but if I'm not wrong: only pedophiles do.

So this brings up a few questions. For starters: what came first? The 'stache or the pederasty? Is a cookie-duster something you grow after you develop a fondness for virgin boy-arseholes, or the other way around?

In the few organizations in which pedophiles convene (NAMBLA, PIE, the Catholic church, et. al) shitty facial hair is not a prerequisite for entry. As far as I know. I mean, it would be counterproductive for a group that (presumably) wants to keep its intentions clandestine. And why would a sexual attraction to young'uns suggest the need for (poorly formed) facial hair? Logically or aesthetically it doesn't seem to make sense.

But the opposite explanation, that having a spotty mustachio causes pedophila, seems preposterous. Even controversial. But as the great Sherlock Holmes wisely noted, "when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth." Could moustaches cause pedophilia? Let's ask science.

My experiment therefore, was to see how the cultivation of a poorly formed 'tache affects sexual feelings toward adolescents.

Now, I would have used myself as a test subject, but my natural virility allows me to grow a hearty non-pedo crumb catcher in minutes. For this experiment, I needed someone with lacklustre pituitary inclinations. Someone whose facial hair growth levels plateau at "fourteen year old Filipino kid". I called my friend Darryl.

The experiment:
Hypothesis: growing a poor moustache causes detectable pedophilia in males.

Method:
Have subjects grow moustache for period of 30 days. Measure daily emotional response to pictures of adolescent males cut out of the following magazines:

• Teen beat
• Tiger mag
• BOP
• J-14
• Teen People

A control group will also review the same pictures sans soup-strainer. After 30 days the results will be compiled, graphed and examined.

I enlisted my friends Steve and Jim to also participate in the experiment as they also have less-than-stellar push brooms. They understood the nature and aim of the experiment immediately. Darryl on the other hand:

Darryl: Why are you trying to get me to jerk off to teenage boys?
Harvey: Christ, no! How many times-- damnit, listen. First, I want you to grow a moustache.
Darryl: OK.
Harvey: Then, while you grow that moustache, I am going to give you some pictures from various teen mags, right?
Darryl: Uh, OK.
Harvey: Then I want you to tell me, how attractive you think the boys are on a scale from one to one hundred.
Darryl: OK, but I'm not a pedophile.
Harvey: I know, this is an experiment. Just follow along. And be honest with your results.
Darryl: But this is kind of gay.

In fairness Darryl was right, but he relented. I asked another chap, Abraham to act as the control group; he reviewed the mags moustache free. For 30 days I kept a tally. The results?



Results:
The results are odd. Actually, they were kind of fucked up. Statistically speaking: Abraham, Jim and Steve's responses were non-significant. They hovered around the 50 percent mark for the duration of the experiment indicating both indifference to the images they were shown, and no effect of moustaches growth on their responses.

Darryl's results however, were fascinating. Not only were his initial assessments of the teen boys significantly higher (around 80 percent) his preference for teen males actually went down over the 30 day period.

It went down?

This certainly blew my hypothesis out of the water, but I was now interested in this strange effect on Darryl. Our discussion went as follows:

Harvey: So the results are in.
Darryl: Cool, did I pass?
Harvey: Darryl, this wasn't a test. I just wanted to see what effect growing a moustache would have on your preference for little boys.
Darryl: I told you, I'm not a pedophile. Growing a moustache is not going to make me gay.
Harvey: I know. The results indicate quite the opposite actually.
Darryl: See?
Harvey: Yeah, but you seemed to rate the pictures quite highly early in the experiment.
Darryl: So?
Harvey: Well, it suggests that the moustache was actually having a negative effect on your preference for boys.
Darryl: I don't have a preference for boys.
Harvey: Well, you were rating them pretty highly at the outset. And the drop off was pretty steady.
Darryl: Well, you kept showing me the same magazines.
Harvey:
Darryl:
Harvey: So you would have preferred more variety?
Darryl: Kind of. And probably more pictures of Zac Efron.
Harvey: Look, I gotta go.

Religion reform #12

The Toucan on night and day (The Toucan's Book, 3rd Ed., 1st chapter):

It's pretty simple so listen carefully. There are two brothers: Alf and Boxcar. One's a turtle and the other is a... I'm pretty sure he's a ferret or something. How are they brothers then? No one knows, they just are. And no, I don't know which one is which. So the first one, the turtle (possibly Alf, possibly Boxcar, I'm not sure) shows up shortly after the Earth was formed. "Damn," he says slowly, because he's possibly a Turtle, "it's pretty dark around here." And he reaches into his shell and pulls out a flashlight. One of those expensive kinds that take C batteries? And he holds it aloft to illuminate the sky.

But then the ferret shows up (Boxcar I think, but again, I'm really not too sure).  And he's late, as is typical of rodents. And as you probably know ferrets have a low tolerance for flashlight light. So he says to the turtle, "Boxcar, get out of the fucking way," (I guess that settles it) and the turtle says back, "I'm sorry, what?" But the ferret, Alf as we have established, is a bit of an asshole, so he starts to slap Boxcar around, and being tired from being up all day, Boxcar's arm drops and the sky becomes dark with night.

Exhausted, the turtle uses this opportunity to sleep while Alf minds the night sky. Alf is a big fan of the stars, and often heard to exclaim: "Sweet Toucan in heaven those stars are gorgeous."

But eventually Alf too grows tired. And when the turtle wakes, he is full of energy and has vengeance on his mind. He swiftly headbutts Alf in the chest, who collapses in pain and relinquishes control of the sky to Boxcar. The turtle raises his torch and it is daytime, once again.

In the winter, Boxcar has to drive his kids to school so it stays darker longer. That is the story of night and day.

 Who knew?

Ceci, n'est pas un tee-shirt

We were sitting on the grass last summer, high as balls, people-watching, vodka-out-of-water-bottle-drinking, self-loathing, and chilling. My pal Kessler was there too, similarly fucked, but self-tanning instead of self-loathing. While sitting and watching the Dumb Summer Hordes pass by, we got to thinking. And as always happens when people think: we developed those things called ideas. In particular, stupid ideas. For tee-shirt slogans. For example:

• I'm without stupid
• My other shirt is a pair of pants
• I'm not that gay
  
• I went to Darfur and all I got was this humanitarian catastrophe
• Pink is the new asshole
• Irony on tee-shirts is gay
  
• Irony on tee-shirts is not that gay
• Michaelangelo > Raphael > Leonardo > Donatello
• Ask me about this tee-shirt
• Emotionally retarded (and single!)
• Do you know the way to San Jose?
• Ceci, n'est pas un tee-shirt

And so forth. The ideas were truly of the low quality expected after an afternoon of beer and sun exposure, but after much discussion (and a detailed flowchart, a summary paper and expert testimony), we realised that it wasn't our fault. Simply put: the medium has circumscribed our ability to fulfill our remarkable potential. Because, let's face it, the tee-shirt is a shitty medium.

It is just a cotton canvas scarcely held aloft by a slacker's slumping shoulders. It's not a forum for deep thought. Textiles generally lack the gravitas to convey meaningful ideas. Especially those made of low-quality cotton or worse, some kind of synthetic blend.

The sun went down and our water bottles were empty. Switching to hastily-rolled joints, Kessler and I decided -- nay, decreed -- that really, we should keep all forms of self-expression off tee-shirts. Instead (and this is where things got kind of fucked up), we sought to unite in protest of tee-shirt aphorisms. We rejected the notion that an item of clothing, a scant fibre ledger, can adequately express any portion of the complex content that is the human condition.

I mean, what is a tee-shirt slogan anyway? Usually a meaningless meme. An attempt at individuality that reveals only a desire for conformity. A throwaway tattoo; it's like a vacuous Twitter, or a Facebook status update, or an ICQ away message (for the ancients among us), or simply: an unheard shout among a million similarly unheard shouts from a million "unique individuals".

And this cry for help on this store-bought rag is an emblem of how pathetic we are. So desperate we are, that we don't define ourselves by the clothing we wear. We let the clothing define us. We are the accessory to the brands we wear, and not the other way around. As far as individuality goes, it's a failure. Collectively, we stand defeated waving an American Apparel brand flag of surrender.

So our (drug- 'n' booze-addled) protest took the form of a uniform shirt. A single design to be worn by those who feel contempt for the notion of catch-phrase fashions, and for sound-bite styles. An anti-tee-shirt. Proclaiming nothing for life is nothingness. And, I remember thinking, after a good four minutes of coughing, this is a shirt that we truly wear, it does not wear us, man. Our shirt was simple, and pure, and honest. It's merely a white shirt, with black block letters (Helvetica, of course), that reads:



Well, that's the tough part. I completely forgot. I've tried to remember and recreate it but I keep drawing a blank. I thought maybe it said "White Power" but that doesn't make any sense. Something about white though. Or power? I don't know. It might have been "Fuck You". It was pretty awesome at any rate.

But Kessler hated it I recall, and we argued about it for forty-five minutes before we got really hungry and went to a pub for wings. We told the idea to a couple of guys we met that night, but one of them was wearing a "Don't Vote for Pedro" tee; it didn't really go over that well.

I found this scrawled...

This note has been pinned to my cork board for a while now. I wrote it in seven minutes before going to sleep one night:

Think O.J. is bad after brushing your teeth? Try during. * Trying to save time during your morning commute? Bac'n'eggs smoothies. "I can taste the pancakes!" * Oh no! I spilled grapefruit juice on my shirt! You need INSTA-SHIRT: shirt in a bag. Open bag, remove shirt -- instant shirt! Thanks, INSTA-SHIRT! * What are you having for lunch? Baloney. Again. Have you tried BALONEY WONDER? What's that? Ha, don't ask dumb questions. BALONEY WONDER. * I don't care for comedy. Too much thinking. I prefer violence against the elderly. You KNOW how to feel about that. * Ever lose a quarter in a urinal? Tough decision isn't it? * Get in the car! Why? Do I always have to give you a reason? But I've never seen you before in my life! * Instead of giving to the poor, why don't we just NOT take from them. It's a little easier -- and it's a good thing. * This holiday season, get her drunk. * What's for dinner? It's CHURKEY! Chicken from Turkey! * Chicks dig comparisons that don't make sense. They're a lot like Belgians that way. * Trying to lose 50 lbs? Your leg is about 30. * Guilt-free desserts: unlike ice cream that kills.

I'm as confused as you are.

But is it art?

Roger: You won’t guess who’s designed the Place Mats for that new restaurant on Elm Street.
Clive: Why you? How did you acquire that plum job?
Roger: Well, I haven’t yet. But I will. I’m showing them my work tomorrow.
Clive: Roger, it is my understanding in-house artists are responsible for that kind of thing.
Roger: Clive, my designs are infallible. They are, to grossly understate the case, sublime.
Clive: It has been well put by myself and others Rog; visual arts aren't really your thing.
Roger: What are you talking about? I am a natural in all things image.
Clive: A natural? I remember that "elephant" you drew in grade three...
Roger: You always bring that up.
Clive:...it looked like an upside down melting pyramid. Where is the elephant in that?
Roger: (sighs.) Did you ever consider the elephant within? Or that maybe one has to look further than the limits of the uninitiated mind? That perhaps, contained in the geometry of the shapes you didn’t – no, refused to – understand was the inchoate Idea of the elephant? What would you prefer? Let me guess, Archetypal Pablum -- the capital-E Elephant bedizened with clichés -- all Trunk, Floppy Ears, Thick Cylinder Legs, non? But of course. You and your cabal of Intellectual Thought Police. “However will we tell what it is?” You are a victim of the acritochromacy of Reason, sir. Your world is Black and White, and I daub from the variegated palette of Free Thought. I am a rara avis in your work-a-day world/prison/life, and I refuse to stare fixedly at the ground while the Powers That Be dictate the intendment of my work. For art is the craft of implication; of aesthetics derived from a creative promenade through the artist’s psyche -- should you be fortunate enough to warrant invitation. My elephant wasn’t merely represented by that “upside down melting pyramid” as you call it. It was Manifested by its geometry and form, and lack of form; a pachydermal tesseract that transcends traditional notions of Depiction.
Clive: I see.
Roger: Irregardless, that was the third grade. I have much improved.
Clive: Have you?
Roger: Quite.
Clive: Well, these Place Mats sound positively cosmic in scope. Can I see one?
Roger: I think not.
Clive: What? You were just waxing magniloquent about your Art. Let’s see one. I plan to eat at this place, and I want to know what I'm in store for.
Roger: No, I don't think you will appreciate it.
Clive: Let’s just see it.
Roger: Fine.

Clive: An... elephant?
Roger: It’s a steak sandwich. Please Lord, deliver this tortured poet from the folly of his sightless brethren.

You can't quit, I'm fired

Writing is tough. Especially when you have an audience of zero and a salary to match. And of course my God-given lack of talent and inspiration play a role as well. Today I was wondering what it would be like to quit. But I don't just mean just quietly give up like an old man's kidneys. I'm talking NBA-superstar let's-hold-a-press-conference brand of quitting. I'd like to go out big:

"Hi, thank you. Hello Evelyn. Daniel. Yes, thank you. I'd like to thank everyone for being here today, and on such short notice. I know Mr. Coley informed you that I have a statement to make. I'll get right to it.

Flashbulbs, murmurs.

"I have called this press conference to announce that I am formally retiring from the world of amateur weblog journalism.

Gasps. More flashbulbs. Quiet din.

"Yes, I know that this must come as quite a shock to my readership and other members of the online community, but the time has come. I have done a lot of soul-searching, introspection and cold-hard research recently -- this morning actually -- and I have come to the inescapable conclusion that I no longer belong in the fast-paced world of amateur web authorship.

"Our marketing department has done some research and the numbers don't look good. If I could just direct your attention to this slide.

Because Harvey Kornbluth does not do presentations without visual aids:



"In the past three quarters interest in slomosu has waned. And not just exponentially, but in a way that is more mathematically dramatic than "exponentially". Like say, mega-hyperbolically. The data clearly show it. So does this graph.

"Here are a few reasons why. First, my web log has no pictures. I mean, that is dry. According to a recent study, apparently 103% of web log content is pictographic. Our team was shocked and confused by this statistic.

"Because of a new trend toward pictures, video and other trifles, I feel slowmotionsuicides simply cannot compete with the modern web logs that cater to a younger and hipper demographic. Frankly, I don't get it anymore. Not only am I "out of touch" with the youth of today, I'm at risk of "bad touching" them.

The audience and journalists are confused by this. I'd awkwardly brush aside the subject and move on.

"Also, the colour scheme. Pink is a tad hard on the eyes. Several surveys conducted by our staff showed that readers associate pink with babies, homosexuals, metrosexuals and watermelons. Sadly, I don't understand my computer enough to do anything about it. I had always intended on changing it to green or something. Doesn't look like it's going to happen.

"Oh, and the market. Christ. Don't even get me started. The "bubble" is set to burst and I'm getting out while the getting is good. I have zero advertisers, and that number is dropping by the second. Have you seen petroleum prices? Holy shit, I don't want to even get into it.

"So, in conclusion, there is no way --no way ever-- that I could possibly consider going on as an amateur bloggio in this cruel modern world. Though I will miss the friends I have made along the way, it would no longer be true to my art to continue. I'd be faking it in a way that -- yes, miss, do you have a question?"

Then a woman would rise from the crowd with a piece of paper in her hand.

"Harvey, Janet Jepson, New York Post. Are you not concerned about the many people you will be disappointing with your decision?"

And I'd lean into my my mic and say,

"No, I am not Janet. I think that's about 2 people tops."

"Well, Harvey, you say you are "out of touch" and unimportant, but maybe this letter will change your mind,"

And she would read the letter, right after I deny ever claiming I was unimportant.

Dear Harvey,

My name is Emerald. You are the best. Everything you write is so funny, that sometimes when I'm at my computer drinking milk and reading your site, the milk comes out my nose! Holy super-funniestness! Here is a picture I drew of you and me playing on a water slide:



Someday I want to be just like you Harvey. My husband says I should quit spending so much time on the computer and get back to raising our two kids, but he's just a meanie! I love you Harvey Kornbluth! Please keep writing forever!

Love, Emerald

And perhaps at this moment, a single tear would slide down the side of my face, and I'd stare right into the nearest camera and say,

"You got it, Emerald."

And I'd stand up and walk away without a word, God damn it, and continue to write -- for her, and for her alone.

But that's if I felt like quitting, and let's face it: I've barely scratched the surface of my catchpenny anecdotes nor reached the bounds of my auto-psychiatry.