Odd Socks

Yesterday Chimpit called me an odd sock, and I’m not sure what she meant by that. Did she mean I’m one of a kind, or was it something more sinister? Could she have been trying to tell me I’m obsolete? Perhaps I’m reading too much into it (although there was the time I was going to a party where everybody was dressing up as dairy products, and Chimpit told me to go as a Kraft single). Perhaps I’m jumping to conclusions because that very day I had a drawer cleanse. It was one of those times when you’re doing laundry and you notice you have a lot of odd socks. Way too many. I had just about as many odd socks as I had pairs, and they weren’t even similar. There were black ones, blue ones, grey ones, outgrew ones; socks with holes, socks without soles, socks as old as the Dead Sea Scrolls. Half my drawer was full of odd socks. I had to get rid of them, but instead of throwing out the whole lot, I kept a handful of the good ones. These were the cream of the odd sock crop. The ones that had obviously only been worn a few times before their twin went MIA. They were too good to toss, because who knows, one day that errant twin could show up at my drawer.

What is it about us that makes us keep things like that? Is it Faith? Hope? Do we cling to relics like odd socks in the hope that one day The Fates will conspire to show us our diligence was not unwarranted? Do we hope that one day all things odd will become like, and Balance will be restored? Maybe it’s an allegory for the rest of our lives. Maybe we symbolically lament for our lost socks, and always keep their room just the way it was when they left, so we don’t have to face the real issues. Maybe those odd socks represent the hauntings of lost loves, or missed opportunities. Whatever it is, I’m too much of a realist to believe that my wayward socks will return with horns blaring to restore the glory of my second drawer. Even so, I often allow the odd socks to linger on, forgotten, neglected, nothing more than moth fodder, as if some part of me actually does believe in Resurrection. Perhaps a small part of me is optimist after all…

You may have noticed that I mentioned Chimpit earlier. In an unexpected move she told her boss to stick it and came home to me. The left sock has returned to join the right and complete the pair. These two odd socks are like once more. Perhaps we’re proof that it’s possible. In that case maybe it isn’t foolishness to cling to our odd sock-like possessions...I wish I’d thought of that before I went to the dump. I could have devoted a separate drawer to my odd socks, a shrine if you will, or at the very least made an army of sock puppets.

A Royal Feast

Alright, I know what you’ve all been thinking; “I bet all that Runaway Typewriter has been doing is sitting around eating chimichangas and watching Daily Show re-runs.” Well you my friends, are wrong. You’re even wrong if you’ve been thinking, “I bet he’s been slacking, lying on the couch for at least 4 hours every night, letting the dishes pile up, and eating bags of chips, while a bushel of apples rots on top of his fridge.” And those of you who thought all I’ve been doing is eating family packs of meat and watching Avril Lavigne videos while I play with myself… well you’re actually not that far off. But I have not been totally unproductive in my literary hiatus. My experimentations with food have transcended the dairy section of the Nutrition Pyramid. The latest concoction mixes meat with sweet in a puddle of grease. It’s the dessert breakfast for dinner. Akin to most of my ideas, I’m not sure exactly where this one came from. Like the Minotaur, my best ideas often come charging from deep within the catacombs of my ethereal mind, tearing convention limb from limb. On the menu tonight:

Chocolate Eggs

Ingredients:

- One loaf of Honey Oat bread

- Spicy chorizo (that’s a six pack of sausages, for those of you who don’t speak Spanish)

- One dozen Jumbo Free Run eggs

- One 9.5 litre jug of glacier water

- One tin of powdered Gatorade

And the most important ingredient:

- One Hershey Milk Chocolate bar (no nuts, just pure milk chocolate)

Preparation:

-Cook chorizo in butter, on low heat so all the grease doesn’t splash about your kitchen. You’re going to need that grease.

-The chorizo will take some time, so while you wait, grate the chocolate. A standard cheese grater will do just fine. Make sure you grate a lot, like a whole bowl, because you’re going to pick at it. Trust me.

- When the chorizo is done (make sure it’s done. I’ve seen the way chorizo is just left out on a table in the sun in markets. It’s E-coli in fly fodder format), put them in the oven (again on low heat) to keep them warm while you…

-Cook the eggs in all that grease (this is a fried egg recipe. Scrambled eggs are for cooks with two left hands. Left handed people need not read on). Really let the egg whites crackle in there, but flip them quite early, because the other side needs to cook long enough to…

- Melt the chocolate all over the eggs. Melt it all over. Sprinkle so much chocolate on the eggs that it looks like you’re deep frying doody. This is important, because you’re going to want enough chocolate on the eggs to dip the chorizo in it. The spicy and the sweet waging war on your taste buds really ties the meal together.

- Now, just as you’re ready to take the eggs off the pan, before they’re over-cooked, remember that you never put any bread in the toaster. Panic. Pick the pan up off the element to stop the eggs from cooking, burn your hand, and slam it back down. Grab a wet dish towel and push it onto a cool element.

- Get some bread in the friggin toaster!!

- Pace around the kitchen cursing at the bread to toast faster.

- Butter the toast. Be sure to use enough butter that it won’t all soak in. There should be a wet sheen of butter on top of the toast, like an oil slick near a nature preserve.

- Angrily scoop your eggs onto the toast. Notice that the yolks are hard. Curse again.

- Scoop the chorizo on top. Do this all recklessly. An aesthetic breakfast is a mess, like my table desk. There should be oil splashed all around the outside of your plate, like fruit sauce on a French dessert.

- Find your biggest juice jug and fill it with Gatorade, mixed to taste. Drink from the jug. That’s fewer dishes to leave on the counter.

Now sit down and enjoy your dinner. If your heart hurts at any point, as if trying to say that you should eat a fruit or vegetable, it’s ok to grab a handful of raisins from the bag of trail mix on your table desk. A small handful. You’re going to need room for the rest of that chorizo.

If you’ve followed these directions carefully you’ve had yourself a hell of a meal. Lay down, put your feet up, and try not to think too much. All the grease in your system is going to make it difficult to grasp any complex concepts for a while. Just veg right out, watch a Daily Show re-run, or if you’re feeling ambitious, look up some Avril Lavigne videos on the internet. You deserve it.

Ode to a Phone (an iPoem)

Metallic pink, silver, bejeweled,
Like a spoiled young girl’s tutu.
Try to get me on the horn,
It would belt out White Unicorn.
Text messaging was a breeze,
Fingers and thumbs flying on the keys.
Brain Challenge and Centipede,
My workplace drive did they impede,
But now it’s gone without a trace,
It could have gotten anyplace.
Between seats of a yellow cab,
Or spirited away by Queen Mab.
I won’t though, let this chance be blown,
This excuse to upgrade to iPhone.

To Did List

Things I did on my 30^th birthday:

- Not go to work

- Go for a long walk

- Open the half carton of milk that’s been in my fridge for over a year

- Shoot fireworks at said milk

- Buy a lottery ticket

- Wipe out trying to do bike tricks at the skate park in the rain

- Ride my bike down a hill standing up, with no hands

- Sit on the couch alone, drinking beer, and eating sausage

- Have dinner with The Momma

- Turn in early

The Chasm II - The Will to Live

Travel weary I rest for a while. My blood runs cold, like too thick a milkshake being sucked through a straw. I can barely discern a half-hearted beating in my chest. There is a mere flicker of warmth, like a candle in the breeze, barely able to stay alight. I reach into my coat, to the inside pocket. Numb fingers fondle around until they find their prize. In the palm of my hand is a weather beaten photo. Faded as it is I can still make out her face. When I look upon it it re-ignites the flame in my heart, and a surge of warmth rushes through my veins. My cracked lips turn up in a smile, and my resolve grows strong again. With a twinkle in my eye I gaze at the picture for some time. I have long memorized every feature, when I close my eyes it is there, but each time I look upon it I am stunned anew by its perfect symmetry. I am emboldened. I cry out, “You will not take me, cursed chasm! I will not succumb!” One last look, then I carefully put the picture away. I am ready to continue my crossing. I will make the other side.

I plod on.

The Chasm - A Bridge Too Far

I’m on a bridge. It’s a suspension bridge of sorts. It’s narrow, with room for only one to pass. It’s rickety, dangerous, every step a calculated risk. And this might be the longest bridge ever built. I can’t see either end. Sometimes I fear I never will. I tread wearily along with downcast eyes, trying to make headway, but looking down is a bad idea. It’s a long way down, a very long way down. Beneath the bridge is a never-ending chasm. The mere sight of it chills my blood and weakens my resolve with every beat of my frigid heart. This is the Loneliness Chasm. Upon this bridge there is no hope. Most men go mad before reaching the other side, hurling themselves into the very chasm that drives them to such despair. There are a few legends, of men returning from the bridge, but they were never the same. They lived the rest of their years with frostbitten hearts, blackened by the icy tendrils of solitude reaching up from the depths of that chasm of the damned. The Loneliness Chasm.

I plod on.

Do you question Socratic Method?

That's all I have actually. Just a sweet title.

Genometry is a book title I inadvertently stole

A few years ago Man mapped the human genome, opening a world of possibilities, one of which being genetic perfection. Imagine a superhuman race, with hay fever a thing of the past. Genetic enhancement has a romantic chime to it, but I didn’t always think so. There was a time I would have denounced genetic engineering outright. I would have said, “Nay, genetically engineer not, for we are created by God, in his own image”, but I have noticed over the years that Science can give us what Religion as yet cannot; tangible results, and my tune has changed (ok, I never believed in God, but shall we pretend for a while that I did?). The topic of morality in the world of gene research has always been a hot one, so I’m going to poke the coals a little and see if I can get a fire going.

Let’s say for argument’s sake that there is a God, and that we are created in his or her image (his from now on for simplicity’s sake). Does that not make Adam the original clone? This theory alone legitimizes cloning. God himself invented cloning, and by giving us the intelligence to do so ourselves, God condones it. How then can we argue that cloning is morally reprehensible and contrary to God’s plan? It seems to me like that was the plan all along.

To be fair, I don’t want God to be my whipping boy, for lack of a better term, the whole essay through, so I’m going to require a certain argumentative ambiguity to keep this up. Instead of taking the side of either Science or Religion, I’ll compromise, like everybody else who believes in it, with Intelligent Design. God becomes Creator, and I get to use a term without so much pomp attached.

Intelligent Design. Is it Religion? Is it Science? Is it a peanut butter and jam sandwich? We may never know. My best guess is that it’s an amalgamation of the two, concocted for the Science v/ Religion fence sitters who need a non-threatening Faith to cling to when Science lets them down. It is my intention to get to the point. If Intelligent Design states that there is a Creator, which it does, and that there was a grand plan, which it also does, does it not stand to reason that said Creator purposely created us with the ability to create for ourselves? I think the Science side has proven that to be so, and the frosted side says if this is the case, does it not also stand to reason that we were designed with enough intelligence to re-create ourselves in any image we might like? The door to designer genes opens thusly.

Let’s take a different tack. A cheetah can run fast, right? And it has sharp claws and teeth? And am I correct in saying that the cheetah uses these bounties to the best of its abilities? Not knowing a cheetah personally we can’t say so with certainty, but for argument’s sake let’s suppose that it does. Now, if the cheetah was given its abilities by the Creator, can we also suppose that it was meant to use them for its own good? Again, let’s assume so. By that standard then, could we say that if Man was given the intellectual capacity to discover the human genome, map it, and then begin genetically modifying ourselves for the better, or merely to our liking, were we not meant to do just that?

In conclusion, if we are crediting Intelligent Design with any kind of legitimacy, and if we're still following, we’re saying God (because let’s be honest, that’s what that means), if there is one, gave us the ability to improve on ourselves, and it would be an affront to God himself if we squandered that gift. God gave us diseases, defects, and really ugly people, as well as enough Intelligence to eventually figure out how to get rid of those things. Let’s show God his faith in us is warranted and take everything apart like a little kid with an old radio, except this time we’ll use the parts to build a rocket ship. A sexy ass rocket ship. That would do him proud.

Backseat Driver

Last night I dreamed that I was driving. I didn’t know where I was driving to, I might have been lost, but it was more like I was just driving around aimlessly, without a destination. I do know that there was a person in the backseat that kept telling me I was going the wrong way. It was driving me crazy.

“Turn right here. Change lanes. This is a dead end street.”

I wanted to kill the son of a b, but the farther I drove, the more it became clear that almost every choice I made that was purely in spite of my backseat driver was wrong. I consistently found bumper to bumper traffic, dead ends, one ways, obstacles, and construction zones. I drove on in denial for what must have been hours, becoming more and more frustrated because it never seemed like I was getting anywhere, until I finally gave up. On the verge of a mental breakdown I lost all hope, and listened. The backseat driver told me to turn left, and I did. I found myself on a beautiful stretch of road, with orchards and gardens on both sides, stretching as far as I could see. There were no other cars, no construction, no potholes. It was the idyllic street. I kept listening to the person in the back after that, and witnessed many wonderful things. I was never harried, never forced to slow down, everywhere I went was at my own pace. Eventually my backseat driver directed me down a short dirt road that led to a beach. I decided to stop and rest for a while, and listen to the surf. I munched on grapes I had bought at a farm stand and watched albatross soar upon the wind. As I was sitting there I realized that I was in swimming trunks, and had a beach towel on the seat next to me. “This is where I always wanted to be” I thought. It occurred to me then that I should apologize to the backseat driver, and thank him for his navigational advice. I turned around to offer grapes, as a dove would an olive branch, but was astonished to find the back seat empty. It didn’t make any sense. He was there, I had heard him only moments before, guiding me down to the beach. I knew he hadn’t gotten out, I would have heard that, but where could he have gone?

Puzzled, I turned back around to gaze at the surf and contemplate the events that had led me to that spot. I thought back to the beginning, when I was ignoring the voice in the back seat, and making all the wrong decisions. I realized that I’d known in every instance that I was choosing the wrong direction, but stubbornly plodded on because I didn’t like being told what to do. It was only in losing hope, in desperation, that I gave in to the voice and finally found my way. It was only when I asked for help, however reluctantly, that I was able to help myself. I awoke before my alarm with a rare awareness. I felt like I had stumbled upon something profound, but what? What was my subconscious mind trying to tell me? What, if anything, could I learn from this dream?

Freud might say I have an Oedipus complex, and Jung might claim it symbolizes the path of my psyche, a shy animal running equal parts fascinated and frightened around the central truth, drawing ever nearer, but never fully understanding what the hell it is. What is the centre? I may never know, asymbolically. I think the dream is far simpler than all of that. I think it was merely trying to tell me to smarten up, listen up, but most importantly open up, and stop ignoring whatever it is that’s been trying to guide me throughout my life. I think it was trying to tell me to stop making the same choices, and start listening to those inner voices. Of course another important lesson learned from this particular dream is that if you ever hear a backseat driver say, “Let’s stop at this farm stand,” your only response should be, “That is a damn good idea.”

Thought Colander

The problem with trying to live a spiritual, care-free lifestyle is that there are far too many people around who are not. I guess that’s why so many people struggle to find that peace of mind. There is just precious little peace out there. There’s far too much noise. I often find it hard to sleep with all that noise zooming around on the Collective Consciousness. It keeps me tossing and turning, trying to shut my mind off to it, but what I really want is open up and access it. I just don't want all of it. I want to tap into the psychic Trade Winds of knowledge, but I need some kind of filter to keep out all the useless, distracting information. Could there be such a thing? How do people meditate in the city? They must have devised some kind of filter for the subconscious that only allows what they need to pervade their minds. Where can I find something like that? My waking mind is bad enough, but at night it’s as if everybody is thinking at once, and my antenna is picking up all of it. I once dreamed of a silence tape that would drown out all sound. Now I dream of a thought colander, a butterfly net for mind, so I can frolic through the Meadows of Dreams catching only the most fascinating things, allowing the rest to fly on and bother somebody else.

Zombies

What's with all the zombie movies? It has to be a commentary on our society that so many movies are made about mindless automotons walking around in droves. I wonder if anybody has picked up on that. Just to get in on what everybody else is doing, in zombonian fashion, I have my own idea for a zombie movie. It's about a society that has overcome zombie occupation and uses them for their own needs. What it's really about though, is zombie gladiators. It would be sweet to have gladiators that could lose limbs and just keep fighting like nothing had happened. And the winner would be the one that dines on brains. I guess I should find out if zombies even have brains. Insert commentary on society here. The coolest thing about my zombie gladiator movie would be that human convicts would also be pitted against zombie gladiators in a battle to the undeath. Convicts would be promised pardon if they could survive against zombie gladiators, but if they did they would actually be sent to a maximum security prison, because criminals who can defeat zombies in hand to hand combat have no place in our society. There would be zombie rights groups protesting the unfair treatment of zombie gladiators, and at some point the militant wing of a zombie rights group would infiltrate the zombie holding pens and release them. A wave of zombies trained for combat would wreak havoc on their helpless human oppressors. I think it would have to take place in the US, because they're the only ones fool enough to train zombies for combat. In a last ditch effort to stop the army of zombie gladiators, the prisoners from the maximum security prison would be released to fight the zombies. The president himself would promise them a Top Secret Double Pardon if they could bring the zombie gladiators to heel. There would be fighting with nets and staves in every street of every city, but eventually the criminals would beat back the zombies and reclaim their country. In a twist, the criminals would be invited to a gala dinner to celebrate and receive their pardons, but they would all be murdered, because criminals who can defeat an army of zombie gladiators in hand to hand combat really have no place in our society.

False Advertising

I was feeling lonely last night, so I went to the video store. I wanted a...special video. A naked video. I wanted to watch people doing each other. As usual I was browsing by title, because in the past I've found the best way to pick an adult video is by its name. Ignore the pictures. All adult movies have the same pictures on the box; some dude in some chick with a big star over their junk so you can't see anything. It tells you nothing. Porno titles are the most clever movie titles there are. There's something about being in the creepiest business around that makes people imaginative, so you know the movie must be good. Anyway, I went home with Bedknobs and Broomsticks. Major disappointment.

Editor's note: I'm at Dan's

Once Upon A Time In Mexico

Puerto Vallarta can be a scary town if you find yourself in the wrong place, doing the wrong things. For instance, hanging out with ex-cons is a good way to find trouble, especially if you’re up to your eyeballs in Ecstasy and don’t know who is related to whom. Gary, the guy I was traveling with, was eating pill tacos one night, picked a girl up at a party, and slept with her in my van. She turned out to be the little sister of Hector, a guy we’d met recently at the stand Gary was getting those tacos. Hector is a psycho. Apparently he has killed a few people, and after the night that followed I believe it. He thought his sister was a virgin before Gary too, which didn't seem to help matters. A couple of nights after the van shagging we were drinking at Ramiro’s when Hector came charging in, screaming in Spanish. He saw Gary and went right over the table at him, hitting him full in the face with a haymaker. Gary’s chair flew out from under him and he ended up right on his back, but before Hector could take advantage a few of us grabbed him. Of course when he saw I was helping hold him back, he aimed his wrath in my direction. I still have a scar down my neck from his fingernails. He was screaming, “I’ll kill you fucking gringos!” and trying to fight off four guys who were holding him back. We decided to get the hell out of there and were heading out the door when he broke away and ran into another room. Jose yelled out, “Fucking run cabarons!” and we did. Just as we got in the van Hector came barrelling out of the house with a handgun. I flashed it up and as we tore out of there the psycho started shooting. Two bullets tore right through the side of my van. We decided then and there to leave Puerto Vallarta so we drove as fast as we could to Eduardo’s, got as much of our stuff as we could find in a hurry (Gary stole a bunch of peyote), and we hit the road. I have never been that scared in my life. I should have killed Gary for almost getting me killed. And my poor van! But guess what, after we stopped we were checking out the bullet holes and we found a bullet! It went through one wall and buried itself in a cross member on the other side. I dug it out and made a necklace with it, and Gary got gonorrhea, so in the end everybody got what they deserved.

In With The Old, Out With The New

Sadness has been pervading my psyche of late. Inspiration is waning. There are a number of reasons for my normally jovial self to be less than excited to get up in the morning, but I have decided not to speak of them directly, for fear of having a whiny blog, which I told myself in the beginning I wouldn’t do. But alas if I’m to write, I must write what’s in my head.

I feel like I’m spinning my wheels again. Do you ever find yourself thinking you’re doing everything differently, with an entirely different perspective, only to find every aspect of your life is exactly the way it always was? If so, does it take the wind out of your sails? It does me. It’s like sailing headlong into the doldrums, without any horses to throw overboard. When that happens, motivation and inspiration take a major hit. I stop caring about the things I’m unhappy with. I let them slide. I lose all pride in my job, I live in squalor and disarray, I don’t shave for weeks at a time…actually I’m quite happy with that one. I have a sweet ass Fu Manchu. The lower I get though, the more likely I am to shut my brain down and shuffle through life like a zombie, forgetting about the things that make me happy. I stop watching soccer, stop reading, and I stop writing.

So how do I stay on top of my game? The solutions are pretty simple. I can’t let every day life grind on me so much, and I can’t forget to do those things that make me happy, like building alka seltzer bottle rockets, shattering my land speed record (currently 72.4 km/h, I’m gunning for you Jess), buying a McGill sweatshirt at Value Village to feel scholarly while I’m up all night playing video games, and writing, even if it’s rubbish, to keep my mind nimble. Well at least I have the last three down.

65.3 Ways to Die

I received a gift a few days ago. It was the gift of Speed. Well, it was more like the gift of the Knowledge of Speed. I got a speedometer for my bike. It’s like a little bike computer. It records my trip/overall mileage, RPM, and most importantly, Speed, Average Speed, and Maximum Speed. I don’t think it will come as a surprise to anybody that the first thing I did was ride to the top of the nearest hill to see how fast I could go down it. I did a couple of runs before dark and got up to 54.8 km/h, but I wasn’t quite satisfied with that result. I knew there was more in me. The next day I went to a bigger, longer hill, and by the time I reached bottom I had achieved a blistering 62.6 km/h, but that still wasn’t quite enough. I knew there was still more speed in me, so this morning, on the way to work, I bombed that same hill again. For much of it I rested, reserving energy for the final burst at the end, where the gradient is greatest, but I had a time to beat, so as I rounded the last corner I ignored the fact that there is a crosswalk at the bottom, and that the last time I careened down that hill some guy thought it was a good idea to cross in front of me. I forgot about the evasive maneuvers required not to cut him in two as he mimicked the proverbial chicken. I was going for speed. To Hell with consequences. Ducking down to reduce wind resistance, I let the harnessed adrenaline shoot through my veins like anabolic cobra venom. The wind whistled deafeningly in my ears, tears streamed from my eyes, my fingers went numb with cold, locked in a deathgrip on the handlebars, all while my legs pumped the pedals like a steam locomotive out of control. If anybody had decided to cross that walk today I probably couldn’t have grabbed the brakes if I’d wanted to, and at the speed I was going they wouldn't have done any good anyway.

Once I’d done darting in and out of downtown traffic I cycled through the many options on my new bike computer to find my Max Speed, and discovered that I had beat my personal best by almost 3 km/h. My new record is 65.3 km/h, and now that I’m in the top half of the 60’s, I’m gunning for 70. There’s a hill, known around these parts as the Big Dipper, that just might be steep enough for me to break the 70 km/h mark. Of course then I’ll have to beat that record, but there are always steeper hills, and an endless supply of harnessed adrenaline. Besides, if I don’t one up myself, who will?

Autumn Of My Love

The magic is fading, and now my eyes wander elsewhere. It was fun for a while, a love affair really, but now the love is drying up. Have you ever had a lover who, after the initial torrent of affection, began to let themselves go? This is happening with Karkharoth. In the beginning he was all ferocity, all viciousness, all powerful. He ran down and devoured those in his path without fatigue, without pain, without injury. He was invincible. But he has started to slip; gears, handlebars, brakes, they all slip. Every second day I have to take things apart, rebuild them. I wonder, is it like this with every bike named after a fictional wolf of Evil Infamy? He still darts in front of speeding cars, still chases backhoes, but when he does these things now it is always with groans of protest. He doesn’t have the same vigour he once had, he’s old beyond his years, and can’t be trusted in traffic, so I look elsewhere. I should have known this would happen when I christened Karkharoth such. Just as the real (fictional) Karkharoth was eventually destroyed by that which empowered him (the Silmaril in his belly), so is my Karkharoth being destroyed by the power that makes it run, namely, my monstrous thighs. Its frame has proven too frail for the power that flows through me, so I look elsewhere.

I’m in the market for a superior steed. I need something that can match the might of Odin himself, and not crack under the rigours of battle. I need a Valkyrie, in touring bike format, that can carry me to my own Valhalla. I need a bike built for power and speed, that can tackle the tallest mountain, and cause sonic booms down the back side. Know of any?

What Once Was Shall Once More Be

Recently, I lost my “I’m The Best” t-shirt. It was a savage blow, because it was pretty much my best t-shirt. I reminisced about the times we had together; the parties, the mornings after parties. I wore that shirt all the way across Central America. I truly was The Best. But one day I realized I hadn’t seen it in a while, and the next two weeks brought on the realization that, like the One Ring, it had left me of its own volition.

I was bitter for a while. Unable to come to terms with the fact that my Best shirt had left me. One day though, in a moment of clarity, I suddenly understood. It wasn’t the shirt’s fault. I was no longer The Best. I thought back to the weeks surrounding the loss of my t-shirt and realized I had definitely not been at my Best. I was sad, unproductive, a shadow of my recent self, much more like my former. I had let myself go in a sense, and lost my The Best status as a result. I felt better after that, about the loss of my t-shirt. I realized that the loss of the t-shirt was actually a helpful reminder that I was slipping again. I immediately cheered up, started eating better, and writing again.

Later that week I was explaining to Catfish my theories of why the shirt was gone, of why I was no longer The Best, and that somebody out there who is more deserving must now be wearing it. He agreed with my synopsis and told me that some day perhaps it would come back to me. I smiled at that. Maybe it would. That night I was in the studio and I noticed something dark sticking out from under my drum kit. I reached down, pulled out a handful of fabric, and as I unfolded it those unmistakable glittery rainbow letters jumped out at me, virtually screaming "I’m The Best." It was back, again of its own volition, with its rightful owner.

Some of you might say, “Obviously you threw your shirt off in a fit of joy while playing drums!” and some of you might even be right in a technical sense, but you would be ignoring the deeper meaning. You’d be disregarding the power of the Cosmos, and its ability to bend Fate to its will. I choose to look at it from a far more philosophical, perhaps even fantastic angle. I believe the t-shirt really was gone and then re-appeared, much like it appeared to me the day I first found it, as if out of thin air. I believe the realization that indeed it is possible for me to become less than Best was enough to restore my errant Best-itude. I just needed that gentle reminder that I am not the Pope. I am fallible, and bound to slip up every once in a while. The key is to recognize when I’m slipping and grab hold of something before I end up back at the bottom of the slope, clawing with bloody fingernails to regain my rank, because by then it could be too late. Usurpers are ever lurking, looking to exploit weakness, and I shan't show them any more if I can help it.

It’s good to be King.

Martyrbation

Those we call The Powers That Be have pulled a hot one. I was feeling below average on the Brain Chart today, so I tried to load my phone version of Brain Challenge for a little boost. I was dismayed to find that it would no longer load. “Funk and Wagnall’s!” I exclaimed, “They sold me a game with an expiry date.” Then, when I tried to get it anew, I found the download page didn’t work either! That is when I realized what was happening. I was up to 58%, and I think those bastards were afraid they were creating a monster. Maybe they’ve been monitoring my blog as well, and got nervous when I began leaning toward world domination. In a move reminiscent of the executions of Justin of Samaria, and Jesus himself, they pulled the plug on Brain Challenge. They realized they had a messiah in the making on their hands, and didn’t want to deal with the repercussions.

“Keep the layman laid.” That is the policy of big corporation. Don’t let the little guy get bigger than his britches. But this time they’ve failed. They think they’ve halted my ascension by taking Brain Challenge out of the equation, but they’re mistaken. I will not allow my mind to be a martyr. I will soldier on, because if I learned anything from Brain Challenge it is that I really do have a Good Memory, and I remember now. I remember I have a thirst that can only be slaked by a quest for knowledge. It’s too late for those who sit around in cummerbunds plotting to keep the masses downtrodden. It’s too late, because they’ve already created a mental monster, and this monster remembers a time before his astuteness was dulled by daily drudgery. Brain Challenge was my Whetstone of Wits, and I have honed them back into a formidable weapon.

So I may not have Brain Challenge any longer, but it was long worn out from its task of sharpening my Katana of Kanowledge. So I may not have their “Brain Capacity” percentages to mark my progress, but I have transcended mainstream cerebral parameters. I have awoken from The Matrix if you will. I am no longer playing their game.

Malahatma Gone-di

The Malahat is not all that. It’s more like Mala-hain’t-all-that, but enough with the word plays. Squirrel and I conquered that devil highway, plus the extra jaunt to the ferry, in about seven hours. That seems like a long time, but without some kind of rocket booster Squirrel has to walk up every hill, while I ride alongside at a snail’s squirrel’s pace. We covered roughly 75 km without incident. I had to stop a few times to tighten things up (Karkharoth was ill-prepared for the journey), but other than that it went smooth as can be. I didn’t even find it all that difficult. I know I could keep that pace up all the way over the Rockies, and I can’t wait to see Squirrel bomb those hills. The only pressing problem I noticed is brake pads. I went through about 2/3 of my pads in one day, slowing down constantly to stay with the board. I don’t have much back brake left for my day to day riding, and we already know what happens when I use the front. I might look into remedying that.

It was dark and miserable when we finally got back to the Rock, so we stopped in at a little party to warm up, and warm up we did. I find I get tipsy fast after riding 70 km. When everybody went to the bar, Squirrel and I ripped home to get ready for another night of partying, and that was when we had our first incident. Squirrel, in a long looping corner onto my road, through a bunch of wet leaves and pine needles, took a bit of a spill. He jumped up quick, cursing, and hopped back on his board. I was equal parts laughing and wincing. It looked like it hurt. When we got to my place he took off his jacket to find blood dripping out, and a piece of skin that was no longer a part of him. I almost ralfed when he exclaimed, “This is skin!” and held it up for me to see.

It was an epic day, from starting out still drunk from the night before, to getting home a little drunk (and Squirrel a little bloody), with a little 70 km trek in between. We proved we can get a lot of traveling done in a day (considering we didn’t start until noon), so Canada shouldn’t be a problem. We proved that my field dressing skills need a little improvement (Squirrel told me today that his bed was all bloody when he woke up). And we proved that eating at every Subway you see is a good way to keep fueled up for an adventure (do I hear sponsorship?). This was just the first of many training runs, and was a great confidence booster to do it sans problemes. I don’t imagine they’ll all go as smoothly (especially at the rate I burn up brake pads), but I’m ready to face anything now, except maybe that charging bear.

The Long Road

I late May, 2008, two men will embark on what could prove to be the most ambitious, rigorous, and rewarding adventure of their lives. They will be tackling the third longest highway in the world, the Trans Canada. These two crazy bastards will be traversing near to 8000 km (which is about 7991 miles now that Canada has passed the US in the markets), one on a board, the other on a bike (towing all the supplies by the way), using only the power packed into their considerable frames. They’re going to show the world that the only fuels we really need to get around can be found in trail mix, and the occasional Red Bull. They’ll show everybody that muscle is still the ultimate power, and a little stamina doesn’t hurt either.

The introductions: The mind behind trip, the man who conceptualized this crazy expedition, the one who will be careening down miles of mountainside on a longboard with no way to slow down, is known in most parts, as Squirrel. And the biker? The ox? The tugboat for this voyage? The one who will most likely be towing that lazy boarder bastard across much of the Prairies? That, my friends, would be me. When Squirrel asked, I enthusiastically agreed to join him (it was at a keg party and afterward I couldn’t think of a good enough reason to un-agree, so here I am) and most likely get naked for no reason in every Province (sorry Territories, nobody wants to get naked in you). There’s still a little trepidation in me, it’s a long way across this country, but somebody who knows me very well recently told me, “You are one of the most stubborn people I know. You can do this” and I believe her.

I’ll be spending the next eight months training as if for the Olympics, but the only thing I’ll need around my neck at the finish line is the arms of my beloved Chimpit, and maybe a warm Magic Bag. I’ll probably want a cold beer too, something local please. Come May I really will resemble the Behemoth, and no longer in mini. The long months of arduous training will hone my thighs into fleshy lightning bolts. Each revolution of my pedals will be a blast of raw energy. If it could somehow be harnessed I should be able to heat six homes for an entire winter (west coast) with a single stroke. These are the legs that will carry me over 8000 km, over mountain passes, across long, seemingly never ending flatlands, through forests (there are still forests here, right?) and farmlands, around Great Lakes and lesser ponds, dodging moose, muskrat, and perhaps the occasional wolf pack. These are the legs that will help me outrun charging bear, and rutting elk. These legs will break land speed records…if I can convince Squirrel to pull the trailer once in a while. The training officially starts in two days.

This Saturday we take on the Malahat, a 60 km (or 59 mile) highway with a summit of 1,156 ft. This is not a simple training run. This is the widow maker of Island highways. 1 in 5 pedestrians attempting to journey over the Malahat are never seen nor heard from again. Just last week a biker with 37 mosquito bites was hit by a truck while being eaten alive by a bear. This is why we have decided to attack it, because if we can beat the Malahat, we can beat any damn thing. If there are no new posts here by Monday don’t worry about a rescue party. The turkey vultures will sort things out.

Donations to help us achieve our goal will be accepted both in cash and check format. Just make it out to Huntley Smith, and send to: REDACTED Anything would be welcome; money, trail mix, Red Bull, spandex (not used thank you), even grocery store coupons. Anything you can think of that might help. Many thanks.

Hauntings

I am still haunted by my chicken-hearted decision not to pass that biker two days ago. I really could have had him. The cars weren’t very close. A quick arm signal, and I could have shot out of his slipstream and stormed down the hill, leaving him as but a speck in my mirror, but no. I chose instead to reach the bottom of the hill in second place, with my brakes half on so I wouldn’t slam into his back tire. Because I lost my immortality, philosophically, the night before, I wimped out. I’m a little ashamed of myself, but I’ve decided to face my failings, so I have compiled a short list of other things that still haunt me in order to face them as well:

- Having a rat tail in elementary school

- Yelling to get off the Salt and Pepper Shaker

- Challenge Cup Semi-Final, 1999

- Being so insecure when I was in school. Totally could have scored more (I know I know, that could be related to the rat tail)

- The time I didn’t make a move on that girl in the backseat of my parents’ car after she told me she’d always wanted to do it in the backseat of a car, and described in detail exactly how.

- Not getting dreadlocks in Belize

- Jumping off a one story building and trying to run in midair

- Every day I worked on a drilling rig (not including the Toneberg era)

- Those pork ribs I ate two days ago

Immortal Rebuttal

This past weekend I found myself defending my claims of immortality on a couple of occasions. Saturday night, out with some friends, I had quite a lengthy debate on the matter. I employed the Socratic Method, while my esteemed opposition countered with her theory that all living things are mortal things, therefore immortality can not exist. I cited historical cases of common beliefs which were then disproven, including Copernicus’s heliocentric assertions which flew in the face of the widely accepted geocentric views. Heliocentrism was eventually proven (after much Inquisitioning), thus my position was, “Is it not therefore possible for immortality to exist and we just don’t know it yet?” There was a well spoken rebuttal, but I ended the debate with a statement that silenced the table; “It’s true that immortality may not exist, but nothing exists if it is not yet conceived.” My opposition conceded the point, and we continued our pitchers over far lighter conversation.

Last night I found myself once again defending my position, this time against a prodigious pupil of mine. I quickly learned that a new opponent often brings a fresh perspective, and that sometimes the student teaches the professor. I restated my argument for the possibility of immortality, and The Breeze countered with the statement that immortality can not be proven, therefore cannot exist. Only mortality can be proven, and to do that one must die. To prove immortality one would have to live forever, and because forever is eternal, immortality can never be proven with any finality. By that rationale only mortality can exist. I was forced to concede the point.

I now have to retract my claims of immortality, until I can come up with a reasonable argument to refute this new one. It is a bitter pill, if you will, because I was very much enjoying my immortal status. The realization of probable mortality is sobering, and on my ride home from work today, after breaking land speed records to catch some fruity spandex bike guy so I could rocket past him on a hill, I actually refrained from passing him because I could see cars approaching in my mirror. It was extremely humbling, and difficult, to rein in Karkharoth before he swallowed the biker whole. He nearly bit a chunk out of the guy’s back tire in his fury. I hope to offer a new argument to the ongoing debate soon, so that I may ride again with reckless abandon.

On an unrelated note, I wrote most of this blog at work today, while I was standing around waiting for somebody, so it is my first paying gig, not counting Grand Prize Contest Winnings.

Making Headway

This is just a quick blurb blog to let everybody know that as of tonight, according to Brain Challenge, I am at 40% Brain Capacity. Watch for my first book, entitled, Brain Rubble, The End of Intellect in Modern Society

A World Gone Hobbes

Thomas Hobbes believed that “the right of each to all things” eternally ties Man to conflict, because we will always compete for what we want and need. He wrote, “The condition of man...is a condition of war of everyone against everyone” and that could not be truer today. As populations rise and resources dwindle, the need to seize what’s left grows direr by the day. There is a Great Posturing going on amongst the world’s powers. All the usual suspects are flexing their muscles:

Russia’s testing of “The Father of all Bombs”; http://www.reuters.com/article/worldNews/idUSL1155952320070912?feedType=RSS&feedName=worldNews&rpc=22&sp=true

Israel’s “covert” strikes whenever and wherever they choose;
http://observer.guardian.co.uk/world/story/0,,2170188,00.html

North Korea’s obsession with nuclear power;
http://www.fas.org/nuke/guide/dprk/nuke/index.html

And what can be said about the US that hasn’t been said thousands of times (just not in the mainstream press)? Their strategies are beginning to sound like a Tom Clancy novel; http://www.abovetopsecret.com/forum/thread302187/pg1

It all smells of a worldwide conflict escalating out of control. Is it life imitating art, or vice versa, when the real world looks a lot like the ultimate game of Risk? Is it a harbinger of impending doom? Everybody is gearing up for something, but what? Is it to be the War that ends all Wars? Whatever is happening, it looks like my wish for a human free planet could be on the horizon, if there still is a horizon when this thing goes down. Maybe all those people buying fallout shelters during the Cold War weren’t crazy after all. They were just sixty years ahead of their time.

Not So Funny, Midlife Crisis

It occurred to me that I may not be as funny as I think. I really do think I’m exceedingly funny. I sometimes write stand-up routines, tape myself doing them, and then watch them on my TV as though I were on the Comedy Network. Sometimes I dress as a woman and tape myself so I can boo later, and complain that female comedians just aren’t funny. This amuses me. Today, as I was twoing at work, I was thinking about my sense of humour, and just how funny it is. It occurred to me that it might not be as funny to everybody else, so I left myself an hilarious memo on my phone to remind myself to write about it. So funny. Anyway, I was thinking about all the ribbing I give people, like when I bust Ted Nugent’s balls about having old, well, balls, or when I bug Chimpit about having a cute little baby chimp head, although that is always from a place of endearment. It struck me that they may not find these things as humourous as I do, just like I don’t think it’s all that funny when somebody points out that I have a short torso. Well you know what else has a short torso? A giraffe. And nobody F’s with a full grown giraffe, except lions, but only in rare cases. It would have to be the Achilles of lions. A real king of the jungle type. Again I digress. I guess the moral is that we should all think we’re the funniest people around, because if we can’t make ourselves laugh, we might as well go crawl under a porch.

Another thing occurred to me. I still love all the things I loved when I was a kid. Space, dinosaurs, milkshakes, cartoons (though I would never have been allowed to watch the ones I watch now). I hold them all dear. Could this be:

A) Because I genuinely love them

B) A midlife crisis, or

C) A sign of my immaturity

I like to think it’s a little from column A, and a little from column B. No, maybe not B. Mostly A and C. Probably a little from B though. Wait, that was in list format. Forget about columns. Just look at the list and read A and C, and then read B, but with your eyes all squinty so you don’t really see it very well.

Doppleganger

They say everybody has a twin somewhere, a doppelganger if you will, but how many out there have actually seen their's? I can’t imagine how weird it would be to come face to face with my exact double (though there have been times I‘ve wished I had a stunt double). Sure, I’ve been told I look a lot like Brad Pitt, Hugh Jackman, and a young James Dean. I was even once likened to the Behemoth, in mini, but those are just vague comparisons. They’re not the real thing. What I’m talking about is an exact replica.

Now, I have never met a physical twin, but I have met somebody who seems to be exactly like me, aphysically, and I find that even weirder. The deeper one delves into another’s psyche, the more unique that person should appear to become, right? How we develop psychologically is a measure of our experiences, and no two people can share the same experiences, unless they never leave each other’s sides. Even then though, their individual physical brain development would cause differences in the way those experiences were perceived and catalogued, ergo, we should all be quite different once we get to the core of ourselves, but apparently this isn’t always the case. The person in question and I have seemingly similar upbringings, schooling in some ways, and, shall I say, parental input, but until recently never crossed paths, and thus could not have cross contaminated each other’s development. How then do our psyches appear to be so alike? Where’s a famous Swiss psychologist when you need one?

This is one of the few questions I’ve posed that I do not already have an answer for. Perhaps my blog is the guilty pleasure of a budding young psychologist on the lookout for a case study (good choice by the way). If so, I submit myself to your prodding, in the name of science, so that we may delve together into the How’s and Why’s of the human mind, and maybe discover what really makes us who we are, and how different are we all really?

This Whole Brain Thing

Let me first say that I am not one of those people who sit on public transit with their faces buried in a tiny little screen playing Tetris or Texas Hold ‘Em. Those people suck. I listen to my iPod, it’s different. I did however, at a weak moment, download a game for my phone (I even paid six dollars), but this particular game is different. It’s a brain game. Brain Challenge, to be exact. It consists of exercises for the brain that one can use to improve their overall “Brain Capacity”.

(Sidebar: Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe “capacity” can be used synonymously with “potential”, and I don’t think “potential” is something that can be improved by playing video games, regardless of how educational they may be. I don’t think “potential” is limitless. I think it is the limit. I think if you reach your potential, you have nowhere left to go. I’ve always believed this, so have never tried to reach mine).

Sidebar aside, this new game is great. It breaks the brain down into four categories; Logic, Math, Memory, and Visual. There are numerous exercises under each category, each working a different aspect of the brain. My results have been interesting, not at all what I expected. Logic (which I associate with Problem Solving) is actually my lowest score, so I think there must be something wrong with those particular exercises, a glitch perhaps, where the scores are reversed. Math is next, which I thought would be my lowest, because growing up I always concentrated on Words, leaving numbers to those who lack imagination. My second highest score is in Visual, which is essentially Logic of the Eyes. And my best score, by a long shot, is Memory. This is most perplexing, because I have a terrible memory. I once almost died (pre-immortality realization) when I nearly choked on a bite of hot dog that I forgot to swallow. When I was a superhero on Planet Nakahi I forgot to get up early and stop Admiral Wheke from detonating the Tupuhi and destroying said planet. I had to move to Earth because every Tangata became a mutant Ngata. Needless to say,

So far, after playing the game for a month, I’m at thirty-three percent Brain Capacity. I’m not sure what that means exactly, but I do know that if they’re telling me that I am currently only using thirty-three percent of my brain’s potential then I am a god damn genius in the making, pardon my French. Seriously though, watch out. At just fifty percent Brain Capacity I’ll be going around claiming Ken Wilbur is a moron and crackpot, at seventy percent I’ll be world renowned as the leading expert in pretty much everything, and at ninety? At ninety percent Brain Capacity I will likely have a frontal lobe the size of the grill of a 1950 Buick Roadmaster. I will be unstoppable.

The Sound of Silence

I'd like to get some of those nature tapes. You know, the ones with birds singing, or the ocean. Another really good one would be silence, because if there was ever a noise that was bugging you, like somebody trying to tell you about their day, or your dog whining to be let in, you could just crank up the silence and drown it out.

All Hail, Karkharoth

My new bike has a moniker, and it is pure evil. It has been christened Karkharoth, “the Red Maw”, after the mad Wolf of Angband, Sleepless Guardian of the gates of Angband, slayer of Huan the Wolfhound, and Beren Erchamion, Lord of Dorthonian. Karkharoth was born of the race of Draugluin, Werewolf of Tol-in-Gaurhoth. He was raised by Melkor, Lord of Darkness, feasting solely on the living flesh of Man and Elf. When Karkharoth swallowed the Silmaril (along with Beren’s hand), it burned in his stomach like a Divine Habanero. He was driven mad with the pain and laid waste to Beleriand, slaughtering everything in his path. His name alone struck Fear in the stoutest of warriors.

A fitting name for a bike mad enough to Fearlessly dart in front of speeding cars and chase backhoes like a ravenous beast. A fitting name also, because I am obsessed with wolves, and when I ride, I ride like a rabid wolf, growling and snarling, pushing myself past the brink of exhaustion. I've always believed that if I were a wolf, I would be an animal.

Militant Pacifism

Again, the world is cyclic. Something old becomes something new, and something profound I wrote a long time ago becomes poignant again today. It’s just another example on a perpetual list of how things never change, and probably never will.

For your viewing pleasure, back in the spotlight, Militant Pacifism:

When it comes down to it, I'm a pacifist. I'm not confrontational, I'm not a fighter, and I'm opposed to war. Sure, I get angry and want to lash out sometimes, but the complexity of my psyche is not what is in question right now. What is in question is the validity of violence and war in our society. It's out of hand. Gangs, teamsters, pirates on the Seven Seas, violence is everywhere, and there is always a war being fought somewhere for some odd reason. It's as if our society can't function properly without conflict. It has run so rampant that we're even starting wars in the name of peace. Now I don't know about you, but I don't think starting a war where there wasn't a war is doing anything for peace. Capiche? What makes it even more nonsensical is that there is always overwhelming outcry against it, which unerringly dies out due to the obvious lack of acknowledgement by the powers that be. I believe something drastic must be done. I believe we need to get out and put a stop to the violence using the only thing that pirates, warmongers, and schoolyard bullies will understand. Counter-violence. We need to usher in an era of militant pacifism that will bring the violent to their knees. We need to put down our placards and pick up our pistols. We need to run through the streets with pitchforks and torches, killing and maiming all the violent and degenerate members of our society before they do the same to us. We need to seek out the rapists, molesters, thieves, and government officials before they completely destroy society with their despicable beliefs. We need to force pacifism down their throats until they understand that we won't put up with hostility any longer. The sooner they see that we're serious about making our world a place free of fear, the sooner they'll fear us and join us in our dream of a violence-free society, or die trying to get in our way. This war on war shall have a name. It shall be called, The War on War, and pacifists around the world will flock to our banner. So put down your pens and pick up your pikes, put down your microphones and replace them with machine guns, drop your axes and arm yourself with AK's, or if you don't own an AK, an axe will do just fine. It is time for us to come out of our homes and fight for our right for peace. It's time to make war on war for peace, for peace, because we just can't take it any longer.

Híppos Mélas

I have a shiny new bike. It’s a metallic gold (not brown!) two-wheeled mayhem machine powered by Fury. When I ride the world stops, or at least it seems stopped as I race past, bending the space-time continuum, my legs pumping like Thumper jacking off on Methamphetamine. Hold on to your toupees. At that speed if you hit something you won’t even slow down, like a katana slicing neatly through a man’s jugular. At that speed a helmet is only a hindrance, catching the wind as it whips past and pulling you back like a parachute attached to your head. I prefer to go au naturel, only wearing a headband to keep my mane in check. Helmets are no good to immortals anyway. If somehow I do hit something able to withstand my skull smashing into it with the force of a comet plowing into a small moon, I do have a contingency plan. Any subsequent coma would be short lived, as I’m confident that my considerable experience with insomnia would pull me through. I’ll just say I was finally taking a nap, could somebody put some water on?

I don’t have all the necessary accessories for my new bike yet; banana seat, streamers, onkly donk spoke thingies, or a wicker basket to hold my chips, but I do have a pack of laminated trading cards and a handful of clothes pegs. Tomorrow morning it will sound like the Devil himself is riding forth from the pits of Hell on a heaving chopper made from the flesh and bones of the Damned. This is no supernal bike. It’s the incarnation of Hades’s Hounds, in bicycle format. Tomorrow morning I will ride again like a Tempest, whipping up the winds in a cyclonic frenzy. Those in my path will think me one of the Horsemen, come to wreak God’s vengeance on those who have Mortally Sinned. All shall repent with the sound of my malevolent laughter ringing in their ears.

I don’t have any pictures of my new bike yet, nor do I have a name that befits a vessel of such Fury, but soon I shall. Soon it will be christened with human blood, and decaled like a stock car sponsored by the Underworld. Soon its name will thunder through the Heavens, and Angels will weep and tremble with fear.

Rejected thus far:

The Gold Rush
Khimaira
The Chariot (in which case I would play the part of Helios)

Just 'Cause

According to researchers at University of Texas, one species of plant or animal becomes extinct every twenty minutes. The same study predicts that half of all bird and mammal species will be wiped out within 200 to 300 years (http://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2002/01/020109074801.htm).

I believe in the annihilation of Mankind. That is my cause. Intelligent people should have been making more babies, and the Stupid involved in more farm accidents, but it hasn’t happened that way. Many Intelligent took stock and decided that it was too late to save our planet, and subsequently our race, and as a result decided not to procreate, saving future potentially intelligent children the agony of living immersed in inferiority on a barren rock. Conversely, the Stupid just keep on popping out babies like idiot factories. Our society is severely watered down, like a teabag on its third pot.

Al Gore believes we can save the planet. But is it true? Can we truly reverse the damage we’ve done? The experts say if we all start now we can, but does anybody actually think that is going to happen? Take a good look at any major corporation, or US foreign affairs strategies, and you’ll see we are a long way from convincing anybody who’s making any money destroying the planet to do anything to save it.

Environmentalists are cowards. They want us to think they’re trying to help, but what do they do? Carry placards, chain themselves to trees, they put on a good show, but there are no selfless acts. They just can’t admit to themselves that the world is already doomed. Environmentalists fear their own mortality, yet they’re prepared to watch our world slowly die. They won’t take the necessary steps. They’re afraid to pull the plug.

We need a global purge, like Naess’s Deep Ecology movement, but far more extreme. We need to throw out that teabag, but why stop there? Let’s throw out the whole teapot. Let’s start a fire in the kitchen and burn the entire house to the ground. Let’s scorch the Earth until not a single tea leaf remains.

We can only save the planet by destroying ourselves. The quicker we are gone, the sooner our beloved planet can rebuild, from the beginning. The longer we wait, the more permanent damage is done. We need to get it over with quickly, like killing a deer you just hit with your truck. We need to wage war, spread disease, and support our local famine. We must do whatever we can to rid the Earth of us, for its own good.

The old saying goes, “If you love something, set it free. If it comes back it was meant to be.” (Actually I may have improved it). Let’s put a twist on that old saying. Let’s free Earth of our torment, and if in a few billion years we come back, then we can try again to co-exist, because then at least we’ll know we’re supposed to be here, and not that we’re just some kind of planetary HIV.

A Work In Progress

The world is cyclic, ever spinning, ever repeating. Unless we read the signs, our sins too will be repeated. Patterns are everywhere, in nature, in the choices we make, in our every day interactions. To evolve we must be able to recognize the patterns, and heed the warnings. If we can’t we’re doomed to make the same mistakes, over and over again, passing ineptitude down for generations. Some have that ability; the clinical thinkers, the people who can look at a situation from outside it, and base their opinions or decisions on rational thought. These people learn from their mistakes, and their lives are enriched in turn. Many though, have an innate inability to clinically evaluate and instead will rationalize irrational behaviour to suit what they believe to be right. These are people who can’t see beyond their own selfish needs, and fail to recognize how their actions affect those around them. In most cases they are likely only going on what they know, what they were taught, or learned through experience, but herein lies the problem. An inability to adapt only helps sin beget sin, and the cycle continues unchecked. How can we evolve as a people if we’re surrounded by people incapable of evolution? We’re all doomed to the same fates, as are our children, if we are unable to see the patterns, much less do something about them.

Ask yourself, can you step back from a situation and attempt to look at all sides? Can you put yourself in another’s shoes? Can you understand another’s opinion, or at least where it comes from?

Do you rationalize without thought? Will you write those other opinions off as blasphemy if they don’t match your own? Do you feel like you repeat yourself?

If the latter is true, do you often find yourself in the same situations? Do you wonder why it seems like everybody is against you, and nobody understands? Perhaps you need re-evaluate how you look at things. Perhaps you need to heed the warning signs, learn from your mistakes, and evolve.

Where We Came From

I was once told a fantastic story that I’d like to relate, because I think everybody should hear it. A woman I know once told me what she believes to be the History of Humankind. It goes a little something like this:

Women came before Men. They were their own race of people, completely self reliant. Women reproduced by stimulating the then active female prostate. Women’s DNA arrived on Earth on the back of a flying turtle, or maybe a living flying saucer that was shaped much like a turtle and upon arriving on Earth evolved into a turtle, and the DNA was distributed throughout the planet on the back of said turtle. Men only came to be when the women began copulating with monkeys, thus contaminating their pure bloodline.

This theory poses a number of questions.

1) Where did the DNA actually come from?
2) Where did the turtle come from?
3) Why was female DNA on the back of a space turtle?
4) Why did the turtle and/or DNA not burn up during entry into the atmosphere?
5) How exactly did women stimulate their prostate? And to follow up, did they help each other?
6) Why, if they had it so good, did women start screwing monkeys?
7) Is that where AIDS came from?
8) Do women think they are superior because Men came from monkeys and they did not?
9) How superior can they be, they screwed monkeys.

I searched around on the internet for a while and couldn’t find anything on the subject, so to answer these questions I’ll have to go to the source. Wish me luck.

Why Cheating is Like Murder

(Disclaimer: This is all written from a male point of view because I just happen to be male. Ladies, it works both ways.)


At first glance it might seem like I am adamantly against cheating, and at first glance I am, but if you look a little closer you’ll find that there are different degrees of cheating, and sometimes fault is not as clear as one would think. I intend to explore the various degrees and discuss them in a relevant fashion.

1st degree cheating is the premeditated cheating. This is when you’re sneaking around, telling your girl you’re going golfing or out with the guys when you’re actually meeting a piece of tail at the lake for some forest fun. This is clearly the most audacious of the cheats. It’s cold, callous, and calculated. If you are caught there is no defense. Pleading guilty and throwing yourself at the mercy of the courts is your best bet.
Punishment for 1st degree cheating is often lifetime termination of the relationship and a Level 4 Timeout, though some guys seem to repeatedly get away with it. It’s not clear whether this is because they’re so charming, or because the judicial system is terribly flawed.

2nd degree cheating is a conscious choice, but unlike 1st degree, it’s a spontaneous cheat. In this case the guilty party doesn’t plan the cheat, but events conspire to force them into a poor decision at a weak moment. Because of its impulsive nature it can be slightly more difficult to prove Mens Rea (Guilty Mind), for as the great Sir Edward Coke said, “Actus non facit reum nisi mens sit rea.” (An act does not make a person guilty unless (their) mind is also guilty). To show you how this might work let’s say you find yourself at a pool party, you’ve had a few drinks, and the cute girl across the hot tub is flirting with you. You flirt back, just to be friendly, but it quickly escalates beyond your control. Maybe you find yourselves on the back deck, innocently discussing Nietzsche, when you notice how the moonlight twinkles in her eyes, and before you know it you’re screwing on a deck chair with a beach towel for privacy. If you get caught committing a 2nd degree cheat you’re definitely in trouble, but it can be easier to talk your way out of.
Punishment for 2nd degree cheating can be substantially less than for 1st degree. It is forgiven far more often, because of its spur-of-the-moment nature, but don’t count on leniency, as there are at least as many cases of harsh punishment. Someone guilty of 2nd degree cheating could find themselves anywhere on the Timeout Level System depending on the severity of the cheat and/or who it was with.

3rd degree cheating is the Manslaughter of cheating, and can be broken down into two groups, Voluntary, and Involuntary. Voluntary 3rd degree is an intentional cheat, though it occurs in a circumstance where any reasonable person may lose self control. An example of Voluntary 3rd degree would be if the cute girl across the hot tub in my previous example were Jessica Simpson dressed as Daisy Duke. Nobody in their right mind could resist.
Involuntary 3rd degree is the Negligence side of said degree. This would come about if the allegedly guilty party were too drunk or stoned to make a rational decision. There is still fault, but the fault is only in that the perpetrator engaged in other, normally acceptable activities to such an extent that their judgment was clearly not in play. Waking up with a bra in your pocket and not knowing from whence it came would be an example of 3rd degree cheating, as would waking up with a girl in your bed and not knowing her name. It’s harder to prove innocence in these cases though, because it’s simply your word that you were too inebriated to make decisions. Perhaps if you were so drunk at the pool party that you kept putting your dick in a hot dog bun, you might be able to find a few witnesses to corroborate your story.


(Disclaimer 2: The preceding exploratory essay was not an endorsement of amoral, deceitful, or despicable behaviour. It was merely an explanation of the subtle nuances of the Cheating Table. The bottom line in cheating is that it is wrong. It might feel good at first, but ultimately it will only cause heartache and tears, and nobody likes tears. I for one, would never cheat on my precious little Chimpit.)

Common Sense

After I posted my last blog I received an influx of emails, and they all had the same refrain, how can I claim Common Sense while writing about such incidents as going over bike handlebars and attempting to fly? I am here to answer that question.

First I should address the question of what is Common Sense? Merriam-Webster defines it as “Sound and prudent judgment based on a simple perception of the situation or facts.” Well clearly I possess the ability to assess a situation and make rational decisions based on my findings. I proved that just last weekend when I got in a cab instead of fighting 11 homeless punks with a superiority complex. I could have given them the tirade of their lifetimes, putting them directly in their place, before being pummeled into salsa, but I did not. I deemed it imprudent. That alone shows I have Common Sense in my arsenal. You may claim that one example does not prove a theory, but I submit that it does, especially a theory as vague as this one, with no real point to it.

A mistake commonly made is when people project their own feelings of morality or prudence on others. I do this myself on occasion, but I am in the unique position of often being Right (apolitically of course). Far too frequently I witness people making judgments based solely on their own views (this is called closedmindedness, and I won’t listen to anybody who tells me different). To truly pass judgment unbiased one must be immersed in that which they judge. It’s not fair for a homeless punk to think he’s better than me just because I don’t know how tough you have to be to live on the streets, because I couldn’t care less. He was judging me from his own perspective, unable to put himself in my shoes, because he clearly couldn’t afford them.

Let’s try another example. All the emails I received about not having Common Sense because I went over my handlebars were guilty of biased judgment. I was unfairly condemned as lacking Sense because careening down a hill through the murky darkness of a moonless night on a bike with no back brakes while chatting on a cell phone may seem to the layman as imprudent, but for somebody who can not die it really is quite safe. Ok, it’s not necessarily safe. I’ve proved I’m immortal, not invincible, but I have also shown on numerous occasions that I’m made of rubber, much like a baby’s head, and virtually proved that theory when I bounced down the road with nary a scratch or bruise. A mortal being consisting of flesh and bone may not be able to conceive the relative safety of tumbling down a paved road at twenty km/h, but that is simply because they are in fact mortal flesh and bone. Another human rubber ball could read about that incident and think nothing of it. It wouldn’t even occur to them to question my Common Sense. So who would be Right? They both would be, from their own perspective.

So you see, Common Sense is about relativity. Contrary to its name there is nothing common about it. It’s different for every person. Could it then be said that everybody possesses Common Sense in relation to their own circumstances? No. Some people are just morons. That’s why they created The Darwin Awards.
http://www.darwinawards.com/

So to recap:

1. Common Sense is about relativity
2. Judge not lest ye be judged.
3. Closedmindedness is a word.
4. Fun things that seem stupid to other people are still fun.

Ergo,
5. I am still a 4 out of 5 for Common Sense.

Intelligence Equalizer

I am Intelligence elitist. It's not that I think I'm superior to everyone, it's more that I think I'm superior to MOST everyone. I judge, and I have strict criteria. As I see it Intelligence can be broken down into infinite parts, depending on what you see as important traits for an Intelligent being, as long as you are Intelligent enough to make the distinctions, but for me the most important aspects of Intelligence, and this is a very basic synopsis, are; Common Sense, Problem Solving, Sense of Humour/Wit, Imagination, and a basic grasp of Quantum Physics. I don’t expect anybody to have it all, it's fine to excel at some things and not others, it's what makes us unique, but any truly Intelligent person will have a good average.

Picture the graphic equalizer on your stereo. When you have the music sounding just right, some bars will be up, some will be down, and some will be hovering around the middle. My Intelligence Equalizer (I.E.) works much the same way, except in this case the music sounds better when you have more bars near the top. I can rate any individual’s Intelligence using this simple system, according to my own likes and dislikes of course. 3 out of 5 is not bad, 4 out of 5 is impressive, and 5 out of 5 is a little intimidating. Conversely, 2’s out of 5 are a waste of time, 1’s are the living dead, and 0’s are the peanut allergy of the Intelligence spectrum. They don’t have a chance.

Some of you may wonder at my leaving out Fact Retention, Book Smarts, or University Degree, but I did so for good reason. They all fall under the same category, and do not denote Intelligence. All these prove is that you have a Good Memory. That does not factor on the Intelligence Equalizer. I usually can’t remember what I had for breakfast (usually because it’s nothing), but I can cross a street without somebody having to pull me back out of traffic on every corner, something a certain University Graduate I know is guilty of. If you're relying solely on a Good Memory to get you through life, without any real I.E. worthy statistics, you might as well have a peanut allergy.

The following is a rough example of what the Intelligence Equalizer might look like, and I keyed in my own statistics to show you what’s possible.

Little Red Riding Hurts

I swear I do not go looking for situations like this. They just come at me, thick and fast, like garlic breath on a close talker.

Last night I got drunk. On the way home from work I stopped by the local loud talkers convention to drink as many free beers as I could, turns out it was all of them. I hung out with Good Conversations for a couple of hours talking about such things as love and toys, and then went home to get ready for the rock show at Barb’s Buns. I drank more beer at home and by the time I was ready I was exceedingly drunk. Responsible adult that I am, I decided to ride my bike to town, for safety’s sake. I packed a few beers for the ride and set out. It was an uneventful ride, the only highlight being when I swerved into traffic trying to open a beer can. I spilled a little too, which irked me more than anything else. I worked the door at the rock show, because Squirrel clearly has a doorman deficiency and was just letting everybody walk in for free. Afterward, Squirrel went to a party that was uphill, and I only like riding downhill, so I went over to Moby’s for more beer and nonsense, except that the beer became rye and ginger, and stronger each time. By the time they closed I was exceedingly drunk. I pulled my bike out from behind the woodshed and began swerving again, this time towards home. About halfway there I crashed right into the ditch, and this was no ordinary ditch. It was more like a small valley. This ditch can probably be seen on Google Earth. I had to ride it out, and almost did, but for the pothole that sent me tumbling. I picked myself up and got back on the bike, still in the ditch, and then a car drove up.

“Did you crash in the ditch?"

“Who, me? No I’m checking the drainage. Yup, it looks pretty good. I’m just going to ride down here. It’s safer that way, you know? Shouldn’t be on the road this late at night.”

The car carried on. I pushed my bike back up the bank, and that was when I noticed the rear brake was broken. A smart man, a sober man, might have decided to walk at that point. No rear brakes on a bike is a bad idea, especially considering it was all downhill from there. But riding is faster than walking, and I like going faster. It really did go downhill from there. I made it to my road, the steepest part of the journey, and decided to call Squirrel to see how his night went. There I was, with my phone in my right hand, leaving a message for Squirrel about how much fun I had at Moby’s, my left hand gingerly tweaking the front brake to keep my speed down for the upcoming corner, when I wobbled a little, and squeezed the brake way too hard.

Do you watch gymnastics? The floor routine? I believe they call it tumbling. Last night I was a tumbler, except the floor wasn’t so much springy as fresh asphalt. It was as though I had an ejector seat. I launched headfirst over the bars in a tucked position, somersaulting, as the bike did two full rotations behind me. For a split second I thought I was going to stick the landing, that is, until I actually landed. Then came the tumbling. I lay on the road, moaning and gasping for breath, and then noticed my phone about eight feet away, still on, still leaving a message. When I could finally drag my tired body off the tarmac I decided it might be a good idea to walk the rest of the way, and then quickly changed my mind, because riding really is much faster. I just didn’t use my phone again.

This morning I woke up to my phone ringing somewhere in my bed. It was Squirrel calling to see if I was ok. Apparently he heard everything in the message I left him, the talking, the tumbling, and sounds like a baby elephant being eaten alive by a pride of lions.

I think in the end it was another good experience. It turns out I am ok, maybe not in the head, but we already knew that, and I learned some valuable lessons;

1. Don’t ride a bike that only has front brakes down a hill, one handed, in the dark, while you talk on the phone.

2. Nobody needs a helmet.

And once again;

3. I cannot fly.

4. I cannot die.

What's Newt?

Last week I caught a newt, or was it a salamander? There was some question. For the story’s sake I’ll say newt, because it sounds funnier, and works better in the title.

Last week I caught a newt, and it reminded me of an experience I had with another lizardy bastard, though that time it was much bigger. I’ll set the scene;

I was traveling around the Galapagos Islands, part of a group researching the effects of high levels of estrogen in the sea on the local tortoise population. One day I snuck away from the group to do a J with a German couple. One became two and pretty soon we were messed up. We hung out by a stream for a while, laughing ourselves silly, until one of us realized the group had moved on, I think it was Gunter. Anyway, when we got up to look for the group we realized we were not alone. A huge lizard was sitting on the other side of the stream. I guess it had been there the whole time, but none of us had noticed. When we got up to leave it came at us, fast. I can remember Inga screaming. I glanced at Gunter and he was frozen, rooted to the ground, his face twisted with horror. I knew I had to do something. Instinct took over. As the lizard got closer I let out my fiercest war cry and ran right at it. A split second of hesitation was all I needed. The lizard wasn't accustomed to being challenged. I surprised it with my counterattack, and it balked. That's when I struck with a flying kick in the face. The lizard stumbled back and eyed me, confused. I charged again and it fled. Just then our guide ran up. The group had heard the screams and some of them came running. One of them even had the presence of mind to snap a picture. When we got back to civilization she gave it to me. In the newspapers they said I'm a hero, but I don't think so. I'm just a man, with a wicked snap kick.


I must admit, catching this newt wasn’t quite as exciting as kicking a giant lizard in the face, but a naked guy did say their skin is poisonous, so I should wash my hands after. I scoffed! Clearly he didn’t know that I cannot die. I ate berries until my fingers turned blue…come to think of it, those were strawberries…

Anyway, it reminded me of this time that I caught a giant frog in Nicaragua. It had been terrorizing the local duck population, eating their eggs and molesting their young, so I offered to help. The thing about man eating frogs is that they piss venom that, if not washed off right away, will cause necrosis. That’s when your skin peels off like old paint in the sun. At the time I wasn’t aware that I cannot die, so I was understandably nervous to do battle with such a loathsome creature. I had given my word the beast would be caught though, so I crusaded into the night (that’s when they come out to feast upon small children). I searched in the dark on my hands and knees, dangling a chicken’s pancreas out in front of me like the lure on the head of a deep sea fish. Eventually the greedy bastard took the bait and I pounced. I did not anticipate just how strong the thighs of a frog can be, and the thighs of a man eater are particularly strong as they’re roughly the size of a horse’s wrist. It kicked like a kangaroo on its tail, but I was too much for it. Years of hard labour have honed my hands into viselike appendages. I held the little bucker until he tired himself out, but he was not done. With his last ounce of strength the froggy bastard toad-pissed all over my arms. Thinking quickly I stuffed him in the sack locals had made from the three stomachs of eight alpacas (the only thing that can hold a giant frog) and quickly tied it up with a lock of my hair. Then I rushed to the nearby lake to wash off the poison before its evil could take effect. Now my only worries were what to do with the frog bag, and how to wash off the lake water containing a microbial bastard which, after entering the blood stream, will traverse your intestines and live there until you die, wreaking havoc on your digestive tract. There is no cure. As quick as I could I tore open the stomach bag and let the frog toad-piss all over my arms again, hoping it would act as nature’s Purell and kill any nasty microbes lurking on my skin. Then I wiped my arms down with wet banana leaves and a paste I made with small chili peppers and my own saliva. My quick action paid off, as in the end it was only my mouth and sphincter that burned.

Unfortunately in my haste to pick peppers and banana leaves I forgot to re-tie the stomach bag and the giant frog escaped. Four duck eggs were lost that night. For my ineptitude the entire village turned their backs on me, which is regarded as the most severe punishment in that region, reserved only for goat rapists, murderers, and bungling fools. They turn their backs, and will never face you again. There is an old legend of a man who refused to accept the village’s decision to turn their backs on him and went on living in the village in defiance for three years, but eventually went mad because nobody would face him. The legend says he died trying to sew his face onto the back of his own head. I wouldn’t give them the pleasure of not seeing me that way, so I packed my things and left the village in the morning. They never saw me again.