FATBODIES

HARTMAN Are you allowed to eat jelly doughnuts, Private Pyle?

PYLE Sir,no, sir!

HARTMAN And why not, Private Pyle?

PYLE Sir, because I'm too heavy, sir!

HARTMAN Because you are a disgusting fatbody, Private Pyle!

PYLE Sir, yes, sir!

Full Metal Jacket

I've been accused of having a weight obsession. I like to think of it as more of a fat obsession. I don't care if someone is stout or thick-limbed, because stout people can be "built solid" (hard-fat, some call it), but I despise excess fat, particularly on myself. Maybe it stems from my youth --I was a porky kid growing up, in spite of the fact that I was quite active and played alot of different sports. Slow metabolism, maybe? My parents were delighted when I got a paper route at age 12. Besides the valuable lessons to be gained in managing one's own business and learning responsibility, they also imagined that the daily physical activity would help me get rid of my baby fat. Unfortuntately, they did not forsee my eventual transformation into a newspaper delivery tycoon and the inevitable delegation of legwork that followed.

At my peak, I was managing the deliver of 200 newspapers a day on 4 different routes. I say "managing" because I wasn't really delivering the newspapers myself. I devised an ingenious business model which involved recruiting a couple of lucky neighbourhood kids every day to accompany me on my deliveries (they tended to hang out near my house in hopes of getting "the word" --think the longshoremen in On The Waterfront. Carrying two bulky newspaper bags over each shoulder, like bandoliers slung on a bandito's chest, I shuffled up and down the streets of my town, handing papers out to my "runners". The runners were the two or three snot-nosed urchins whose job was to sprint up each driveway and drop off a paper. My job was simply to hand each of them a fresh paper as they returned. It was a fantastic system with very low operating costs --payment for the kids consisted of one chocolate bar at the end of the route (worth about 50 cents in those days). I myself could clear eight or nine bucks a day. As my wealth grew, so did my waistline. I was walking less and less, and eating more and more chips and chocolate bars as a result of my newfound prosperity.

Eventually, I overextended myself when I tried to take on an extra route and adapt my clever system to bicycles in order to make my deliveries on time. Newspaper bags are heavy, and they bump your knees when you try to pedal. A few scraped knees and hands convinced me of the folly of my ambitions, and I eventually scaled back my volume of business as new kids (potential paperboys who did not want to work for me) arrived in the neighbourhood to threaten my racket. I was under pressure. The circulation manager had menaced me with the loss of one-or-more of my routes if I didn't finish deliveries sooner. Luckily, I was saved from this ignominy by a timely career change courtesy of my dad: I was forced to quit the route when we moved to a new town.

In spite of my continued participation in a number of team sports; soccer, hockey, football, I remained chubby throughout my early adolescence. It was only when I became a lifeguard and took up running, cycling and weightlifting that the chub began melting away. Sure, I could get in great shape if I put my mind to it, but I distinctly recall that the minute I stopped working out, lovehandles would appear as if by magic, a symbol of my egregious slackery. I gritted my teeth through high school as I watched beanpole classmates down triple-decker cheeseburgers and tubs of coca cola in the cafeteria. I suppose I wasn't blessed with their metabolisms--which, incidentally, seem to have slowed down significantly in the intervening years, so that formerly svelt boys have now become lard-bellied men (much to my delight). Not so for this boy. My slow metabolism turned into a blessing in disguise. I figure that as I approach the start of my fourth decade on this earth, I still have to maintain approximately the same level of activity as I did when I was in high school in order to stay trim. How many other guys my age can say that?

My neurosis, if you want to call it that, truly coalesced when I joined the military. In the military, thin is ALWAYS in, and FAT equals LAZY plus undisciplined, which is a bad thing, if you are part of an organization that sees discipline as an absolute imperative. It stands to reason that lardasses are treated with contempt in the army. On basic training, I distinctly recall one of my fellow recruits, a tubby fellow, tortured by sergeants as he attempted to do pushups: Private, you look like a dog humping a football! You look like a f*cking beached whale, you fat piece of sh*t and so on... There was little sympathy for the guy. After all, if you are going to join the military as an infantryman, one of the most physically demanding jobs around, it stands to reason that you will get in shape before showing up for training. In this, as in most instances, the transgressor is not the one punished, the group is, as a whole. Everyone does pushups FOR the guy who can't do them himself. It was left to his fellow recruits to "motivate" the private and show him the error of his ways. I think a blanket-party (see Full-metal jacket)ensued, and possibly an RTU (return to unit, for discharge or re-training at a later date), but I don't remember.

I suppose in our infantilized culture, it is conceivable that someone would say to themselves "ah, I won't worry about taking responsibility for my own health and fitness... I'm joining the army! The army will take care of that for me"(Mark Steyn would say this is an inevitable result of the growth of the Nanny-State). Some recruits show up out of shape because it hasn't occurred to them that they bear a share of the responsiblity for ensuring their own well-well being and preparing themselves for their new career-- and that there are consequences if they don't. Nowadays, it seems individuals have abdicated all responsibility for their own personal fitness and health.

Maybe that's why some seem to be drawing the wrong conclusions from Morgan Spurlock's acclaimed film Supersize Me: the "Corporations" (traditional scapegoats and boogeymen of the left)are conditioning young people to eat shitty food, and therefore are to blame for the obesity epidemic in North America. Excuse me? What about the fact that people are simply too bloody lazy to make the necessary lifestyle adjustments that their questionable dietary choices demand? Normally, I wouldn't have any regard for an opinion on this subject from Colby Cosh, a very sharp journalist-turned-Blog superstar who happens to be an overweight chain-smoker (from what I gather), but he makes a fairly good point in bringing up the seldom heard-of idea "personal responsibility" and Les Sayer's clever little experiment, where he actually managed to LOSE weight eating a McDonalds-only diet. HOW you ask? Short answer: Unlike Spurlock, he worked his ass off. Says Les:

Seeing my fat and sugar intake be 200% of "normal values" while eating McDonald's food for a month, caused me to really value the importance of regular exercise. If I can lose weight, lower my cholesterol and triglycerides, and have blood work that reveals a healthy liver and kidneys, and all the while eat at McDonald's, it proves to me two things: firstly McDonald's food isn't laden with the "poisons" some people believe it to be. This makes me smile because the same people who earnestly warned that my liver would "collapse" or "explode" within a couple of weeks of the diet, are now insisting that 30 days wasn't long enough. Some people really believe this stuff. And secondly, diet is important for a healthy lifestyle, but not essential. Exercise, however is essential.

Ultimately, I'm more on Les's side than on Morgan's. I don't think that MacDonalds is trying to con me and everyone else. I don't think that they need to change their menus or their marketing practices (but bully for them if they do it, even as just a PR thing) While I find their food mostly distasteful, I recognize that it is marketed cleverly and I can appreciate the appeal it must have for youth. Nevertheless, as far as I'm concerned, McD's should keep doing what it does --unapologetically selling fatty food of questionable nutritional value to folks. I sure don't think that it's their fault that everyone is getting fatter and fatter because we are eating too much, and letting our kids eat too much, of their crap, or that we are not getting enough exercise, and that we are not forcing junior to get off the frigging couch and go split his XXL trackpants doing a few laps around the track. That's where the personal responsibility part comes in. It isn't a corporation's responsibility to fix things. It's up to you and I.

When I start to put on weight (which happens every once in a while), I know I basically have three options:

A) Eat healthier (How do you know you are on the right track? A good clue is when you stop putting on weight)

B) Exercise more (how much? As much as it takes to stop putting on weight)

C) A combination of A&B

Failure to follow one of these three options will result in me becoming a fatbody -with all the attendant health implications that has (body acceptance my ass-- being fat is unhealthy. Period).

YES, it is that simple. I'm responsible.

Action Comics Presents... POPEMAN!

Please excuse my irreverent take on this subject, but it just occured to me that John Paul II was the nearest thing the 20th century ever had to a real life superhero.

Popeman's origin issue introduces a young Polish man and his intrepid band of seminarians boldly pursuing their studies in wartime Cracow under the very nose of Uncle Adolph and his nefarious Nazi no-goodniks. Right from Panel one, you know that this story will have major fan appeal: a dark street in the Polish city, circa 1943: Spoltlights scour the rooftops as sinister SS men run through the streets. "Mein Gott!" says Hauptmann Heinrich "That Jew-loving priestling has escaped me again!" -- "Better luck next time, herr Heinrich" Young Karol shouts from the roof of the cathedral, before leaping down into the alley and running off to live another day.

No one can forget that successful multi-issue run in the seventies, when the Crimson Cardinal (that's Popeman before he got his new identity in the Action Comics 1978 Super Special Rendez-vous Rome issue) battled the Poland's red menace "the Communist Establishment" with the help of the Social Justice League and a squad of crucifix-wielding nuns; the first of what would be many memorable team-ups and cross-overs.

One of my personal faves was Issue 453 (still have mine mint condition in mylar), where Popeman took three bullets from a would-be assassin and came back to lay some serious doctrinal ass-whuppin' on would be reformers a few pages later. At this point in the his run, the globetrotting caped-and-capped crusader presented the very picture of the man in charge.

No one stepped out of line with this successor of Saint Peter. He was a muscular man of the cloth, an ascetic avenger, a power-packed pontiff. Our hero ran a tight ship. Woe to the hapless political figure who challenged his authority--You best believe that he would set the fool straight with a well-placed encyclical to the proboscis.... and of course, he would be back battling human rights abusers a few pages later-backed up by his priests and bishops. Foes trembled in fear of the Papal ban, but Popeman also had a softer side, and every issue issue featured a friendly encounter with one of the members of his legions of adoring faithful, who were always there to cheer their hero on no matter where he went.

Following his defeat of most of his commie arch-nemeses (and their nefarious Atheist Acolytes) at the end of the eighties, some observers thought that the character had run his course and should be put out to pasture, but Popeman emerged revitalized at the beginning of the nineties, thanks largely to the introduction of the Young Catholics, who had always been background characters, but who now began to take on a greater role in Popeman's struggle against secularism and agnositicism.

After a run of several decades, which has seen Popeman confront every major evil of our time and emerge triumphant, the series now comes to a close. It is fitting that in the final issue of his title, Popeman leaves the world with a message of hope, arms his followers with his greatest superpowers --faith and love-- and urges us onward in our battle with the forces of darkness.

Don't toss out any of the back-issues folks. They are all collectors editions.

Requiescat in pace, John Paul II

Pax Vobiscum,Pontifex Maximus

Lomins, the Alfinator and Meels in the kitchen of the family homestead. Alfie wants to eat, as usual. 

Easter 2005: The folks and my girl on the banks of the Detroit river. The best view of Detroit is from this side of the river... trust me, you don't actually want to GO to Detroit.  

My main squeeze calls this my "Bin Laden" look, infidel swine! 

"George Lucas raped your childhood?"

I'll admit it... I am an unrepentant STAR WARS fan. That being said, most of the real fans would laugh at such a bold statement. Although I have seen each of the installments more than once, and can remember the odd quote from a memorable scene, I'm not, you know, THAT INVESTED. Not so, the true Star Wars devotee. The true fan lives and breathes Star Wars. Anyone who has seen that hilarious bit from Late Night with Conan O'brien with TRIUMPH and the geeks at the "Attack of the Clones premiere knows the type of person I'm talking about.

There are men and women (but, let's face it, mostly men) who own thousands of dollars worth of priceless memorabilia, from the first edition action figures still in their original packages to the hundreds of comics and movie-tie ins and crappy merchandise trinkets, not to mention multiple versions of the Original Trilogy -VHS, Laserdisc, DVD, Original Trilogy, Special Editions, etc... These are the jokers that wait in line in their costumes at each of the premieres for days before tickets go on sale, clusters of Jedi Masters, legions of stormtroopers, and the occasional Princess Leia with cinamon-bun hairstyle. Many of them first saw the original movie (now known as Star Wars Episode Four: A New Hope) in theatres when if first premiered in 1977, long before it was the cultural landmark that it has become in the years since. They are now in their thirties, and they take their Star Wars very seriously.

If you needed any greater proof of this seriousness, harken back, if you will, to those heady days of 1999, when, in the wake of the triumphant release of the 20th Anniversary Special Editions, George Lucas birthed the first of his prequels, a movie which told the story of how Anakin Skywalker, the boy who would become Darth Vader, was discovered by the Jedi. The ear-shattering buzz around this film, brought on my a wicked-ass trailer and brilliant marketing campaign, infected the fans in the weeks leading up to its release and was impossible to ignore... many outside of the general fan community could not help but feel a frisson of excitement as well. This would be a cultural event for a NEW generation, a space mythology updated and beefed up with CGI to cater to our more jaded and discerining movie-viewing eyeballs.

While some like me kept expectations as low as possible in order to avoid disappointment, others proclaimed the second coming of the Jedi, and made of the as-of-yet unseen film a golden calf to be worshipped mindlessly. A backlash was inevitable. At pre-screeings, some of the mainstream critics grudgingly recognized the briliance of the visuals, even while they panned the performances in the same breath. The word was out, and it was not good. George Lucas had botched the direction. The dialogue was stilted, the performances, particularly those of younger castmembers, woefully poor. I remember a quote from an actor in the OT (I think it was Carrie Fisher, or maybe Harrison Ford): "You might be able to write this shit, but you sure can't speak it" --or words to that effect. i hesitantly interrogate those who had "seen the elephant", as it were: "Yeah, but the action... great action right?" I had heard about the amazing lightsaber fight that put anything in the OT to shame, and my hopes rested on that, if nothing else.

Ultimately, Star Wars Episode One: The Phantom Menace , or TPM, as the fans call it, proved to be a pretty satisfying movie experience for me. Was Jar Jar annoying? --Does a bear shit in the woods? The only justification I can find for that egregious creation was that it was there to amuse the kiddies. Yeah, the dialogue was groan-enducing... and how! But I distinctly remember some cornball lines from the Original Trilogy, too. The story was a bit dense and sometimes difficult to follow, but the visuals more than made up for it. Bottom line, I was entertained.

But how did the true believers greet the movie? Well, some of the more forgiving ones seemed to find it acceptable. "Third-best Star Wars movie" was an opinion I heard more than once (Some of the original fans had never gotten over the feeling of being let down by Return of the Jedi after the crowning glory of the Empire Strikes Back, strangely, and figured anything was better than Episode 6). But in some corners of the Internet, the Dark Side held sway. The indignation and vitriol that I saw spewed out onto movie site message boards like AICN and TheForce.net when the first movie in the new trilogy was released was nothing short of alarming.

"Lucas sold his soul for CG!" they raged. The legions of Internet critics- a distinctly diffenrent breed from the Eberts and Roepers of the world- piloried it: "Derivative kiddie-popcorn fare devoid of the magic of the OT (original trilogy)!". "George Lucas Raped my Childhood!" one despondent dork wailed.

Jesus, why don't you tell me how you really feel! The only way I could account for these puzzling deep-seated feelings of anger and betrayal was to hypothesize that somehow, over the years, because of nostalgia and the subjective nature of our childhood memories, these three movies released so many years ago (lest we forget, they were MOVIES, people!) had grown into something much more singular and significant in some people's twisted psyches, a philosophy, a zeitgeist, a way of life -- the same way that Star Trek has for others. "IT BETTER NOT SUCK" had been the mantra of their trepidatious and timorous subconsciouses for so long as they awaited the messiah's return. For these people who had invested so much of themselves in this imaginary universe, so much more than an entertaining cinematic experience was at stake. A trivial film could trivialize their very selves, the essence of who they were.

Fast forward three years, much the same story: For some, Episode II, Attack of the Clones (AOTC) the 2002 follow-up to TPM, was redemption or vindication, for others, it only added insult to injury, as their hopes were again dashed. Personally, I found the second film an improvement on the first, but a flawed film nonetheless. Entertaining overall, and containing some virtuoso sequences, but certainly not in the league of, say, The Lord of the Rings movies, for example. How traumatic it must have been for those sad fellows who had spent countless hours dreaming of new star wars movies to not have their gargantuans expectations met. "But I thought the Jedi would be cooler!" "I thought we would see Darth Vader being a bad ass!" "I would have shown more of the Clone Wars!"

So now we come to the moment of truth. We are on the cusp of the Third Act, the denouement, the one that everything has been leading up to. Star Wars Episode 3: Revenge of the Sith opens on May 10, 2005. The movie tells of Anakin's final descent into evil and his betrayal of the Jedi will be the yardstick against all the other films will be measured. The Trailer looks very promising: Plenty of kickass action and mayhem and a decidedly dark tone. "Ah, but the other trailers were great too... and look how the movies turned out" the haters warn. Will ROTS provide a suitably spellbinding and thrilling climax, tying up all loose ends and bringing the Saga together in one cohesive narrative, or will it be the final betrayal: a sprawling, shambolic mess that colapses under its own weight and ends the series on a bad note?

The fascinating thing is that it may end up being the former to some and the latter to others. Perhaps ultimately, it wil be seen as a flawed masterpiece lacking the wide appeal of the best episodes in the series, but rising above the level of the lesser installments in Lucas' opus.

Lucas himself has said "I feel that I've made the movie the best I can and it turned out the way I wanted it to be, so I'm happy. I never try to anticipate what the world's going to think or even worry about whether they're going to like it or not. That's not my job, to make people like my movies. They either like them or they don't. That's completely out of my hands."

Wise words from the original Jedi Master.

DELWIT!

My brother and his friends came up with this word a couple of years ago. When I first heard them use it in conversation, I couldn't quite figure out what they were saying. They would use it as a response to a question: "Are you going to go out tonight?" Answer: "Del-wit!". It worked as a greeting "Wassup?"..."DEL-WIT!" or as a description for someone "That dude is so delwit."

Sometimes it would be modified into an emphatic statement "Del-wit... TOTALLY!"... or made into a prediction "Soon to be... del-wit" (or to be del-wit soonly). In time, it became as ubiquitous within my brother's peer group as that most Canadian of exclamations: eh.

I find the etymology of this word fascinating. It is basically a contraction of the words "dealt with", as in "That issue needs to be dealt with".

Apparently, the word originated from the good-natured mimickry of an acquaintance of theirs who made constant over-use of the verb "to deal": "Deal with that open window" (close the window, please). Could you deal with the phone? (Answer the phone for me, will you?). Naturally, over time, the standard response to the request after someone had carried it out would be to say "It's totally dealt with",
In time, this became "totally, deal'with!" and eventually, "totally delwit!" (or when you feel like changing things up: "totalled!"). If you hadn't done something yet you might say "soon to be delwit", or "to be delwit soonly" (Why soonly? I don't know, I'm not an etymologist!)

Now everything is delwit. I find myself using the expression all the time with my brother. It has even developeed into a bizarre patois that sounds like gibberish to the unaccustomed ear. If I want to know if he'll be catching a lift with me to go visit our parents, for instance, I might ask "Will you be delwit down to mom and dad, soonly?" To which he would answer, of course: "Totally!"

Somehow, this weird dialect hasn't gotten stale for us yet... in fact, I have a feeling that if we keep using it, it may CATCH ON...

Now deal with that.

Why Paul Martin blows, big time, according toSteyn:

I overestimated Paul Martin. I assumed that, underneath the autopilot boilerplate pol-drone, he had a view on Iraq, Canada, the world, etc., and it was only because of the interminable holding pattern he was stuck in, waiting to land at Sussex Drive, that he felt unable to reveal it to us.

But, if anything can be clearly seen these days, it’s that Paul Martin has wanted to be prime minister his entire life and has worked ruthlessly toward that end, and yet has never troubled himself to acquire a political philosophy. I don’t mean like Thatcherism or Reaganism. He doesn’t have to invent a top-to-toe Martinism; he could just latch onto someone else’s philosophy, one he happens to--what’s the phrase?--believe in. But it’s clear, and it’s increasingly being clearly seen to be clear, that he doesn’t believe in anything.

Cool? I'm fricken frozen! 

Blogosphere hails The 'Donkey's return!

Fans clamoured for more heaping helpings of bloggy goodness.

Indeed, like Julius Caesar, Triumphant triumvir, entering the Eternal City at the conclusion of the Civil Wars, I have returned... Now that my classical allusion has you convinced that I an insufferable blowhard, allow me to elaborate.

Three long months have passed since I had a decent internet connection, and for several reasons, after months of living web-free, I fell off the wagon. What that means, dear reader, is that you'll be hearing from me a bit more often.

Hollywood runs afoul of Hebrews

I had to laugh a bit when I read this article. Somehow, the image of the loverly miss Portman getting chased through the streets of Jerusalem by enraged ultra-orthodox jews brings a smile to my face. Never mind the fact that the Israeli-born actress has been studying at Hebrew University in Jerusalem for several months and should have known better... what the heck were the film producers thinking? I mean, how clueless and disrespectful can you get? This is why, Kabalah bracelets aside, its nice to see trivial, narcissistic, secular Hollywood take a big bite to the ass (a la
Passion of the Christ)every once in a while from some old-school religious types.

I hope the director got his ass kicked by some IDF guys for that....

So another week races by, and what do we have to show for it? You first! No really... oh, OK, if you insist! I finally got the official word: I am being appointed to my position as a permanent employee. Over 50 months in this program, across 3 government departments and 5 different assignments, and at last we arrive at the end of the journey. Finally, I don't have to (figuratively) wear the MacDonald's trainee button, anymore. I can tear it from my breast, strip off my wifebeater and button-down shirt --exposing a hirsute torso, pull my pants down, and play the bongos as I run around the office in my tighty-whities. I'm expecting the letter any day now. Dude, I SO rock.

Incidentally, this once-a-week blogging thing is where it's at! No more self-indulgent daily navel-gazing that doesn't seem to go anywhere and ends up coming across very trivial ( oh woe is me! I must vomit all my innermost thoughts into this blog everyday because I'm so deep and what I had for breakfast is so fascinating and what I think of some flick is so important and nobody understands me! ) Yup, Just straight-up quality content from now on. I'm gonna write about important shit! You know, actual interesting events that occur in my life?

Oh, yeah, did I mention I saw the movie SAW last night? That is one M-Fing scary flick, y'all! Oh yeah, and that Quaker instant oatmeal cinnamon cereal bar really hit the spot this morning. By the way, nobody understands me.

Being at work after-hours is always a bit eerie. Everything gets really quiet and you begin to notice the subliminal sounds. You know, the ones that are always there but that your brain filters out as you go about your daily routine. The hum of overhead lights and computers; rasping breath, wheezing, throat clearing, snorting, knee-or-ankle-cracking... the little noises that people don't even realize they are making. When you are in a work environment that tends toward the geriatric, like mine (average age appears to be about 73-- I still get called kid or sonny even though I am pushing 30... I think you get the idea), people make alot of noise, even when they aren't speaking. When you pick up on them, tt can be distracting and a bit disconcerting to listen to all of these groans and gasps --a subtle reminder of one's own mortality. One day, I will be all bloated and gassy and uncomfortable, sitting in my orthopaedic chair, with my feet on a footrest to ease the pain of my gouty extremities... and maybe, unlike so many around me today, I will have an epiphany: Holy Shit!... What the hell am I still doing at work at age XX? I need to F*ing RETIRE already!!.

You see, it is my firm belief that too many people work long past the point that they are making any significant contribution to their workplace. At what point does going to work become a convenient way to hit the snooze button on the alarm clock of life (y'know, like gradschool can be for so many scared undergrads?: Grow up? No thanks, I think I'll read Nietsche and study radical Feminist thought for another 4 years... now, THAT will make me marketable!). In the words of Mr. Kenny Rogers, "You gotta know when to hold'em, know when to fold'em". So many people stay in the game for so long, it's years before they realize that, not only are they no longer welcome at the table, but they aren't even able to keep up with the revised rules. Maybe I sound like a jerk, but I guess I'm just alarmed at the number of grandpas and grandmas I work with. Are you OK financially? (If you aren't, that's a whole different kettle of fish).... then buy a frigging Winnebago! Go fishing! Spend time with your family! There is more to life than work! We'll find someone to replace you, honest.

On a completely different note, if "How many gazebos do you she-males need" isn't the best line ever spoken on The Simpsons, I don't know what is.

Word.

It has been so long since I posted anything, I actually forgot my password for a second or two. I feel like I have broken into someone else's blog and I'm surepticiously banging away on the keyboard hoping I don't get caught. Speaking of getting caught --I have been completely ensnared by Norman Spector's daily press review over at Macleans It is now a part of my daily routine, as essential as that cup of dark roast I pick up across the street from my office before starting my workday. Why read the paper when you can have someone like Norman read twenty of them and report back to you?

Work has settled down a bit, thanks to the departure of a boss whom, in the words of one of my old army instructors, "failed to live up to the low expectations she set for herself". I'm taking the time to enjoy life a bit more, and be blown away by something wonderful happening in the world every so often. --Like elections in Iraq, for instance, where burqas and blue fingers are the new fashion statement. Western democracies have been put to shame by people who risk life and limb to do something practically half of us can't be bothered to do every four years or so. A treatise on the value of democracy is being written before our eyes.

I'm also staggered by the response of the world to the Tsunami. A cynical part of me wants to think that it came about because so many westerners know Thailand, or at least know someone who is there, was there, or soon will be. Way to go, everyone, but we musn't forget other disasters, like the situation in Darfur, or more mundane tragedies, like poverty and homelessness at home. I dropped off some clothes and food to the local shelter last week. I figured that the usual stream of good will might have been temporarily diverted into the flow of goods to Asia.

Part of me wants to sign up for internet access again, just so that I can go back to doing this with some regularity... until I do, go read some Spector.

Where to begin?

Weaning myself from my compulsive blogging habit has been tough, but the transition to a blog-free existence is necessitated by the fact that since my move, I have not had my internet re-connected. Having my umbilicus to the world wide web severed has proven to be quite liberating, actually. No more racking my brain to come up with interesting topics to write about (--aha! but you never wrote anything interesting anyway you are probably saying right now--fair enough)... I can now concentrate on more important things, like drinking and eating, f'rinstance!

The first few days of December, I was living a spartan existence in a cubby hole full of boxes. My routine went something like this: wakeup -go to work- come back from work- unpack- sleep - repeat until done. To my great surprise, as days turned into weeks, I gradually emerged from my dwindling mountain of boxes to discover to my delight that I did, in fact, have a rather nice new appartment. By no means am I completely settled in, but a month on, I'm becoming more and more optimistic.

Perhaps because of my new found optimism, I seem to have transformed into some kind of bon-vivant in the last few days, gorging myself on good booze and fine food during the holiday season. The ever-increasing tightness of my waistband is evidence that this type of behaviour is not without effect, so before I burst my buttons and split the ass out of my dungarees, I'm gonna head out on a lung-bursting 10 K today. I figure my recent social smoking will come back to haunt me, but I need to get a headstart on my 2005 resolution (Get in real shape!), particularly since I managed to keep my resolution for 2004 (learn to dance properly) and I don't want to break my streak of two years and counting.

About six months ago, I acted on last year's New Year's Eve promise I made to myself, and thanks to a bit of self-discipline and commitment, when the music comes on, I no longer caper or mince around the dancefloor like a jackass, but can actually perform a serviceable waltz or foxtrot. I'm pretty good with the latino stuff too --cha cha and mambo are two of my favourites-- and I'm at the point where I look like I actually know what I'm doing up there. Some of you may laugh at my quaint notions, but, having been born about 200 years late, I am a firm believer that learning to dance properly is an essential part of any young gentleman's education... and besides, chicks dig it.

Being in Windsor with the family for the holidays has been a welcome break from the craziness that was December. First of all, I met a fantastic girl...we get along amazingly well and we enjoy each other's company--I'll just leave it at that. Angst-ridden overanalysis has been the death of more than one fledgling relationship for me and I'm not gonna continue to make the same tactical error over and over again. I'm not overthinking things, just going with the flow. Only time will tell, I suppose. Work has alternated between frenetic and depressing, but a couple of good Christmas parties and some fun off-hours has helped me shake off any winter funk that might have started to set in, so all things considered, I'm in pretty high spirits.

Because I don't know when I will get a chance to write again, the most fitting way for me to close this entry is to wish you, my unknown reader, a wonderful Christmas and extend to all my best wishes for 2005.

J

Blog Going On Hiatus - Network Executives Cite Poor Ratings

Ottawa - November 30 2004

Network stuffed shirts announced today that ailing internet Web log Vis Comica would be put on hiatus and all new postings suspended while new writers attempt to "re-tool" and "work out some kinks".

The once-popular site, known for its rambling diatribes on politics and pop culture, has been struggling of late in the ratings, lagging just behind Triumphfan's "Poopblog" and perennial favourite "ANABLE-US", a site run by the Arkansas chapter of the National Association of Belly Lint Enthusiasts, in the quest for daily hits.

When asked to comment on the site's downward slide, spokesperson Luis Bernstein-Garcia offered the network's theory:

"We think this may have something to do with the fact that the guy who runs this thing --I think his name is Jeff -- has not been posting nude pictures of pre-op trannies, which was how this blog was pitched to us in the first place"

The head writer of the site, alcoholic recluse Jamal Leders, could not be reached for comment, but is believed to have retired to his cabin in the woods of Northern Quebec to work on new topics for the blog and shave his backhair. Sources close to the writer describe his state of mind as "strangely euphoric", but caution that this may be largely due to the copious amounts of glue he has been sniffing following the end of his short marriage to a philipino mail-order bride.

It is said that Leders suffered a complete emotional breakdown following a recent meeting with network honchos where he was told his blog would be suspended, but staffers remain confident that he will return to the network family if he can put his personal life back in order.

"No one likes to see someone go to pieces like that. You tell the guy that it's OK to cry, but part of you is thinking Come on man, have some dignity" offered Clovis Van Der Veldt, Associate editor for Blogworld Syndicated, who was present at the meeting.

At the present time, officials refuse to speculate on Vis Comica's return date, but assure loyal readers that they remain behind the blog and are committed to its continued existence, as long as something more profitable does not come along. They remind visitors to the site that the links and archives will remain operative until they figure out how to pull the plug.

Now that I have seen how little storage space I'm gonna have in my new place, there's no getting around it... I'm gonna have to get my IKEA on!

I'm such a hypocrite. Barely two weeks ago I was bragging about my minimalist tendencies, and now I'm scurrying off to that unholy temple of swedish conformity to stockpile lamps and bins!...

What would Tyler Durden say?

We were meant to live for so much more
Have we lost ourselves?
Somewhere we live inside


We want more than this world's got to offer
We want more than this world's got to offer
We want more than the wars of our fathers
And everything inside screams for second life

SWICHFOOT
is a San Diego Rock band with a distinctive sound and a refreshing outlook on life.

Their style of rock is as accessible as any mainstream act you are liable to come across, and yet their lyrics are infused with a spiritual message that is far from "preachy".

Little known fact: Their single "We were meant to live" was inspired by this 1925 poem by T.S. Elliot with the frequently-quoted ending:


The Hollow Men

I


We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats' feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar

Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
Remember us -- if at all -- not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.


II


Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death's dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind's singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.

Let me be no nearer
In death's dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer --

Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom


III


This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man's hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.

Is it like this
In death's other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.


IV


The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms

In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river

Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death's twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.


V


Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o'clock in the morning.

Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow

For Thine is the Kingdom

Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow


Life is very long

Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow

For Thine is the Kingdom


For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.

Vindicated

I am selfish

I am wrong

I am right

I swear I'm right

I swear I knew it all along

And I am flawed, but I am cleaning up so well

I am seeing in me now the things you swore you saw yourself


Vindicated by Dashboard Confessional