July 31, 2007 >> Ten Thousand Knives

You are no good.

But you know I can't sleep, having to know. Not until you're wrapped up tight in blankets, clinging to your pillow, sprawled out until there's no room left for anybody at all. Because at least then you're alone, and that's something. And he's driving home alone in a Camaro.

On the night when ten thousand knives fall from the sky, I hope he's swaggering through the soft turns of the night. On the road, afterglow. Three a.m. prince, duke, vassel state, using the high beams to project himself all over everything he sees. Staining light.

Once he's there he's never gone.

On the night when ten thousand knives fall from the sky, he'll be driving. He'll hear one shatter on the stone, another drive itself point-first into the dirt road. One will rip through the front left tire of the Camaro, and one will shatter his headlights, and one will recall his mother, luminescent in memory, cutting pieces of apple pie for dessert. One will be Boy Scouts and one will be animal torture out in the woods, just to see what would happen. One knife will be exactly like the set he got as a housewarming gift, and one will be nothing like them. One, very well placed, will remind him that infidelity is a crime in the eyes of whatever God he cares about. One is forgiveness. The other, the very last, is blame.

The Camaro's remaining headlight gazes up, wildly, into the treetops. He's gone. But once he's been there, he's never really gone.

Posted by Chris at 03:33 PM >> Commentations (2) | Permalink

July 27, 2007 >> She sighed, hating seafood

She jumped out of bed, eager to see what the world would be like that day. For the past six weeks it had been a gigantic guitar, floating in the cosmic depths, humanity balanced precariously along six strings that stretched for thousands and thousands of kilometers. The moon had been a bongo drum.

World leaders had immediately grasped the nature of this particular transformation. Hundreds of nations, billions of people, quickly reshuffled to settle along fret divisions. The combined population of Poland and Rwanda, together, formed the A-chord. The Eastern Bloc began construction on the machinery with which to operate a monstrous pick. The United States and China, having the most advanced space programs, approached and landed on the bongo drum moon.

Looking for the TV remote, she reflected upon the particular trials and tribulations of that latest of Global Projects. Almost the entirety of Australia had fallen into the world's soundhole two weeks in and could not be retrieved. Not that anyone had much cared, she had noted in watching the news. It had been speculated that the Australian role was to add to acoustical resonance.

A joint operation to remove the dense foliage which had sprung up around the single coil pickups had been dispatched Below, beneath the safety of the strings. Only a fraction of the expedition returned, bearing horrible stories of the entangled jungles whose intense magneticism had, apparently, spawned the fiercest of hippopotamuses (among other beasts). Those residing on the world's strings were advised to move inland, away from the edges.

These were the top stories of the period. So the Project had not been without its casualties, but unlike many other worlds it had inspired a cooperation amongst humanity that hadn't been seen in decades. The so-called paper world, she recalled, had almost resulted in the extinction of the species once upon a time. Certain malcontents had learned how to tear holes in two-dimensional space and to push unsavory executives through them. The world's superpowers, suspicious, had taken to drawing themselves weapons of mass destruction with tremendously large sharpie markers. It had been a close call, very close indeed.

Or the dark period of time later termed Babel in history, during which interpersonal communication became impossible. Everyone had unhappily spewed sounds, but nobody understood. Canadians were able to remain one of the most cohesive nations on the planet by spontaneously developing a system of beatings, whereby the severity of a beating could connote meaning. A beating which only resulted in a black eye, for example, was usually an invitation for sex, while bludgeoning someone to death was a sign of animosity. Despite these brave breakthroughs, many of the world's foremost linguists and speech therapists had committed suicide by the time Babel was over and done with. A time of untrustworthiness in international relations followed.

She had watched the news during this period, but for the life of her couldn't understand what was happening. Just a bunch of garble. Usually the news was good for that sort of thing though, very to-the-point: "Today the world appears to be a series of inside-out vaginas," for instance, or "Top story of the day: the human race is suddenly residing on an immense guitar!" Perhaps some aeronautical pictures as evidence. The newscasters always seemed so happy. She knew why: theirs was one of the only jobs not in flux by the constantly shifting state of the world. Everyone else had to make do.

And make do they had, last night having come to the cumulation of their latest World Project. Together, humanity had played the most rocking version of the late Jimi Hendrix's "All Along the Watchtower" the universe had ever seen. Billions of people jumping up and down on strings in tandem, crushing them down to fret level. Engineers and mechanics furiously working to really nail the solo. There were some early problems with percussion, as the Americans and Chinese seemed unable to work the bongo moon quite as planned (later blamed on sabotage by militant classical music lovers), but all in all a very successful endeavor. The concert had been dedicated to AIDS awareness, everyone held hands in a chain for a while, and the world went to bed happy and eagerly awaiting its next form in the morning.

It was next morning. She finally found the remote, buried beneath a smothering of briny-smelling algae which had mysteriously enveloped her couch and, indeed, much of her home overnight. Wiping the same residue from the television screen, she pushed the power button. The news was just starting.

"Good morning, and now our top story. Nope, no time for opening pleasantries today, Dianne! Astronauts have just confirmed that humanity awakes this day astride a number of galactic lobsters... related stories: the English are livid that their lobster is apparently the runt of the tank, and Iran officials have confirmed that their military is moving to release the claws of their lobster 'for the protection of almighty Allah.' More shortly."

She sighed, hating seafood.

Posted by Chris at 03:38 PM >> Commentations (0) | Permalink

July 24, 2007 >> Down trip

23.

The doors open. You can't rush in expecting nobody, although that would be a reasonable expectation. But sometimes people ride up so they can be the first to ride down. If you have your hand casually down the front of your pants just, you know, scratching, an Indian man with a thick mustache will catch you unawares. Awkward.

17.

Add one Chinese couple. The Indian man is visibly relieved, because now he is not alone with a perceived public masturbator. There is a baby, a baby with a gigantic head, which will happily tilt your way much to its' parents chagrin. Babies are not supposed to look at strangers. Especially foreign ones.

Tell the Chinese couple that their baby looks silly, it has a donkin' top-heavy donk, but try to sound really happy about it. Then the baby will love you even more because it's acutely aware of tone but not of content. Because its a baby, of course, which is sorta like a dog.

14.

For some reason 14 has been relabeled 13, with an ominous scrawling about "Satan's lair" on the wall. Clearly the markings of the crybaby occultist, the heavy-metal darkness dick, supernatural Poe 101. If you see this kid you have vowed to punch his or her dumb gothic melon.

Another Indian man (this one without a mustache) gets on and Chinese parents use this fortuitous opportunity to spirit Happy Big Head Baby away into solitude. They huddle protectively around it like birds, heads lowered. Developmental claustrophobia. The Indian men launch effortlessly into conversation like long-lost brothers.

12.

Everybody looks expectantly at the doors. Nothing.

11.

Everybody looks expectantly at the doors. Nothing. Suddenly a black girl rushes through out of nowhere, hair dyed a sickly straw blond colour, screaming into her cell phone. Everyone shrinks away, assailed by the machine-gun chatter. You are pleased, now, in a guilty way, because you feel truly multicultural. Then you notice that each race is segregated into a different corner and keeping as much distance as possible. You are still the tallest. The baby still has the biggest head.

9 whizzes by. 8, 7, 6. Cell phone closed. Slowing down.

Within the enclosure, eyes avert. You look at the ceiling grill, at the shiny steel walls, at the grimy floor tiles, at anything but the crush of strange humanity all around you. There is not enough room for this many people; eyes encroach, accidentally seek each other out, lock, flee screamingly back to the nothing corners in mute embarrassment.

5, 4.

Almost there.

Almost...

2. Stop. Sigh.

Who the fuck gets on at 2? Unless you're in a wheelchair, in which case there's no room left anyway.

It's just some dude, some walking dude. He's walking, his legs work. He could've walked down the stairs. The tension cracks and breaks, everyone aiming disdain his way. We are now unified against 2: our totality greater than the sum of its parts, like a giant anime robot merged together for the purpose of ultimate destruction.

The Indian men glower. The black girl clicks her teeth and shakes her head in disgust. The Chinese parents visibly shield their baby from this new foreign interloper, now looking very much like vultures bent over some delicious cut of carrion. You make a concerted effort to afford 2 as little room as possible, passive-aggressively nudging him into the back wall. Fuckhead.

G. Zero. Finally.

Fuckhead is the first one out the doors. He's out like a shot, running scared (or so we'd like to think). The rest of us nod amiably at each other, detach and wander off into the world. Cooperative living. The glory of a connection formed through shared animosity for trivial inconvenience. The dramaturgy of an elevator.

Posted by Chris at 10:41 PM >> Commentations (3) | Permalink

July 23, 2007 >> Poppin Bookz

Today at York I saw a poster asking students to participate in research where they'd be talking about their experiences with Facebook, and how Facebook intersects with their everyday lives. I immediately wondered why the researcher didn't just create a Facebook group and ask people online.

Ethical issues? Or a shysterism away from being laughed out of the social sciences, perhaps.

Since the internet is ruled by pseudonyms and half-truths, the encroachment of academia into all things digital is often characterized by some ridiculous shit. I, for example, have cited some dude who goes by the moniker always_black in a number of essays. Looks real good in a bibliography, let me tell ya: de Certeau, Foucault and always_black. I have also referenced a made-for-internet TV show in which a bunch of inner-city kids wax philosophical about how Grand Theft Auto doesn't turn them into dangerous felons: "I don't want to kill a cop or jack a car, I'm just sayin' that it feels good to be able to do it in a game." Thanks, Tyrone. Thanks a bunch.

It won't be long before canonical literature in emerging fields is dominated by people referred to as SexyWench31 and BallsMantizzz and SchoolSuxLOL. I, for one, am Down Wit Dat.

Posted by Chris at 05:01 PM >> Commentations (0) | Permalink

July 19, 2007 >> I am zen, you are beast

The phrase "moral panic" seems to indicate an awesome riot. I imagine priests carrying books out of libraries to be burnt, and indignant old ladies smashing the spoilers off suped-up Civics with hardwood canes. Children are dragged, weeping, away from their video-matronic machines and forced into the parks where they are assailed by woodland performances of Carmen and The Merchant of Venice. High culture swoops down from the heavens to rescue new generations from the fiery morasses of Music Television and Vin Diesel.

Moral panic is the established order bringing the iron fist of tradition down upon the upstart newfangledry of an insubordinate youth. It is a sensationalist mouthpiece media screaming for blood and, when blood is found, it is the finger which points to whichever knife is the most confusing and new. Once it was the printing press, and then it was cinema, and then radio, and then television, and now video games. Soon it will be virtual reality. There is a cycle of prejudicial censorship and unreasonable barbarism which follows the adoption of any significant new technology.

If the cycle persists, what kind of fucked-up thing could possibly bring us - us who are so open-minded - into the Panic? Will it be the Infant Rape-O-Matic that finally drives our well-weathered generation over the edge, inciting us to converge on the hideous apparatus with pitchforks while our children and children's children say, "Oh you old codgers, it's not that bad. C'mon. C'mon! Just try a rape." And then we will moralize that raping babies is bad and wrong while they roll their eyes at our antiquated ethics. We won't come around to the new generation's progressive point of view, but we'll have to accept it because we will be old and unable to walk without robot butlers which only the youth know how to program. In the end we'll sit around and grumble about how in 'The Good Old Days' people just used to decapitate ninjas in video games, none of this newfangled crazy-ass baby rape shit.

And the cycle begins anew.

Posted by Chris at 08:35 PM >> Commentations (3) | Permalink

July 17, 2007 >> You could listen for weeks and weeks

Love is a funny word, isn't it? I typed Love into iTunes and more than a hundred songs from my playlist remained. People like to sing about love.

Then I punched in Death and the music list was almost as long. We have a contradiction here, unless creative songwriting is the order of the hour: "I Loved Your Death," maybe or "Death is Rubber and Love's Glue, Love Bounces off Death and Sticks to You (feat. Jay-Z)". Humankind has some timeless preoccupations, but you can only juxtapose them so many times before they get tangled indefinitely.

More often than not, if you mash the keyboard in a bold act of haphazard randomness you will somehow end up with a Rush song. Even if you've never downloaded any Rush.

Posted by Chris at 03:21 PM >> Commentations (1) | Permalink

July 16, 2007 >> Empty head, crusted red and blindingly pimped

I have been reading snippets about this skull everywhere. Damian Hirst, crazyman artist extraordinaire, has taken a human skull and put lots of diamonds all over it! There is also a giant diamond smack in the middle of the forehead, perhaps representing the third eye of Krishna or perhaps representing a shitload of money stolen from African mines. Another curious feature of this skull is a noticeable lack of diamonds on the teeth, which I take as a blatant act of diss-respect toward the hip hop community. Where's the chilled grill, son??

Conclusion? This is the most jiggity-racist skull that I ever did see. If I owned it I would force it into repentance by taking it around to notoriously ghettoized Rexdale schools, where it would play the infamous role of Yorick the Skull in a contemporized production of Hamlet. It would be at this point that I realized that skulls can't actually speak Shakespeare lines. The horrid conclusion would present itself that I was the real racist all along, not Damian Hirst's sparkling prodigy. A valuable lesson for Clemens, and free diamond grills for all of Rexdale!

Posted by Chris at 10:25 PM >> Commentations (1) | Permalink

July 15, 2007 >> This Train is Now Out of Service

One of the not-so-great things about living up in North York is my complete and utter reliance on the TTC. Now Toronto's public transport system is pretty good, and a damn sight cheaper than the cavalcade of taxis that form the transportation infrastructure of other, less metropolitan human-dwellings. Still, the bus-subway-subway combo which is required to get Anywhere downtown often glitches my evenings.

Last night the TTC was faster than usual, and so I sat by myself at the bar at Hemingway's while I waited for people to show up (no cellphone doesn't help, as much as I hate to admit it). The hostess inadvertently called me a loser in offering to find me a table for one: "It happens all the time." We laughed, and then I watched the Blue Jays lose on TV, and then Natalie and her boyfriend showed up and we talked about such frivolous things as Gilgamesh and interior design school. After Tim, the man of the hour, finally showed his bald birthday head I was vindicated in the eyes of hostess-girl and much merriment was had.

"What time is it?" I asked, in the middle of some rant about how awesome Final Fantasy is. 1:35... dangerously approaching the TTC's zero hour. And so I departed to undertake the familiar and slightly annoying challenge of trying to pound my way back home through the closing act of the subway system. A token machine ate my last $2.75 and I was required to force myself on a poor Chinese boy: "Machine-ate-my-money-can-I-come-through-with-you?!?" Terrified, he let me squish behind him into the rotating turnstile and then ran, rabbit-like, away from me: the Violator.

Sometimes life sucks and you get to the platform just as your train is pulling away - the train you know is the fabled Last Train because it's now 1:45. This was not the case last night, as I managed to hurl myself between the rapidly closing doors at Bay, and once again at St. George. The St. George train entry was less than graceful as I was forced to Superman dive through the doors, Indiana Jones style, and everyone on the car looked disdainfully at the Desperate Boy Who Had No Money For a Cab sprawled happily on the floor.

Here I knew I was home free, so I read about the possible forthcoming death of Harry Potter in my well-traveled MacLean's. Apparently Rowlning can't kill Harry, that would be un-children's-literature-like! At Downsview one final challenge remained: did I have time to evacuate my bladder and still rush upstairs to catch the very last bus home? Since my subway reading of Harry Potter had been somewhat sidelined by drunkenness and the infamous bouncy I Need to Pee jitters, the bathroom seemed high priority at that moment. It was totally worth it, let me tell you. And then I rushed up the motionless escalators and once again hurled myself between closing doors, for what would prove to be the one memorable night the TTC didn't fuck me over.

Posted by Chris at 01:25 PM >> Commentations (2) | Permalink

July 12, 2007 >> Gaming Growing Up

Some people here and there are saying that E3 is lame this year, on account of there being no girls dressed up like masturbatory chain mail wenches. And, of course, the event is Industry Only for the first time which means no wretched, nerdy bloggers spewing praises onto the internet. I am wondering if this is where the bubble breaks, where the uprising of the video game medium checks itself and realizes that the whole movement has been reliant on flashy graphics designed to appeal to kids with severe ADD. Without the hype, will we still buy the exact same repackaged games again? A shooter is a shooter is a shooter.

This is rhetorical, of course. The E3 hype persists, just in a more heavily filtered format. News still trickles through the "big" sites, the "best" sites and we are treated to the sterling opines of their "official" mouthpieces. News also comes through Xbox Live. Kyle (and me, to a culpable extent) has been furiously downloading the game trailers as they're released into the digital wild. Halo 3, Mass Effect and Lost Odyssey look predictably sharp and sexified. The Blue Dragon people were kind enough to provide an expansive demo, which I played because Kyle thinks RPGs are garbage and I think they are Professor Jesus. But amidst all this hullabaloo, it's exciting to think that video games are now well-entrenched in the distinguished practice of marketing themselves ceaselessly.

Look at movies: you go to the theater, you check out a ton of posters and weirdo installation art pieces for other movies. Then you get a seven dollar bucket of popcorn. Then you read an awful free glossy magazine about movies. THEN you see trivia about other movies on the screen, followed by trailers for other movies (which some people get more excited about than the actual feature film they paid to see. Think about the crap that gets released a month before a Lord of the Rings or Harry Potter, and you'll see what I mean). The movie industry is an insular circle jerk: the business of cinema loops back in on itself very effectively. Everything's designed to keep you thinking about movies in general. If you're thinking about movies, you're not thinking about TV or hate-fucking or any number of other uses of your valuable time and dollars.

Okay, so video games are well on their way to this Stygian point and I said that it's exciting. Really? Well yeah, because if media industries are going to eat our brains then I'd like to see my medium of choice up there competing with the big boys. Growing up, if you will. If you haven't noticed, gamers are very self-conscious about their hobby - it goes back to the days where we had to hide the basement with the Colecovision so our parents wouldn't yell at us for being such losers.

Posted by Chris at 07:53 PM >> Commentations (5) | Permalink

July 11, 2007 >> In Dialogue with the System

Political economy thought is pretty spicy. Consider the following pleasant quotations from my man Dallas Smythe:

"We must beware of thinking of people and commodities as disconnected things and see them as relationships in a social process."

Sounds pretty good right? People can be people within a big Hakuna Matata community of love. We're individuals baby!

But wait! Oh shit! Apparently the monopoly-capitalist system has spawned some folk called advertisers, and THEY think they can buy us like so many hookers. Talk dirty to us, advertising industry! What are we REALLY?

--Well, ant-like humans, you are "audiences with predictable specifications which will pay attention in predictable numbers and at particular times to particular means of communication... As collectivities these audiences are commodities." Take off your no-name pants.--

Then I guess I just won't watch TV anymore.

--"It matters not if some audience members withdraw their attention; that is expected and discounted in advance by the advertiser."--

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOoooooooooooooooo! My opinion doesn't count! Well at least I can still watch The Sarah Silverman Program, no advertisers in their right mind would cash in on THAT hornet's nest of rape jokes and homelessness bashing.

--"In the policy of the mass media, the characteristics of the free lunch must always be subordinated to those of the formal advertisements, because the purpose of the mass media is to produce audiences to sell to the advertisers."--

So what, I get a complimentary sandwich? Or are you trying to say that Sarah's been cancelled. Sad but expected, I suppose. Remember the time she called that homeless guy a dick? All he wanted was some spare change!

--"The work which audience members perform for the advertiser to whom they have been sold is learning to buy goods and to spend their income accordingly."--

I need some gum. And some manly body wash. And three cans of Coke. And a keyboard that attaches to my forearm! AND THREE THOUSAND SQUIRREL CORPSES!

--"Nobody advertises squirrel corpses. You should totally be paying attention to our playful consumerist antics on the TV, not stupid outside-y things like dead rodents. Squirrels aren't profitable... unleeeeess their skulls could be turned into goth-rocker hair ornaments! YES! You've done it again, Audience Power. But don't fear, you shan't be paid: this is, after all, your leisure time.--

Son of a bitch.

--"The bitter reality for most Canadians and Americans is that the commodity rat race - as they call it - makes a mockery of free time and leisure, both during the years at the job and after retirement."--

At least it's sunny outside.

--"We're going to advertise on the sun soon. Prepare to bathe in the splendid golden rays of the Gatorade Solarballz. We thought it might be a nice symbiotic relationship: the Solarballz makes you sweat, then you buy Gatorade, and then Gatorade gives you testicular cancer!"--

Well at least we're not Communists. Communists don't believe in the sun... er, Solarballz. They live inside mummified dinosaurs.

--"Yes you are INDEED a dinosaur-living-in Communist, unless you buy a 12-pack of Tylenol RIGHT NOW!! ONLY A COMMUNIST WOULDN'T TAKE ADVANTAGE OF SUCH A GREAT DEAL, RIGHT NOW AT SHOPPER'S DRUG MART AND OTHER PARTICIPATING RETAILERS!!"--

I don't have a headach... oh wait, suddenly I DO.

Posted by Chris at 03:05 PM >> Commentations (1) | Permalink

July 10, 2007 >> The secret is to ignore your alarm clock

Ever notice that whenever you're in a dream and you end up somewhere you know, you don't really know it at all? For instance last night I was in an old warehouse that was attached to a church my family once attended. I was trying to escape some wankstas because I almost banged a princess but sadly something different happened and then I was in a sewer. The point is that in the dream I looked around at the warehouse and thought, "A-HA, reality gets the drop on imaginary psychosomatic thugs once again!" Because I already knew the way out, you see, from years of going to this church. Thanks Christianity!

Well it turns out I didn't know the way out, because this time the way out involved the deployment of a ridiculous ramp system in which I had to drive a tiny buggy around the warehouse. The buggy was powered by socks (???). Eventually I was able to climb the warehouse walls, but only where there were clumps of footware attached. It was like a little vertical, meandering pathway of socks that I was forced to painfully drive along while gangsters accumulated below. Of course, this made absolutely no fucking sense because I distinctly recall exiting this warehouse many a time as a child without ever driving a sock-train up a wall and into a vent.

Another time I was supposed to be going to Pearson Airport, but then I had a tea party with Madonna in space. All the cups fell off the bed but I managed to save a fork under a pillow, because I knew I would need a fork later when the crappy airplane meal was served. The problem was that the airplane I was supposed to be on got demolished by all our handled cups which had tumbled off into the atmosphere and apparently turned into bombs. Now I've never had a tea party with Madonna, but I bet it wouldn't really be like that. Maybe the space bed, but she'd have guard rails or something to prevent accidental loss of dishes. Dream trumps reality yet again!

Posted by Chris at 01:01 PM >> Commentations (2) | Permalink

July 08, 2007 >> Breakfast Is Ready, Come On

At Kyle's house there's this big BBQ every year, where old guys from Ryerson have a tradition of getting together with their families. The springly little baby children all play video games and get drunk and go splash-splash in the pool. The elderly watch with approval from the balcony above, and divide their attention between golf and their growing progenies. Then someone cooks steak.

If this sounds like a pretty good deal then you, too, can start your own Tradition of Annual BBQ. First you need a starting point. For these guys it was the solidarity of attending (and surviving) Ryerson together, some 40 thousand years ago. If you didn't go to university, perhaps you could meet up with all your prison guard buddies to talk about good ol' shanking and how a shaved-down comb isn't what it used to be. Back in the golden years, that is.

Then you need a family to drag along with you every year, which basically means that you have to be both fertile and effective at heterosexual-type things. If you have no love and no babies, you probably won't get invited to the Annual Traditional Whatever anymore because all you'll do is stare hungrily at your prison friends' children, and that will be creepy. You won't really be hungry for them - babies aren't delicious - but you'll just realize that the burning hole in your stomach has always been the punishing suspicion that your genealogical line ends with you. A big big loser. No lover! No babies! No steak!

Finally you need a tradition at your Traditional Magic Goodtimes Gathering. The self-identified Ryerson Gang has some thing where a guy put a wine cork in a glass back in the Olde Dayes, so now corkage features prominently at their gatherings. 200+ corks dumped in the pool, clumping and unclumping and turning the pool water into a very, very mild wine. The wine equivilent of whiskey swish, except you can swim in it! Your tradition probably won't be quite as diverse, but you can still do some repetitive shit. Like, "Mikey goes to the hospital after eating poisoned potato salad every year!" Or "We debate the downward spiral of society into a consumer whoredom every year!", although that one is kind of a buzzkill. The sky's the limit, unless your tradition involves space travel. If so, I wanna visit your BBQ next.

Posted by Chris at 11:40 AM >> Commentations (2) | Permalink

July 04, 2007 >> Mechanical Reproduction

Every once in a while I wander over to this here blog with the intention to write something. Now my spam filter is a wrecking ball. It properly identifies "juicy girls" and "mazda" as automated comment garbage spewn from the electronic orifices of cyber-Satan. It knows that these "slut bang cams" don't actually have anything productive to say. And yet I have to pound through a list of 200+ comments that go: "The fish is in the bowl, master. Your output is tremendous. Now visit my cyber casino, LOL!" I understand that Spamminators need to be creative and properly different, but how do I get the fish out of the bowl??

Anyway, my point is that I usually forget what I had to say by the time I finally zap the last "juicy girl" from my Personal Online Whining System (POWS... trademarked, all rights reserved, take off your pants). I think I was inspired from reading Walter Benjamin's The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction for the ten billionth time - Communications majors, you know what I'm talkin' 'bout... yeah! Walty was talking about cam whores and different things like that.

The aura of blogging is greatly diminished by the mechanical reproduction of goofy spam comments.

Posted by Chris at 05:24 PM >> Commentations (2) | Permalink

July 03, 2007 >> It's hot sort of

Summertime drains the stuffing out of me, but mysteriously increases my output of dead baby references by about five times. This especially sucks when you are in the midst of claiming that there is no tangible link between video games and violent player behaviour. Not only are you lazy, but you're also a hypocritical psychopath who demands a baby martini whilst reclining on the patio. That's a lot to take on in the summertime when it's hot and you'd rather be sleeping.

But oh, boo hoo. Summer as a part-time student is a little bit sensational in its lax demands, but I feel like only part of a person in the meantime. If the tin man doesn't swing his ax fiercely, he gets rusty. If the letters don't spill out of my fingers, they get backed up and turn into horrible songs about corn on the cob to be released on the TTC populace. Chill chill chill, grill grill grill. Fuck the utility bills and boil me some corn. some corn. some corn. some corn, sparky.

Posted by Chris at 11:11 PM >> Commentations (1) | Permalink