Do You Remember When You Realized Dreams Don’t Come True?

When you were growing up I’m sure you were told that you “could be anything you wanted to be when you grew up” by your parents. (If not you grew up with horrible parents.) Wasn’t that a nice little thought? All you had to do was wait until you were older and poof, you’re a doctor!

How old were you when you figured out that your parents were full of shit and that life is a cruel whore that doesn’t care about you or your dreams?

I was nine years old.

When I was five years old my parents moved us into the house on Somerset Ave. At that time the street was perfect for a kid like me; there were tons of other kids to hang out with. Within one year I had made at least ten friends in the neighbourhood and learned how to play baseball.

Baseball consumed our lives. During the summer we’d play around five to ten hours a day. We had our very own makeshift park at the local public school located at the end of the block which we claimed as our own. Even when we hated each other we’d still play ball, there would just be more hit batters.

By age seven I noticed that certain people grow up and are able to play baseball for a living. Not only that but they made way more than both of my parents combined doing what I would do for ten hours a day for free.

So at age seven I made it my dream to become a Major League Baseball player.

When I turned nine years old my love for baseball had reached a fever pitch. I was fairly good for my age, I could throw well, hitting wasn’t a problem and catching was my strong suit.

I then decided to judge myself against others my age. This was when my dreams were shattered for the first time in my life.

Wherever I looked I found people who could hit the ball further, throw harder and run faster than me. If these people were already better than me how would I ever become a MLB player? My god, I wouldn’t.

I was average then and I’m average now. Average intelligence, average looks (on a good day), and have an average (if not sub-par) personality. People who are average do not have their dreams come true.

Dreams only come true to those who are gifted in some way.

The only people who can have their dreams come true are people who have the means to devote time and effort to them (rich people) or those with natural ability that cannot be ignored (geniuses, the good looking, or those who are physically gifted).

Anyway you look at it normal, average people are not now or ever having their dreams come true.

Tim the hardworking roofer isn’t becoming President of the United States, Cheryl the stay at home mom won’t become a guitar legend, and Cameron the average didn’t become a Major League Baseball player.

The sooner we all notice this the better off we'll all be.

A Quick List of Boring Things

• A dream you had
• Your workout routine / Anything gym related
• Relationships / Dating / Marriage
• Other people’s children
• Any shit from your childhood
• Your family (especially the elderly)
• Baby boomers
• The score of the Hockey game
• The stock market
• An illness you have / had (non-terminal)
• Your parent’s divorce
• Any death that wasn’t a murder or suicide
• Any music you’ve heard on the radio
• Any TV show on a major network
• Your pets
• Your children
• Your vacation
• Your job
• Your boss
• Your other friends
• Your diet routine
• Your new outfit
• Your golf score
• The school you went to
• This Guy in the photo
• You

Something About the Universe That I Admire

The best part about the Universe, in my humble opinion, has to be the fact that its size and scope really shows how little any of us actually matter.

Think about it, the planet Earth has over six billion people on it. Already that shows how little each of us matter on a day to day basis.

In reality, if you were to die tomorrow your death would probably affect twenty people at most. Sure, a lot of people would be pretty sad for a week or two but they’d eventually move on. Your death isn’t going to cause anyone’s life to spiral out of control.

OK, let’s play Devil’s Advocate right here.

Say your death caused someone’s life to spiral out of control. Well, since your existence means jack-shit in the grand scheme of the universe how much do you think that the person’s life that was ruined by your death matters? Zero.

The Earth is billions of years old (take that Christians!) and its survived the deaths of way more important people than you. When JFK, Ghandi or Alexander the Great all kicked the bucket the world didn’t spin off its axis and hurl itself into the Sun, it just kept on moving.

This brings us to another point, nothing that any human has ever done, or will ever do, has meant anything in the scheme of the whole universe.

The Earth is only one planet in our solar system. Who says that anything that happens on Earth is any more important that what happens on a daily basis on Venus or Mercury? It isn’t, you’ve just placed more importance on it.

Say we cure Cancer tomorrow, or AIDS for that matter. Sure that matters for a small population of the planet right now and some people in the future, but it doesn’t matter to the millions of people who died of those diseases in the past or their friends and family.

It also wouldn’t matter to the millions of other species of creatures and bacteria living on this planet who are not affected by either of those diseases.

Curing Cancer or AIDS also wouldn’t matter to anyone not living on Earth.

I’m not saying that there are little green men living on Mars. What I’m saying is that the Milky Way Galaxy we live in is just one of many out there in the Universe. Who knows how many planets are actually out there? We don’t even know where the Universe begins and ends, or if it begins or ends at all.

So really, if we’re just one person living on a planet of currently six billions people, with billions of others who have come before us, and we share it with millions of other species, in a solar system of multiple other planets, within a Universe so large we have no way of knowing its beginning or end, how could our individual existence begin to matter?

It doesn’t. Have yourself a great night.

Songs I'm Subjected to While at Work

Like many other suckers out there, my job plays shitty music exclusively in the office. The following is a list of songs that I was subjected to on the 21st of June. Suicide was thought of often.

Seriously, who the fuck likes this music?

“Complicated” - Avril Lavigne
“Sometimes” - Britney Spears
“No Surprise” - Daughtry
“Waving Flag” - K'naan
“Celebration” - Kool & the Gang
“Shake Shake Shake” - KC & the Sunshine Band
That Black Eye'd Peas song with Hebrew in it
“Get into the Groove” - Madonna
“These Dreams” - Heart
“The First Cut is the Deepest” - Sheryl Crow
“Steal My Sunshine” - Len
“Un-break My Heart” - Toni Braxton
“We Belong Together” - Mariah Carey
“Physical Touch” - Phil Collins
“Keep on Loving You” - REO Speedwagon
That fucking Bryan Adams/Mel C. duet. Horrible.
“Thank You” - Dido
“Hold On” - Michael Buble
“Hold Me Now” - Thompson Twins
“The Sign” - Ace of Base
“If You Could Read My Mind” - Stars on 54
“Never Going to be Alone” - Nickelback

What a horrible goddamn day.

This Might Sound Really Sick But...

Don't you kind of, deep down, wish that BP never figures out how to stop the oil spill in the Gulf Coast? I know there's definitely a part of me that hopes those dickheads never figure it out.

Now before everyone poops their pants I will say it's a small part of me that wants that oil to keep on spilling. The rational and sympathetic part of me knows that if the oil doesn't stop we'll have a Sarah Palin / Jeb Bush Republican ticket beating Barack Obama in 2012 and David Suzuki would die of a heart attack. No one wants either of those things.

So now hear me out about the reasons why this oil spill isn't such a terrible thing.

1. It Could Destroy the Entire State of Florida

I think we can all agree that Florida is the single worst place on the face of the Earth. It's humid, it's boring, the people are fucking idiots, they've given nothing redeemable to the human race and it's fucking home to Disney World. Wouldn't the world be a better place without Florida? I really think so.

The good news is this; if the oil continues to spill it will eventually contaminate the entire shoreline on the Gulf Coast side of Florida. After a year or two it would certainly destroy the Atlantic side of the shore also.

If this happens (fingers crossed) it would surely help kill their tourism industry, which is the lifeblood of their economy. The State would collapse and none of us would ever hear the godforsaken name Florida ever again.

Now, if this happened five years ago; we might have never heard of Tim Tebow! Think of how sweet life would have been then. Oh, what a dream world!

2. We might (probably not) stop using oil as a primary source of energy.

This is an idealistic as I'll ever get, so bear with me here.

If the oil continues to spill forever (at least a year) the common man might actually put enough pressure on the governments of both the United States and Canada to actually put forth comprehensive plans to get both countries off of oil as our major source of energy.

The oil spill might also be a catalyst to change other environmental policies currently in place in North America.

At the very least, perhaps more laws and regulations would be enforced on the oil companies who are constantly breaking laws in place and destroying out environment.

Again, this is just a pipe dream. This will clearly never, ever, happen.

Now these are just two reasons why I think the oil spill never ending would be beneficial. I'm sure there are literally millions of reasons why the spill is terrible, but just think for a second about a world without the State of Florida.

It's pretty sweet, isn't it?

Another Odd Thing I Noticed Recently

Maybe it's just me but have you stopped getting excited about new things?

I remember when I was younger that I used to get excited about anything that was new. Movie releases, new albums by artists I liked, highly anticipated video games, Earth shattering tech-y bullshit, it all drove me wild. Every week is like Christmas when you're easily excited about new things.

This year? Nothing excites me. I haven't paid to go to the theatre in half a year, I bought the new album by The National but I'm not sure I've listened to it all yet. I don't even know what's going on with video games anymore. The iPad came out this year but I'd rather have an iPod with more memory than one of those things.

The most excited I was about a new thing in the past year was the release of the latest Douglas Coupland novel.

Really, does anyone get excited about anything anymore? I think we're past that now.

Shit Rich People Say to Me

“What do you think of this bookcase? It's great isn't it? It was only $250.00. Really cheap. You should get one.”
- Older single woman showing me her new, small, bookcase which was designed to make it look like your books were stacked in a pile on the floor. She owned two.

"Have you considered a Master's Degree in Economics?"
- Man in his mid-50's sympathizing with my plight.

Something Odd I Noticed Recently

I was thinking of things to write about today and I thought to myself: “Let's attempt to keep it positive. You only seem to write about things you hate.”

So I sat there and thought about it for a good ten minutes. There has to be something positive for me to write about, right?”

Do you know what happened? I drew a complete blank. I couldn't think of a single thing that I liked enough to write about. Then out of nowhere it hit me again; I don't really care about anything at all.

To everyone who is reading this, think about it for a minute. Try and name something, either that I own (like a TV for instance), or something I possess (like my ability to talk) and think to yourself how upset I'd be if it were taken away from me forever.

The answer really surprised me.

I really tried to think about all the things people really assume I care about and do you know what; I don't care about them as much as you think that I do.

I've cut cable TV, cell phones, the internet, food, music, and movies from my life for extended periods of time, including some of them currently, and it never bothered me as much as it's bothered other people.

But those are just material things, lets talk bigger picture.

Say I lost the ability to smell tomorrow. Do you really think I would care that much? Well, I have allergies so that's a bad example because I can barely smell now.

What if I woke up tomorrow unable to talk? I'd probably love that. I wouldn't have to talk to anyone ever again. It would be amazing. I say bring that shit on!

Really, think about it. What would possibly bother me? I love nothing.

My Love/Hate Relationship with Noodle Bowls

Currently I am amazingly poor. How poor? No internet, rationing phone use, no social life, eating noodle bowls five or six times a week level of poor.

Now, if a person eats the same thing as much as five or six times a week a rational person could come to the conclusion that the eater really, really loves that food. However, my experience with noodle bowls is not like that at all. Mine is one of both the most wondrous love ever imagined and a hatred that borders on perverse.

As amazing as this sounds, before last winter I had never, not even once, had even thought of consuming a soup that comes in a dried form held in a Styrofoam cup. However, one fateful week in December of 2009 all of that changed and I was hooked on that whore of a meal that is called a Kim Chi Noodle Bowl.

The week before Christmas I had a guest staying in my shoebox of an apartment. She stayed for the entire week while I was in and out of Toronto visiting my family in Hamilton. This friend was quite the busy person. She worked North of Toronto but lived downtown, she's a vegan, she hates cooking because she doesn't believe she's good at it (not entirely true.)

Now I'm sure you can guess who introduced me to this devil's spawn of a meal.

That first night she stayed at my apartment she suggested that we have the Kim Chi bowls she had brought for dinner.

I couldn't believe this suggestion at first. For the longest time I had thought that all noodle bowls were eaten by the poor and those with no taste in foods. This girl was not that at all. She enjoyed finer things. When we went out for dinner she wasn't in the habit to order the shittiest meals on the menu. She was not the demographic for such a food item.

Needless to say I had my doubts about the whole thing, but she seemed to know what she was doing and was confident.

“Don't worry, after that first taste you'll be in love. You'll also wonder how you survived this long without them.”

Holy Hell was this woman right.

Soon enough the week was over and she left my apartment and moved out of the country, but the Kim Chi Noodle Bowl love remained with me.

The timing couldn't have been more perfect. Soon enough I wasn't able to afford things like meats, or bread, or fruits, or vegetables. However noodle bowls cost about $0.99 per bowl. Have one of them for lunch, one for dinner, and nothing but black coffee (hey, cream and sugar aren't free) and you had my diet for over two months.

For the longest time I had absolutely no problem eating nothing but various brands of noodle bowls. Every single brand and flavour I tried tasted delicious. It became not a punishment, but a pleasure to eat nothing but noodle bowls.

People who knew me started to talk about the fact that my diet consisted of nothing but shitty noodles and powder soup mix – fuck them! They don't know what love is!

You know how everyone thinks that Kraft Dinner is the ultimate lazy person meal? Well noodle bowls top the shit out of them.

Stirring? Gone!
Extra ingredients? No sir!
Paying attention to the cooking process? No dice!
Dishes? Go fuck yourself!

Seriously, all you do is boil water and add it to the Styrofoam bowl that the ingredients come in, mix and you're done. How can you get lazier than that?

The meal only needs two dishes; something to eat the food with (spoon or fork. I always pick fork) and a pot to boil the water. When you're done you don't even really need to clean the pot. After all, the only thing you used it for was boiling water. How dirty could it have gotten?

Another added bonus presented itself. Since I ate nothing but noodle bowls the malnutrition that I have gone through by not eating properly has caused me to lose two belt sizes without lifting a finger or taking one single run.

Eating poorly; the easiest way to lose weight imaginable!

So it's cheap, delicious, uses no dishes, and caused me to lose weight with absolutely no effort. How could I possibly grow to hate this food item?

The first reason would have to be the fact that eating nothing but noodle soup really makes me miss real fucking food.

In all seriousness, if someone told me that they would give me a Thanksgiving Day meal today if I pushed six old women down some stairs I would consider it greatly.

I miss having to chew. I miss actual texture of food. I miss fresh fruit and vegetables. Goddamn you, poverty.

You don't even want to know what I'd do for homemade lasagna; it's beyond criminal.

Do you know what else ruins noodle bowls for me? It's the stigma of poverty that comes with the food item.

I kid you not, I go to the Price Chopper on Sherbourne and Howard St. and I still feel crazy poor when I go to the cash with nothing but noodle bowls, coffee and tea (that's a treat for me.)

People who know what Sherbourne is all about will know my extra shame when I tell them that I have, easily, the poorest grocery bill of the entire store every time I'm there.

The stigma does not end at the grocery store though, it continues right into my own apartment every time I have guests.

Visitors come in and look in my kitchen to see what I've got in my fridge (even after I promise them I've got nothing to eat) and see nothing but a jar of mustard in the fridge and a can of coffee in the freezer (that's for freshness!)

Soon, after the open my cabinets to find them stocked with bowls of noodles, they always reply “Jesus fuckin' Christ, Durkin! Get some fuckin' food in here. How do you live?” Not proudly, I can assure you that.

So what's a self-conscious, lazy, poor person to do? Try and find real foods that are just as cheap? That's impossible. Eat less than I already do and eat real adult food? Probably not a good idea either.

I'll probably just keep eating the noodle bowls until I'm thin enough to attract the eye of one of the rich, older women who live where I work.

Oh, to be young, poor and resourceful in the city.

Earth Day: Pfft, Big Fucking Deal.

So yesterday was Earth Day around the World; what a crock of shit.

Now before anyone thinks that I’m one of those dumbasses you see on television that denies global warming or says that recycling is a waste of time I can assure you that I am not that kind of person. Denying global warming now is like denying Newton’s theory of gravitation or Darwin’s theory of evolution; sure it’s just a theory but all the science in the world is going to back it up.

My problem with Earth Day is that it’s a feel good day and nothing more. “Hey look everybody, I picked up some trash. Give me a big ol’ pat on the back!” Go fuck yourself.

People around the World taking time out of their busy schedule to plant a tree, take public transit instead of driving, pick up some trash or watch a movie about climate change. That’s what Earth Day has turned into. Big fucking deal.

The people who really make a big deal about Earth Day are the same people you see every other day of the year driving their SUV’s, drinking countless coffee’s from Starbucks out of paper cups instead of reusable ones, throwing things that could be recycled into the garbage because it’s easier, and consuming more items made from plastic than any sane person could imagine.

But I guess the fact that you planted a fucking tree makes up for all that, right?

Did you know that when Earth Day was started 40 years ago it was meant to be a day of protest? Yes, that’s right. Environmentalists all across North America would picket and march outside of businesses and companies that were doing irreversible damage to the planet.

Sure, it looks like none of it really made a fucking difference at all (thank you Conservative governments more interested in money). But these people were committed to the planet and would actually make their voices heard to the heads of these companies.

What happened? I’m glad you asked.

Well these companies grew tired of having their businesses picketed and protested so they did what anyone would do; they joined up with the environmentalists.

Yes that’s right, these companies joined the cause. Did they actually change any of their practices? Well, not by choice. They only changed what they needed to stay in line with the laws of the countries they manufacture their goods in.

Would you like an example? Of course you would.

Go to the Earth Day Canada website and check out their sponsors. One of the largest sponsors is Suncor Energy. A simple search of this company on Google will bring you many stories of the wonderful facts of Suncor Energy (again, one of the leading sponsors of Earth Day Canada).

Here’s a little one story for you, in 2007 Suncor Energy’s oil sand operation in Alberta had the 6th highest greenhouse gas emissions in Canada.

Care for another one?

In 2009 Suncor was fined $675,000 for not installing pollution control equipment at its Firebag operation near Fort McMurray, Alberta.

How about one more?

Also in 2009 Suncor was fined again, this time $175,000, for dumping untreated wastewater into the Athabasca River.

Wow, what a Green corporation.

You see, this is what Earth Day is all about. It’s lip service to the public that corporations are changing their ways and making a difference. Well they’re not. All they are doing is throwing money at the Canadian people hoping that the Earth Day celebrations of 30 and 40 years ago - the disruptive ones – never come back.

The sad part is that you people are fucking buying into it. You like that companies like Suncor Energy are throwing money at “the cause” and providing you with all the trees and reusable bags for Earth Day celebrations. One day of the year you get to feel like you’re making a difference and you people fucking love that.

Earth Day is a crock of shit. If you really cared everyday would be Earth Day.

Some Solid Advice

So there I was, just reading a book by the late George Carlin when I read some of the best advice I think that I’ve ever heard. I’ve decided to pass it on to you people. It’s probably something we should all hear.

“Most people take life much too seriously and worry about all the wrong things: security, advancement, prosperity, all those things that give you heartburn. I think people would be better off if they relaxed and had a little more fun.

Think about it: We’re all here on a big rock, zippin’ around a bad star for no good reason. We don’t know where we came from, we don’t know where we’re going, we don’t know how long it’s gonna last, and we keep having to go to the bathroom. And on top of that, the whole thing is completely meaningless.

Do you ever stop to think about that? It’s all meaningless. All this detail. What’s it for? This table. What’s it doing here? What’s the purpose? Who cares? I think the whole thing is someone’s idea of a great practical joke. So relax that extra-tight American anal sphincter, folks, and have a little fun.” – George Carlin

Three types of people who make me wish for the end of civilization as we know it.

On March 6th of this year I wrote a blog entry of a few things that piss me off. Well today I was thinking about some other things that really make me just want to scream at the top of my lungs. The last time I wrote about silly little things like Clubs, Lady Gaga and winter boots with heels. Now I still hate all of these things but this time I want to hit harder. Some of you people might get offended with some of the things I say. Do you know what I have to say to that? Go fuck yourself. That’s what I have to say. If you know who I am you know that at times I’m going to say something that might offend you. If you can’t handle that then just move along, I’ll be fine. I’ve decided to become more honest with people and this is me just being honest. Alright, here we go.

Ok, the first thing that just drives me nuts is when people decide that they need to “cleanse.” I’ll be completely honest and say that I had never heard of people doing this until 2009. The moment I had heard that people do this I thought to myself “that’s probably the dumbest fucking thing I have ever heard.” Now for you people who do not know what a “cleanse” is I have two things to say to you:

a) Congratulations.
b) I am truly sorry for telling you about the dumbest fucking thing imaginable.

Now what cleansing is supposed to do is remove the toxins in your body, help you lose weight and even enhance your mood. Well doesn’t that just sound fanfuckingtastic! So how does it work you ask? Well let me tell you about just one of your options!

The most famous body cleanse is something called the Master Cleanse. How about that? Great name huh? It already sounds like your best option doesn’t it? Well let’s see what you’ll be consuming to cleanse all the shit out of your body. I’ll take you step through step.

So the first thing you do in the morning is wake up. Ok, sounds about right. That’s the first thing I do in the morning. Then you pour yourself a nice lukewarm, 32oz, glass of water. Ok, seems easy enough. Then pour in 2 teaspoons of uniodized sea salt and stir. Congratulations! You’ve just made breakfast! Now drink that bad boy. You’re on your way to a successful cleansing.

Now I bet you’re asking me why you just had lukewarm salt water for breakfast. That’s a fine question. Let me tell you with the help of the fine people at the “Just Cleansing” website:

“The salt detoxifies the entire digestive system and flushes out any impurities and toxins so they won't be reabsorbed back into the body. It isn't the most pleasant experience but the results are worth it so be strong!”

Well how about that? Ok, yes it sounds like a shitty way to start your day and no you aren’t really getting any significant nutrients and sure you’ll be hungry as hell by lunch but you want results, don’t you?

Speaking of lunch, what’s on the menu?

Well, for lunch it looks like you’re having yourself another nice little liquid mix. I know, you love chewing and breakfast was a little, let’s say, light but you want to get rid of those toxins, lose weight, look and feel good don’t you? Of course you do! Ok, well here’s the recipe.

First get yourself a nice juice pitcher. You know those kinds that you use to make great Caesars in, grab that. Then pour in 12 tablespoons organic Lemon Juice, 12 tablespoons organic Grade B Maple Syrup, 1/2 teaspoon Cayenne Pepper, and finally 60oz Purified Water. Now stir all that shit together and you’ve got lunch and an afternoon snack!

Yeah, that’s supposed to last you throughout the whole day. But c’mon those results are going to be worth it. What’s that? You want to know why you’re eating this instead of real food. Ok, well I’ll let the “Just Cleansing” people take it from here again:

“Maple Syrup
Although you may normally just pour it on your waffles, Grade B maple syrup contains a variety of minerals and vitamins. These include iron, chlorine, potassium, calcium, magnesium, manganese, copper, phosphorus, sulphur and silicon not to mention Vitamins A, B1, B2, B6 and C. Also present is Pantothenic acid, a type of B-Vitamin that can lower cholesterol.”

“Lemon Juice
Lemon juice is used to produce more bile in the liver, trapping fat molecules and allowing them to be easily secreted. It also helps to decrease your appetite.”

“Cayenne Pepper
Cayenne pepper increases metabolism and aids digestion. It is also a good source of Vitamins A, B, C, Calcium and Potassium.”

“Purified Water
The benefits of water need little explanation. It speeds your metabolism, cleans your internal organs and even helps you live longer!”

Alright, I’m sure you didn’t read that because, really, who gives a shit? The good news is that you can drink all that crap mixture you made for yourself all damn day.

So now it’s probably 5pm and you’ve just ended your shift at that soul crushing thing you call your job and it’s time to go home. You have to be looking forward to that, I mean you’ve been at work for 8 hours, you haven’t eaten a damn thing and all the food you own is at your place. It’s celebration time. What’s for dinner you ask? How about a fucking herbal laxative tea?

Yeah, that’s right your day ends with a laxative tea. Well the laxative part is really simple. You haven’t actually produced any waste all damn day. You’re gonna need that tea. Why no food again? Well foods have toxins in them, right? You don’t want to look like the big heap of shit that you look like now, do you? Of course you don’t. Who would?

So just live off of this simple cleanse diet for 3 or 4 days and you’ll lose a few pounds, get rid of all those toxins in your body, feel better and look better!

What’s that you say? How is being on a cleanse going to help you in the long run? Oh, well it doesn’t. Sure, it’ll do something now but we all know what’s going to happen. You’ll go back to eating like shit, drinking 9 cups of coffee a day, sitting on your ass all week and doing all the other horrible shit that made you decide to do this stupid fucking cleanse in the first place.

That’s right; we live in a society where people decide to live off of salt water, a shitty lemon juice mixture, and a laxative tea for almost a week at a time just to reverse the effects of their own shitty lifestyle. What do they do after that? They go back to their shitty lifestyle and nothing is accomplished at all.

That’s what bothers me the most. As a society we’ve decided to live in a world of short cuts and temporary solutions. Now people who know me know that I’m not a health conscious person at all. I really couldn’t care about that shit at all. But I am conscious of people who do stupid fucking things. Cleansing is a stupid fucking thing.

Let’s travel back and see at why people do these cleanses in the first place.

The first reason is to remove the toxins in your body. Well this is a simple solution. Stop fucking consuming the shit you do. How about you stop fucking eating fast food, drink booze like its being taken away from you or pump your body with street drugs if you don’t want toxins in your body. Now I’m not telling you to stop doing those things, far from it. Just don’t fucking start all that shit back up again after you’ve done your cleanse. What’s the point of getting rid of those toxins if you’re just gonna put them right back in there? There isn’t one.

Now the second reason people do this fucking shit is to lose a few pounds. This is fine. People always want to lose weight. However this has to be the most fucking retarded way of losing weight I have ever heard. Now you know how you are constantly looking down on anorexic people? You do it, I do it, and your mother does it. These cleanses are just one step away from temporary anorexia. How about this, just fucking change your day to day diet and you’ll not have to cleanse away all that fat and shit from your body.

That brings us to the last reason people do these cleanses; to feel better. I can’t hate a person for wanting to feel better. Who could? Only an asshole of epic proportions would want someone to not feel good. Now everyone knows that exercise naturally makes you feel better. It’s just one of those miracles of science. You take a run and you feel better, naturally. But hey, why do that? You want to feel better without actually doing anything, so you do this stupid cleanse. Really though, it makes me think. Street drugs make you feel better too, why not just stick to those?

These people who do these “cleanses” just drive me fucking insane. We live in a world where people want all of the benefits of healthy living right fucking now but are unwilling to change their lives to fucking get them. But they will starve themselves for days at a time.

Just go to a Third World Country and explain to them your stupid cleanse to them. You’d be lucky not to have the shit kicked out of you, and you know what, I’d help them. Cleanses are by, and for, twisted, lazy, middle-class, Yuppie douche bags. It’s that simple.

Wow, that went on for a while didn’t it? Jeez. Ok, well I’m on a streak so let’s move on to the next topic of my distain.

The next group of people I’m going to talk about are mostly found on University and College campuses anywhere in North America. They aren’t usually found in the places that you would think that I’d be talking about. No, they aren’t in the Business or Psychology departments. They’re actually found for the most part in the same halls I was educated in: English, Film Studies, and Philosophy departments.

These are the people who say: “I’m not religious, I’m spiritual!”

Holy shit these people are pretentious assholes.

Right now I’ll come out and say this, I am, and always have been, an Atheist. There wasn’t a single moment in my life that I ever believed that there was some sort of higher being, and I honestly don’t get how anyone else could think otherwise. That being said I think these people who claim to be spiritual but not religious are massive dickheads.

Do you know why these people don’t claim to be religious? They’re ashamed of their beliefs and the people who share them.

That’s right, they’re ashamed. These people see the typical ignorant religious person, who doesn’t believe in dinosaurs, on the news because it’s an easy sound-byte for the 11 O’clock news and they say to themselves: “Fuck that! I’m smart. There’s no way I’m part of that.”

These people go to College, enrol in classes in the Humanities Department, and spew their idiotic comments to anyone who will listen for four years, and then move on to the Suburbs. The cycle happens every year without fail.

What I don’t understand is how these people can think that being spiritual is different from being religious. It can’t be. By definition the two are exactly the fucking same thing. These people simply want a new label so they aren’t seen by their peers in their Existentialism courses to think that they’re less of an intellectual. They’re fucking phonies and it’s fucking disgusting.

So let’s use my handy little Oxford Dictionary to get the definition of the cute little nickname they’ve given themselves to show other people just how different they are.

“spiritual:
• adjective 1 relating to or affecting the human spirit as opposed to material or physical things. 2 relating to religion or religious belief.”

Well wouldn’t you look at that? It means exactly the same fucking thing. Who would have guessed that?

Now some “spiritual” people will say that they “don’t believe in any form of religious worship, or in any gods.” Well then how exactly are you spiritual? You sound like an Atheist who is too much of a baby to tell their friends and family that they don’t believe in god. You also sound like a jackass when you talk like that.

Again, the reality is that these people are either self-loathing religious people who are ashamed of their beliefs and do not want their “intellectual” college friends to lump them in with the crazies that the news get their sound-bytes from OR they are Atheists who simply don’t have the balls to call themselves that in public.

Now even though I am an Atheist I do have religious friends. It’s true, it can happen. I don’t belittle them for their faith, although I have been known to crack a joke or two. But their faith is their faith. However these “spiritual” jackasses, I have no patience for. Pick a damn side. I don’t care what side you pick, just make a goddamn choice.

That’s really all I have to say about the topic of spiritual people. Now the third type of people I am going to talk about, and who’s existence drives me insane, are somewhat similar. Like the spiritual people they too have decided to live a new age sort of bullshit lifestyle. These people are the ones who claim to be “at one with nature.”

Every time I hear someone who says that their goal is to become “one with nature” I throw up a little bit in my mouth.

What they mean by being at one with nature is that they are much more advanced environmentalists than you or I. They recycle and they believe that they have a spiritual connection with nature!

Sure you do.

Now what you have to remember is that we all, as human beings, are inherently a part of nature. Our existence on the planet occurs naturally. We were created, live, and die in nature. Any living thing on this planet, animal, plant, liquid or fucking whatever is actually a part of nature.

These people have this fucking abstract thought process where they think that regular people are separate from nature and it takes a real special person to be “at one” with it. No, that’s not how it works. Everything that we do as a species has an effect on nature, no matter what some climate change denying jackass will tell you. To think that you’re some sort of enlightened being because of your environmentalism is a stupid thing to think. Being an environmentalist is a fantastic thing, making you out to be Mr. Wonderful because of it is foolish.

Have you ever noticed who all of these people who claim to be “at one with nature” are? They’re those whiney white kids from the suburbs with Yuppie parents who, after living in a college town for four years, moved out to the city and decided to buy a Vespa and shop at Whole Foods. You never see a kid from a farming community or a person from the First Nation’s tell you about how they’ve become one with nature. Why do you think that is?

Do you want to know why I think that is? Of course you do, why else would you be reading this?

You never hear those people say stupid things like that because they know what it’s like outside of the city limits and they know a little bit more about the harsh realities of nature than the douche kid who takes his parent’s SUV up to go fucking white water rafting for the weekend.

They know that nature doesn’t really give a flying fuck about us, nor will it ever let us be “at one” with it. Actually nature doesn’t really have a thought process, so not only will it not let us to join it as soul mates it can’t even really think about constructs like the buddy-buddy relationship that Mr. Weekend Nature Lover wishes to have with it. What happens in nature happens for two reasons; either because it occurs naturally and has for millions of years or because of man-made reasons (like acid rain and other horrible shit like that.)

To think that you, or anyone, could really become “at one with nature” is probably one of the dumbest things you could ever say or attempt. It’s not going to happen. Not now, not ever. Get over yourself, enlist in another one of those totally rad outdoor philosophy classes that you love so much, and don’t forget your hacky-sack.

Jesus, looking back at all of these stupid Yuppie, middle-class, pseudo-religious, jackasses in society I am starting to think that the Suburbs were the worst thing to ever happen to the West.

RIP: Malcolm McLaren

Another cool person had to go and die on us today. Malcolm McLaren died of cancer today at the age of 64. For those who don’t know who Malcolm McLaren was, and why he was cool and a massive dickhead at the same time, I shall explain.

In the early 1970’s McLaren opened up a clothing boutique in London called “Let It Rock,” which even today is a really shitty name for a store of any type. In 1972 he travelled to New York City for a boutique fair and while in town he convinced the proto-punk band The New York Dolls to allow him to manage them, even though it’s quite clear that he had no idea how to manage a band.

Later that year he changed the name of his clothing store to the much better “Too Fast to Live, Too Young to Die;" a massive improvement if there ever was one.

Since he owned a clothing boutique and managed a band it’s pretty obvious to say who dressed The Dolls on their tour of England in 1975; Malcolm McLaren. Needless to say his red leather outfits and Communist style iconography didn’t go over well in conservative parts of England. The New York Dolls soon broke up.

By this time McLaren had renamed his boutique again. He chose the simple SEX name and switched his style over to S&M influenced clothing completely.

After The Dolls broke up he was left without a band to manage. Soon enough though he found one; a little band you now know as the Sex Pistols.

The story is that he started managing a band known as The Strand (another name that really sucks) and their three members: Glenn Matlock, Paul Cook and Steve Jones. McLaren thought that the band needed to become a four piece and move Matlock off vocals so he could just play the bass.

Well how did they find a singer you ask? They picked a kid off the street who had green hair, torn clothes and a Pink Floyd t-shirt with the words “I Hate” painted on the shirt. McLaren asked him to mouth, not sing, the words to Alice Cooper’s “I’m Eighteen” and when the song was over the band was renamed the Sex Pistols and Johnny Rotten was the new singer.

Why the Sex Pistols? “I wanted the name of the band to sound like a group of sexy assassins.” That works for me.

Just after helping to write 10 of the 12 songs for their debut album, “Never Mind the Bollocks Here’s the Sex Pistols,” the band and McLaren fired bassist Glenn Matlock as it was found out that he liked the Beatles. That’s the reason. It wasn’t that he couldn’t play the bass guitar (he could), not that he was an addict (he wasn’t), but the fact that he liked the Beatles was too much. I’ll always love that little piece of rock n’ roll history.

So the band needed a new bass player to join the band. McLaren hired a well known thug, sometime musician, and full time junkie in the new punk community named Sid Vicious. While Sid looked the part of a punk rock musician he never actually learned how to play any of the songs on the album. Steve Jones recorded both the guitar and bass tracks on the album and when the band played live Sid’s amp was never plugged in. His job was to stand up on the stage, look cool, hop around and be a junkie.

By 1978 the Sex Pistols were massive stars in England so McLaren set up a tour for them in America. The tour was a disaster.

McLaren refused to pay the members of the band any of the money that they were entitled to, except enough for heroin and beer, and the crowds in places like Texas were less than receptive to a group where 2 of the 4 members were on the stage simply to look cool and piss the audience off. The band imploded after just one year.

We all know that Sid never kicked heroin, murdered his junkie groupie girlfriend Nancy Spungen, and died of a heroin overdose while on bail awaiting his murder trial becoming a god to morons everywhere.

Well now it looked like McLaren was out of work. I guess he still had his SEX boutique and all but by 1980 the punk look had really died out in England.

So in 1980 he decided to create a new band. This would be Bow Wow Wow (another horrible name. What the fuck Malcolm?)

How did he form the band? Well he simply told the guitarist, bassist and drummer to quit their old band (Adam and the Ants) and start over again. Wouldn’t you know it, they did it.

Again though Malcolm was left without a singer for this new band, so he did the logical thing and hired Annabella Lwin a 13 year old girl who worked at her local dry cleaning shop.

The band released “See Jungle! See Jungle! Go Join Your Gang, Yeah. City All Over! Go Ape Crazy” in 1981. The cover had Annabella Lwin and the band on the cover posing like Manet’s painting “Le déjeuner sur l'herbe.” That all sounds fine and well until you notice that the woman in that painting is nude and Lwin was only 14 years old when the photo was taken. Yikes. Needless to say that album cover wasn’t printed in either the U.S. or the U.K.

So yeah, the band became popular stateside in the 80’s when they released “I Want Candy” but who gives a shit? What else was Malcolm up to?

Well he started his own music career in the 80’s releasing the singles “Buffalo Gals” and “Double Dutch.” The songs were African and hip-hop influenced which wasn’t common for the time, but then again the Clash had that exact same idea in 1980. No bonus points for you Malcolm.

Oh yeah! Also in the 1980’s Johnny (Rotten) Lydon took Malcolm to court claiming that McLaren owed him money and the rights to the band the Sex Pistols. Lydon won the case and received the money he was clearly owed for years and Malcolm was no longer owner of the Sex Pistols brand. The two never spoke again and the surviving members of the band basically told the world what a massive douche bag McLaren was to the world in the film “The Filth and the Fury” in 2000.

Um yeah, that’s really about it. To be honest the man hasn’t really been culturally relevant on this side of the pond in about 20 years. So let’s break his accomplishments down.

He made a fortune selling kids shitty clothing with slogans and safety pins in them

He managed The New York Dolls in their final days.

He basically created the Sex Pistols while at the same time being the catalyst for their destruction.

He created Bow Wow Wow by stealing them from Adam and the Ants, and had their 14 year old singer pose nude for an album cover.

His own musical career was doing the exact same thing the Clash did three years before he had the idea to do it.

Really though, if you think about it, that’s not a bad run.

The Golden Moustache Years

On New Year’s Day of 2009 I was having a terrible meal with some friends at our usual Chinese buffet when a group of men, all older than us, came in. All of these guys had moustaches. My friends were quick to make fun of these gentlemen. I heard the usual stuff about how they looked like porn stars from the 1970’s or child molesters. Unlike the rest of the group, I took a stance. For I knew something that they didn’t know, when you enter your 30’s you are entering a new era: The Golden Moustache Years.

Just when my friends had made about their 10th comment insulting these men I stopped them. “Now just wait a minute,” I pleaded. “How can you make fun of the moustache? It’s a true sign of a real man.”

At this point I really didn’t know where I was going with my argument, I just knew that I was now facing the task of sticking up for the oft-insulted moustache. I was going to have to use all of my powers of persuasion on this one.

Then, like a bolt of lightning, it came to me; hit them where they live.

“Ok, you’re all making fun of these guys but how many of your Dad’s had moustaches when you were growing up, or still have one?” As soon as I said it they all stopped and thought about it. Everyone’s father had a moustache at some point and some of them, including mine, still have one.

Now I had their attention, it was up to me to floor them now. I briefly thought it over and I came up with my hypothesis.

“You know why our father’s had moustaches? It’s simple; it’s what men do when they turn 30 years old. It’s expected. Those are your ‘Golden Moustache Years!’”

I then asked all of my friends to think of all the men they knew over the age of 30 and if they had moustaches. It turns out it’s not just our father’s who have moustaches, our uncles, friends of the family, and neighbours have them too.

Now that is not to say that all of the men that we know in their 30’s, 40’s and 50’s have moustaches. Some of the people I was dining with would mention how they have an uncle family friend who does not have one. “Well, how much do you trust this man,” I asked.

“Not too much,” seemed to be the unanimous answer.

It was at this point in time that we all as a group did something that we haven’t done before, or since; we all agreed on something.

It was declared right then and there that any man between the ages of 30 and 60 years old MUST have a moustache. It’s the respectable thing to do. Your father did it and goddamnit, you’ll do it!

The bad news is that currently I’m 25 years old and I seem to be unable to grow a moustache.

Well, I can now cross that off the ol' bucket list!

Yesterday, March 18th, I received the news that I had been waiting my whole life to hear: someone had finally included my name in a graduate dissertation! The shocking news is that it has taken me over 25 years to make it into someone’s paper. I thought my name would have been in one by age 21, maybe 22 at the absolute latest. Needless to say, the news was a relief.

I have never had too many goals in life but to be name dropped in someone’s paper in a graduate program was definitely one of them. I always knew that I was bound to be mentioned alongside the greats of some certain field of science or the arts. It was what I was born to accomplish. Finally, I have accomplished my goal.

As I have mentioned earlier, the news came to me yesterday. I was sitting at my computer, enjoying a cup of Earl Grey tea and aimlessly roaming Facebook, as I would during any free moment I have. All of a sudden I received one of those instant messages I hate so much. Instead of clicking the “x” in the corner to close the message, my usual routine, I decided to actually look at who was sending me this message. It was actually a friend that I had made in New York City during the summer of 2008. She is from England and we don’t speak or communicate with each other often so I decided to actually have a conversation with someone, which is pretty rare to say the least.

So after the usual pleasantries (“hi,” “hello” and all that crap) she said “I have something to tell you.”

Now this got my attention right away. No one ever has anything to tell me, especially not women who live in other countries. Why would they? I am not that important in the grand scheme of things. So with my attention directly on what she was about to tell me she said “I’ve written my graduate studies dissertation in English Literature at the University of Westminster in London and I have included you in it.”

At this point I am completely floored. This is not news that I expect while drinking a tea in my shitty apartment wearing boxers and a t-shirt. The news I usually get while doing something like that is “hey, I think you’re a douche bag,” or whatever is on the Huffington Post. I am not getting news from graduate students at Universities in London, England often.

“What do you mean I’m included in your paper,” I asked her.

I have literally no idea how I could have been included in her education in any way possible. We hung around each other for five days in total almost two years ago while staying in the same hostel in the Lower East Side of Manhattan. I hung out with her, her travel partner and a girl from California, whose name I can’t remember. We went to restaurants, museums, stores, and other regular New York stuff. We didn’t have any meaningful conversation besides “hey, large cans of beer are $0.99 at the Duane Reade at the corner,” or “can you believe how fantastic the coffee at Dunkin’ Donuts actually tastes?”

“Well, do you remember that you brought On the Road by Jack Kerouac with you to New York?”

Quite frankly I had no recollection of bringing that book with me. I do own the book and it does sound like something I would have done. “Of course I remember that,” I lied.

“One day that book of yours was sitting on your bag and I asked you about it. I had never read it before and I was only marginally familiar with it. You said that you really enjoyed the book so I read it soon after I left New York.”

Recommending books to people is something I do quite often so this was not surprising to me at all. What was surprising was what she told me after this.

“After I read the book I decided to really get into the Beat authors. I kept reading Kerouac, Ginsberg and the rest and when it came time to writing my graduate dissertation I chose to write on them.”

(Note from Cameron: If you don’t know who or what a Beat author is there is no helping you.)

At this point I am now swelling with pride. I have influenced someone’s education! I am important! All hail Cameron, knower of fine books! Influence to the intelligentsia! However, I still had no idea how I could possibly fit into anyone’s graduate paper.

“The beginning of my dissertation is written in a sort of prose format. I told the whole story about New York and how you recommending On the Road influenced me to read it and the rest of the Beat authors.”

At this point one thing stuck in my head, I am at the beginning of this dissertation! Even if the paper was terrible anyone who makes it past the first page is bound to come across my name and my influence on the author. What more could I really ask for, a good grade perhaps.

“Oh, and the best news is that I received the highest grade possible,” she then told me.

Unbelievable! My name and an anecdote about my excellent taste are on the first page of an extremely well written graduate studies dissertation at a foreign University. It might be included in some sort of journal. It might get published. I’ve gone international!

So by now I have nothing to say. I am too pleased with myself to say anything; I don’t even congratulate her on an amazing accomplishment. In fact right now is the first time I’ve actually thought of her accomplishment while thinking of this story, how about that?

Then she broke the silence with “I hope you don’t mind that I’ve included your name in my paper.”

“Mind, how could I possibly mind? It’s amazing that you put my name in your paper. I’ve been telling people for years to put my name in their papers. Now it finally happened and I didn’t even ask!”

Minutes after this she had to leave to go to work but my ego had been stroked enough. We said our casual goodbyes and then she was gone.

So yeah, that was the highlight of my week. What was yours?

RIP: Alex Chilton

Alex Chilton died of a heart attack last night. He was 59 years old. Chances are you have no idea who he is, and if you do it’s because you’ve heard the song “Alex Chilton” by The Replacements (but that’s a stretch too.)

He first grew to fame singing with The Box Tops, a blue-eyed soul group, who had a number one single with “The Letter.” In 1972 he formed the power pop group Big Star with Chris Bell. The group released #1 Record that same year to little fanfare but many good reviews. They released two more albums, both largely ignored by the public, before disbanding.

I won’t go into any more detail about Alex Chilton, the man who launched 1,000 indie bands. If you want to find out about him you’ll have to do what everyone else who loved him did; search and listen for yourself.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BNKSs1J38EA

St. Patrick's Day: The Worst Day of the Year?

There are literally numerous things I love about Irish people, but I loathe St. Patrick’s Day.

The Irish people have given us fantastic things like James Joyce and Irish whiskey but St. Patrick’s Day cancels those fantastic things out in my books. Why do I hate today more than any other you ask? It’s quite simple really; it’s the people who love St. Patrick’s Day of course.

Today brings out a certain kind of moron like no other day of the year does. In cities around the world every fucking Neanderthal walking the earth plays dress up and pretends that they are Irish for a 12 hour span and proceeds to drink their face off and scream things like “St. Patty’s day, whooooo” at everyone they come into contact with. How wonderful.

The people who get really into St. Patrick’s Day are not a certain demographic; no it’s not that simple. Every drunkard from the age of 18 to death makes a huge deal about this day and they all seem to act like gigantic jackasses for a 24 hour span.

I’ll never understand why either. It’s not like you need a holiday to drink your face off and act like the world’s largest bag of dicks. You could do that on any weekend, and most of these people already do that. So what I’ll do is sum up the things that you will see tonight at any bar anywhere in a few paragraphs.

Tonight the first thing that you’ll notice is a bunch of people wearing green. This is obvious. Now there’s no reason for any of these people to be wearing green except that they’ll want to fit in. Most of the dumb ass jocks will be wearing tight t-shirts with a stupid slogan on it like “fuck me, I’m Irish.” The whorish girls will be wearing the same shit that they’d wear any night at a club, except in green. Hipster guys and girls will also be wearing green, but I am certain it will be in some ironic fashion. No surprises here.

(Interesting side note: none of these people will be Irish.)

The next thing you will see is, of course, green beer. Everyone will be drinking green beer. (If they aren’t they’ll be drinking Guinness because they think it’s more authentic for the day. Sure. Whatever. Go fuck yourself.) Green beer is just like wearing green today. You’re drinking it because everyone else is doing it.

Every bar will be adding green dye to Labatt’s Blue to make green beer. Now, do you normally drink Labatt’s Blue? Of course you don’t, because it’s horrible. Now why are you going to spend over $50 today buying Labatt’s Blue? You’re a moron, that’s why.

So now you’re decked out in your green clothes and have your shitty green beer. Look around, what kind of bar are you in, a club or a pub?

If you’re in a club the overall look of the club will be exactly the same except for some fake looking clover shit all over the walls. The employees will also be wearing green and will have either one of two expressions on their face: pissed off because they’re working and can’t act like the moron you’ll be acting like in four minutes OR happy as fuck because they’ll be making an insane amount of money off of your dumb ass on a week day.

If you don’t see any of this but instead you see more wood beams and a better liquor selection you are in a pub. Now normally I would applaud you on your decision of a pub over a club. However, since its St. Patrick’s Day and your selection wasn’t “fuck all of you, I’m staying home” I will have to tell you why you made the wrong choice.

A pub is a fantastic place to get loaded. I love them. The workers are nicer (and typically better looking), the music is better (obviously), and as I’ve mentioned the drink selection is much better than a club. Normally this would be a great time to go to a pub, but there’s a problem; you aren’t the only one who thought about going to a pub.

St. Patrick’s Day brings some of the more thoughtful morons out to the pubs. These are the people who never go to pubs except for one day of the year. Guess which one it is. These dipshits come out because they want to get violently drunk in a pub, you know, like they do in Ireland (or in any pub any during any of the other 364 days of the year.)

What they don’t realize is that they go to clubs because they like the music and dancing that clubs provide. These things do not exist at pubs so they get bored. What do they do when they get bored you ask? Well let me tell you! These pub tourists bother everyone else. They bother the workers, the girls, and the normal people who frequent that pub on a regular basis.

Again, I love drinking. I love it. No questions about it. I also like acting like an ass from time to time. But I fucking hate St. Patrick’s Day. If it’s not the worst day of the year it’s only because New Year’s Eve has taken its place. Just fucking stay home and spend even more money getting loaded on the weekend.

A few things that I hate.

Most people who know me (read: everyone who will ever read this) know that there are many things in this world that simply bother me.

I might not have any legitimate reason for not liking these things but you people are going to hear about some of them now anyway! I won't be going into a huge amount of detail on each of these things because, quite frankly, just thinking about them makes me so mad that I want to punch something. Hey, here are a few of them. Enjoy.

Dance Clubs:

Holy shit do I hate dance clubs. I hate everything about them

What I really hate is the fact that they all have dress codes which involve rules for shoes. Ok, so I have to stand/dance all night and you want me and everyone here to wear uncomfortable shoes? Great. Here, take my $15 cover that all of you charge so I can listen to second rate club music while 'roided up date rapists with way too cologne on surround the place. Awesome.

If I'm going to go to a dance club (spoiler alert, I'm not), I have to get really drunk. I'm talking “shit, we need to take Cameron to the emergency room” drunk. The problem is that dance clubs always over charge for their drinks. So, either I have to drink at least a 26er of rum before I leave for the bar or I have to spend well over $100 at the bar just to stop me from killing myself while I'm there.

Another thing about the booze there! Bottles and no draft? Are you fucking kidding me? Who the hell wants to drink beer from a bottle? The answer? Morons. The fact that I'm paying $6.00 for a bottle of domestic beer is bad enough but to not even give me the option of draft, that's criminal.

Fuck you dance clubs.

Since I'm enraged right now just thinking of dance clubs let's move to Lady Gaga.

I can't stand this woman. People are calling her a genius. Really, you fucking think that someone who penned the lyric “bluffin' on my muffin'” is a genius? Yeah, let's rank her right up there with Keats and Joyce.

The real reason people are so interested in her are her outfits. People always talk about how original her outfits are. Are you kidding me? Recently she wore an outfit at a European Awards show that made me think that she was raiding Gozer the Gozerian's closet. Oh, and gluing shitty beads to your face and putting on a big silver lobster on your head makes you a fashion visionary?

She's a fucking pop star, and not even an original one either.

Right about now I've reached the point where I'm so mad that my writing is suffering so I will only talk about one more thing: winter boots.

Now I understand that winter boots are, in theory, a great idea. The problem is that no one wears boots that actually do anything to protect you from the winter weather!

Look at the winter boots that people are wearing when you go out next. Winter boots with heels? Are you fucking kidding me? What are the point of those? How is that helping you in the winter months? I hope you fall and hurt yourself when you wear those.

I don't wear winter boots, I wear the same canvas shoes every day of the year. But at least I don't spend $100 on winter boots that aren't fit for the winter weather. My god, these people make me want to throw up.

I have go get off this site now before I punch a fucking hole in the computer screen. Ugh!

Cameron Durkin: Woodsman Extraordinaire

One of the more insane ideas I’ve had recently has been giving everything up (job, school, and responsibilities) and just moving into a cabin in the woods somewhere.

Now I think we all know the chances of me going through with this, admittedly poorly thought out, plan is pretty much at 0%. The thing is though, what if I did do it? Would I be able to do it? Would I just end up more bat-shit insane than I am now?

I am pretty sure that I first had this idea while I was at my previous job. I knew I was going to move to Toronto but there was a voice in my head that just kept saying “fuck it. Don’t move to Toronto. Find a crappy place to live out in the woods and isolate yourself from the people who are driving you so crazy.”

Needless to say I did not pay attention to the voice in my head. I moved to Toronto and started over. Things are going fine, I guess. I’m living in excessive poverty at the moment but things are sure to turn around soon (go optimism!). Still though, at least once a day I get little voice telling me “come on, screw this town. Find a cabin to live in. You hate this nine to five life and all the materialism.”

This is where the voice is correct. I do hate the materialism that exists not only in this city but all over the nation. Also, I’m not too crazy about the lifestyle that comes with joining the working week. To be quite honest I’d rather live on my own terms, which is really why I thought about just leaving everything behind and moving to the woods.

In addition to the work life that is mandatory of anyone living in the civilized world there is also the necessary interaction between people. I am none too crazy about this either.

Despite my rather comically loud voice I am not really comfortable with starting up a conversation with anyone. You wouldn’t believe how much you need to do this in real life! It’s amazing how much talking is expected from you. It’s disgusting really.

When I go out on my own anywhere I will always put my headphones on, wear sunglasses and look directly at the ground when I walk. Not only do I avoid hearing people so I don’t have to interact but I don’t even look at people when I’m out! I don’t feel comfortable talking to people and making eye contact only multiplies the chances of human interaction. No thank you.

So I don’t want to live in our materialistic, career-driven world where people expect you to interact with other members of society. Based on these criteria I look like a prime candidate to become a recluse. But before I pack everything up and just move into the deep woods away from everyone I need to figure some things out.

The biggest question I need to ask myself is “would I die if I moved into the woods?” To answer this question we need to really think about my living situation in my non-existent cabin.

The first thing I would need to think about is location of my new home. Where would I want to live? Well, since I don’t have any legal right to live in any other nation it looks like my home would have to be in Canada. This isn’t a deal breaker in the least. I’ve lived here my whole life and I’ll probably live here until I die.

If I am going to remain in Canada I will have to pick a Province to live in. Immediately we can rule out the Territories. There’s not a chance in hell that I would ever move up there. We can also cross out British Columbia as it would be too much of a start up cost. Alberta is Texas North so it gets crossed off the list. Saskatchewan is a barren wasteland of a Province, so it too is crossed off the list. Manitoba? No. Never. Quebec is beautiful but I can’t speak a word of French. That would really be a problem for a guy living alone in the woods. To save time I’ll just tell you that I am also ruling out all the Maritime Provinces.

So it looks like my non-existent cabin in the woods is located in Ontario! Well that’s convenient. I don’t think I’m going to pick a town right now, but I am certain that it would be between Toronto and Ottawa. No need to move too far. I’m looking to escape, not vanish into the void.

Now that I have a location I need to think of what I would bring with me. My bed easily makes the trip, no getting around that. All of my books are making the trip too. There’s no way I’d move anywhere without my books. I don’t even leave my apartment without a book. I’d bring my camera because I’m sure my new surroundings would merit a camera. My guitar would also come with me. I’ve been playing it again recently. Who knows, I might move into the woods and write an album about my experiences! Why not? I’d need my computer too. I’m not bringing a stereo or anything so I’d need something to play music. Also, I’d want to write up there. Lastly, I guess I would need to bring a generator to operate all of these things.

There’s no way I’d be taking a television or a cell phone with me though. Not a chance. I want to escape all of the things that a television and a cell phone represent! No room for that in my badass cabin of coolness!

Ok, so I’m on the road with my stuff packed. How am I going to survive up there?

Well, I can start a fire so that’s good. At least I’d be warm. What would I do for food though? I don’t hunt and I’m pretty sure that I know so little about wild vegetation that I would die from a poisonous plant of some sort in less than a week.

Oh, I just remembered something else. I’m not what one would call “handy.” In fact I think my handiness rating is actually in negative numbers. I’d probably get seriously hurt if I needed to fix my cabin for some reason.

Oh my god! I would get hurt. Like really badly too. Who would help me? I don’t want to die of something lame like breaking a bone and it getting infected because I have no way of getting help since I left my cell phone back in the so-called civilized world! Not a chance that’s going to happen to me.

Could you imagine my funeral? “Oh how did Cameron die? He was so young” some sexy lady would ask. Another sexy lady would give the answer: “he fell off a ladder and broke his leg. It got really infected because he had no way of calling for help and getting to a hospital. What a dumbass.”

Well I can’t go out like that. It wouldn’t be fair to the imaginary ladies who are mourning me at my funeral. So for the time being, I’ll stick to the headphones and sunglasses. You know for the ladies.

I always think of others before myself.

The Sad Truth

I was born in Hamilton in 1984 and for as long as I can remember I always wanted to leave the city forever.

The first house I ever lived in was on Aberdeen Ave. in the wealthier area in Hamilton. I don’t remember much, if anything, about my time there. What I do know is that my parents did not own the house we lived in but rented it. When they did buy a house it was on Cope St. north of Barton St. E. Now this area isn’t known as the wealthiest area of the city, and the house was extremely small, but what I do know is that I was nothing but happy while living there.

In 1989 my parents, more financially stable and needing more room for a family that now consisted of four people, bought a house on Somerset Ave. The house was located on a block with many children when we moved in and quite soon I had plenty of new friends both from the neighbourhood and from my new school.

Things were generally fine for me growing up there. My parents were, and still are, fantastic. I was brought up in a fairly lenient environment and but I knew my boundaries. School was ok, I had my run-ins with local bullies and what not, but most kids do. My life was pretty average.

When it came time for me to go to high school I left the neighbourhood. The local school, Scott Park Secondary, was going to be closing and I would have to go to Delta. My parents thought if their son was going take the bus to a high school why not a better one?

I fought this for a while. Why did I have to leave the neighbourhood and the friends I already knew to go to high school? It was looking like I was going to Westmount Secondary School, which is located on the complete opposite end of the city where I lived. “You want me to spend an hour on the bus just to go to high school,” I complained to my parents. Yes, they did.

So when I was 14 years old I started bussing up to the West Mountain everyday for high school. Around this time I also started really hating the city of Hamilton.
To get to Westmount I would have to take the King bus to Gore Park right in the middle of downtown Hamilton. So on my way I would have to sit on the bus and deal with the “unwashed” who used the Hamilton Street Railway. I would pass the run down area of town before I entered a new run down area of Hamilton just before we reached the ghost town that is the downtown core.

When I reached downtown I had to transfer busses and take the College bus which stopped at the local community college, Mohawk, before my bus dropped me off a mere five blocks from my high school.

On this part of the trip I learned two things:
a) the “Mountain” is a fucking dull place to grow up
b) Mohawk College kids weren’t as bright as I thought they’d be


So now I had become aware of two places in the city that I was generally unaware of before high school and I wasn’t impressed with either of them.

During my high school years I made friends with people who lived on the Mountain. To them I was “Cameron the kid who lives ‘downtown.’” Through them I was introduced to the Limeridge Mall area and the East Mountain. Again, I was not impressed. I was starting to think that “maybe this town is just really boring.”

By the time I was 17 I knew I had to leave Hamilton forever.

When I was 19 I moved to London to attend the University of Western Ontario. I was really excited to move to a college town. I figured if this were a place where people moved to attend places of higher learning then I would get to meet all types of interesting people. Well, I was wrong.

As it turns out I met all types of uninteresting people during my time in London. By the end of my junior year I was tearing my hair out at the chance to move back to Hamilton. I was already coming home just about every weekend to visit my family and friends. For my senior year I transferred to McMaster University in Hamilton.

My senior year was a disaster to say the least. I wasn’t motivated. I was living with my parents again. Most of my friends, not surprisingly, weren’t living in Hamilton. By the time April rolled around the school year was over and I didn’t have a degree to show for it. Obviously this had to be the fault of Hamilton. I was being suffocated here! I needed out! The people are dumb! The town smells like shit! There’s nothing to fucking do! So in order to get out I got a job in Cambridge that I would commute to and I would stay at my parents on Somerset Ave. while I saved my money.

My game plan was that I would work for two years or so and then go back to school in Toronto. It’s where I wanted to be anyway. Toronto would solve everything!

Two years passed and I left my job and moved to Toronto. Things were good. I knew the city from my many trips here. I had some really close friends living here. Yada, yada, yada.

I was so happy with myself that I never went home to visit. In between September and Christmas I went home once, for Thanksgiving (a turkey dinner will always get me home). If anyone wanted to see me they’d have to come here. To Toronto, the home of the intelligent, witty and interesting!

But a funny thing happened after Christmas. I really started to miss certain things about the city. I started going home again recently and was nothing but happy when I came back to Hamilton. I would go into town and go out with my parents and things just seemed to be more pleasant there.

Everything was more relaxed. If someone bumped into you there was a good chance you’d hear “I’m sorry about that” from the person.

Soon enough I started thinking about things I missed and they were all Hamilton things! I missed going drinking in Hess! A place I once regarded as a shithole that only jocks and whores went drinking. I missed boring nights driving my car, which I scrapped when I moved to Toronto, aimlessly on the Mountain. Worst of all I missed the fucking people. My god! I miss Hamiltonians!

Holy shit, I think that I miss Hamilton.

My Secret Love(s)

This might be only me but are there things that you really like but don’t really tell anyone?

You aren’t really ashamed that you like these things but you’d rather not tell the whole world that you do love them. These days some people, it seems, are really concerned with what other people think about their choices in any topic. There is no worse offender than myself. I don’t beg for the approval of others, I’d just rather be known for liking reasonably cool things.

I am this shallow.

Well I want this to change. I want to tell people about some of the things that I like that might not be the coolest, or best, things in the world and it’s going to start right now. It’s time to come clean.

Let’s start in the world of music. I love music. It’s the one thing I love above all other things. I would rather be listening to my iPod than talk to a person. It’s not even close. I would have my headphones glued to my ears for all time if such a thing were possible.

I am also very opinionated about music. I will scold a person, at the very least in my mind, if they have what I deem to be bad taste in music. I’ll tell a Lady Gaga fan that I liked her routine more when it was done in 1983 by Madonna. I’ll tell a Fall Out Boy fan to quit their faux “emo” phase and listen to Morrissey or Rites of Spring instead. Any country fan will be told how much I love country, but none of that CMT crap. I’ll take George Jones and Steve Earle thank you very much! But truth be told, I admire the fact that they can come out and tell me why they like these bands. I never do this.

One of my all time favourite albums is Exile in Guyville by Liz Phair. It’s one of the most personal albums that I’ve ever heard. This is partly why it made it so hard for me to articulate why I love this album. Personal and confessional lyrics are what I look for above all else when I listen to music but the majority of music I listen to comes from a male perspective. However with this album that all changed and I could emphasize with Liz Phair’s problems with her “Johnny” and “Joe.” After all, a person being dicked around is something that happens to males and females alike.

Now having said how much I love personal lyrics I’ll move to the complete opposite. R. Kelly’s Trapped in the Closet, or as I call it “God’s gift to the 21st Century.”
When I was in high school, pre-Trapped, I had a friend who claimed to love R. Kelly. His love was apparently not ironic. He dug the lyrics, he dug the beats, and he dug the cornrows. Needless to say he was on the receiving end of a lot of insults. One day while I was in his car he played for me the twenty minute extended, “operatic,” version of “I Believe I Can Fly.” It was the worst free car ride I had in my entire life.

In 2009 I saw Trapped in the Closet for the first time and it changed my entire perspective of R. Kelly.

A 22 chapter “hip-hopera” where R. Kelly sings every part? A video where every character has a gun pointed in their face at least once? A midget hiding in a cupboard? R. Kelly rhyming “dresser” with “berretta?” Rosie the Nosey Neighbour?

I want all of that!

When I’m asked what my all time favourite move is by people I’ll usually say Ghostbusters or Boogie Nights but the true answer is Trapped in the Closet.

In 1984, a whole 19 years before R. Kelly dropped that bomb on an unsuspecting public, another batshit insane musician made a film (and soundtrack) that now hovers near the top of my favourites list. That man was Prince and that film (and soundtrack) was Purple Rain.

I love everything about Purple Rain but it’s not something that I go around broadcasting to everyone. Sure, none of the “actors” in the movie were good but I can put that movie on any day of the week and watch it. Just the thought of Morris Day & the Time playing “The Walk” makes me smile. Also, a movie where I get to look at Apollonia and Wendy for about two hours will always get my vote.

However, the real reason I love this movie so much is Prince himself. Everything he does in this movie is awesome. The guitar solo at the end of “Let’s Get Crazy” is amazing. His purple motorcycle is badass. The best part, for me though, is the final concert at the end of the film. Prince & the Revolution rip through “Purple Rain,” “I Would Die 4 U,” and “Baby I’m a Star” in succession. During the last song, in mid solo, Prince basically jacks off his guitar which then sprays water all over the crowd. It’s amazing.

Now I could go on and on about other things that I absolutely love that no one else really knows about (like the fact that I love Back to Black by Amy Winehouse) but it would really get tedious. So for now I’ll just stop there.

I’m sure sooner or later I’ll find some more stuff to write about.

A Monumental Test

I moved to Toronto last September from Hamilton, Ontario. It was something I had always wanted to do.

I can remember when I was young, around age 10, thinking about how amazing it would be to live in a city with both a Major League Baseball and National Hockey League team. I would go to games all the time, befriend people in the stands, and just generally revel in the fact that I was this lucky.

Of course when I entered my teenage years all of this changed. I noticed that going to sporting events cost a fortune. Who can afford $300 tickets to the Toronto Maple Leafs?

Around this time I also became increasingly disgusted with sports fans. Every one of them, I thought, sounded even dumber than the last. I still loved sports as a teen (and I still do) but when I went I grew more disgusted with sports fans.

As a teen and into my 20’s I did not grow to hate Toronto because I thought it was filled with dumbass sports fans, far from it. What I did was learn to love it for something else: its hipness.

I wanted to move here because this is where all the cool shit was in Canada. There was the Toronto International Film Festival, Kensington Market, Lee’s Palace, and an unimaginable wealth of artistic talent within the city. I figured if I moved here I’d be likely to catch an amazing concert on a Tuesday and go to an art gallery on a Wednesday, something that simply wasn’t going to happen in Hamilton.

So in 2009 I moved here. It was great. I got a shitty little apartment on Parliament and Howard St. in St. James Town. Life was great.

Around November of that year a new annoyance hit me: Yuppies.

I would walk the down town area and would almost go blind with rage. “Who the fuck do these people think they are,” I would ask myself almost daily. Every day I would see them wearing their clothing that I knew they could barely afford. Clothing they bought to look presentable in the offices of a company that was most likely destroying something that I love. I’d see these vermin in bars either networking with other douche bags or drunkenly hitting on women and looking like potential date rapists.

I hated them. I hated what they did and what they stood for.

As any of my friends would attest, I was not silent in my loathing of these people. I would tell anyone who would listen about how much hatred I directed at them. It went so far that I refused to cut my hair and shave my face just to be the anti-Yuppie. “I will not be a part of your lifestyle,” I told myself.

By the end of November I hit my anti-Yuppie high water mark. I decided that from this point on I would never, ever, go south of Queen Street and into the financial district.

It wasn’t difficult. If you don’t work in one of those financial offices you can easily avoid that area of the city. Days, weeks, months passed and, except for rides on the subway, I avoided Yuppies like they carried an airborne and contagious strand of cancer.

I felt stress and anger, for the most part, melt away. Sure, I would still complain about Yuppies from time to time to my friends in Hamilton but for the most part I was comfortable.

Two weeks ago I had grown so comfortable that I decided that it was time to finally cut my hair and shave for the first time since August or September. I went to a barber shop on Parliament St.; I knew I wouldn’t find a Yuppie in there. It looked great and I no longer looked like a hobo. Maybe I was wrong, maybe these people don’t deserve all the hatred that I’ve projected upon them. Actually, if I put a nice suit on and maybe carried a briefcase I might have been able to pass as one.

So yesterday I called my friend and asked her if she wanted to do something after work. She works in the financial district but I don’t hold that against her. She said yes and said she’d take me out for dinner.

At this point I did something drastic (well, for me), I said I would meet her outside her office when she was done work. I was so confident that I could now walk down into the Lion’s Den and not have a complete meltdown.

Around 5:20pm I began my walk from the Eaton’s Centre on Yonge and Queen St. towards her office on York and Adelaide. I was so confident that nothing would upset me that I decided to take the long way and walk down to King St. past the Toronto Stock Exchange.

“Surely, I have to be strong enough for this by now,” I thought.

I walk down to Bay and King St. where the Toronto Stock Exchange is located. I smell something odd. It’s a sweet smell, but it’s not something I’m used to on a day to day basis. I took a look around to see where the smell is coming from and I couldn’t believe my eyes. A stereotype had come to life right in front of my face.

There I was face to face with a man in his mid-40 to early 50’s wearing a navy blue, two-buttoned suit and a black overcoat. He was holding a copy of a financial magazine in one hand and in the other a large cigar that he was smoking.

I couldn’t believe it. I had seen people like this on television and in the movies but I didn’t think people like this existed. He was a fictional character come to life. He looked like Gordon Gecko.

This was a huge chance for me to blow up. This guy would have made me pull my hair out just two months ago. What I did next astonished me; I didn’t get angry. I simply chuckled and shrugged my shoulders and kept walking.

One small step towards normalcy!